Notes From A Burning House

Recently, on that other social-networking website, I got tagged with a silly blog assignment:  choose several words beginning with the letter G.  And blog about them.

As sometimes happens, the words took over and what appeared was an amusing and provocative little story in which every single word starts with the letter G.

Not exactly what I was asked to do, but I hope you enjoy.  Oh, and this story is NOT G-rated.

*     *     *

Grover Gatsby greases golden gewgaws.  Genie grows.  Grover gasps!  Gewgaws gestate genies!  Genie goes, "Got gripes?"

Grover goes, "Golly!"  Girds Grover’s guts - getting guts grossly great, good gosh!  Grover goes, "Got gams?"

Genie goes, "Grover gay?"

Grover goes, "Guys?  Gross!!  Got girls??"

Genie goes, "Geisha?  Gymnast?"

Grover goes, "Glamour gal!"

Genie gestures: gal grows.  Groovy gait, gossamer gericurls, glamorous gloves.

Genie goes, "Got game?"

Grover gasps.  Grover goggles.  Girl giggles.

Genie gestures.  Game grows.  Grover gussies, gauges girl.  Girl gone gloomy.  Grover grabs genie.  "Gad!!  Girl gloomy!  Got gin?"

Genie gesticulates, gets gin.  Girl grins.  Grover grins.  Girl gyrates.  Grover guesses, "Gal gotten?"  Grover-Girl gibber-jabber goes, goes, goes.  Grover glows.  Girl gleams.  Guy-girl gladness glows. Great golly!

Grover gropes, girl grinds, Grover-girl grunt grunt grunt.  G-spot grazed, glans glad-handed.  Go!  Go!  Go!  Grover gasps!  Girl gasps!  Grover-girl gloopy goo glistens.

Girl glad, Grover glad, Genie goes.  Gimcrack guardian goes, gewgaw gestation grows. 

Goodness.

    Look at them.

They got married Saturday evening, on a vineyard in Malibu with horses running around.  They swore vows that they wrote together (with a little bit of coaching from their officiant), exchanging rings in the shade of a giant willow tree.  As I write these words they are honeymooning in Mexico. 

They are a wonderful couple who have been together some time already, know some of the territory, and are off to a very good start.  Their happiness is not a giddy thing; their joy does not contain air bubbles waiting to burst and poison their hopes.  They know what they are doing.  They have a lot of support and love around them.  They even wrote a vow about how they will raise children.  They understand they have embarked on a big job, they have discussed it, and they are up to it. 

There has been so much talk in our public life lately about who should get married and who should not.  Maybe this is a useful conversation for us.  It won’t be meaningful, if you ask me, unless we start with why we get married.  It strikes me as very curious that those who speak of "protecting" marriage usually are not talking about the high divorce rate.  They are concerned about preventing Bruce and Steve from getting married, yet they exhibit no curiosity as to why so many "proper" marriages fail. 

If marriage is a vehicle, where does it lead?  What is it for?  Beyond the legal rights and obligations, what does marriage provide for a community?  If we aren’t clear about this, what are we doing getting married? Do we choose it freely or are we pressured to enter a bargain we do not understand or desire? 

Maybe our country should have that conversation first.  Then we can talk about who is suitable for the task. 

At any rate, these two people are ready for it.  After chanting an homage to the three jewels (Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha), I explained to the gathering that they were the officiants and I was there to assist them: they, the family and friends to whom the couple have turned throughout their lives, would be marrying this couple. 

Being for the most part non-Buddhists, they weren’t familiar with the three jewels.  Buddha, I defined as complete attention; Dharma, the teachings and life experience that had brought each of them to this place; and Sangha, their family, community, colleagues, their neighborhood, their country.  (And I snuck something in there about all sentient beings.)  Now these young people, while they continue to mature, will become a resource for others.  Their home and their family will provide fruit and shade for their ancestors and those who have not arrived yet.

Then, while I looked on, the gathering ordained these two people as Married Persons a lifelong vocation in which they immerse themselves completely.  They each took turns making promises and receiving promises from another, letting each other know that they accept the other’s promise. 

At their request, the signing of the marriage certificate was part of the ceremony.  So we witnessed the moment of their legal marriage, too.  Two weeping moms witnessed the certificate.  A few more words, a kiss, and jubilant applause. 

As people moved along to photographs and the chicken dinners that would soon be served, the officiant in grey Zen robes looked around and indulged himself alone:

walking barefoot in the rose petals.

Aaah.  This is how I feel in my heart and my mind when two people swear their love and I believe them.

Barefoot in rose petals-

Hot grass. 

Leading me to the fence and a beautiful horsey that was grazing.  Out loud, I asked the horse: "Can I be useful here?"  The horse looked at me, gently butted my hand with his head, and stepped sideways so I could pat him on the side.   

Thank you. 

(This letter to the man in the moon first appeared at The Blue Doodle on August 12.)

*     *     *

Dear Moon,

You blow like a clear chord on a bamboo rod, full of sweet and sour lonesome like a scripture on a foggy day yet you are fragrant as incense and the laughter of a wise old woman.

Maybe you know what it’s like, when you open your fingers and take a breath and the song comes, or when you put the nib of your pen on paper and the ink spills out leaving lyric everywhere. 

That feeling of landing where you belong and breathing pure inspiration - this is everyone’s birthright.   The empty backdrop of our mind is all possibility.  Form emerges from possibility and returns, coming from zero and then back again, back where the tune goes when you stop singing.   

Every line rhymes with silence.  Then we look at you, Uncle Moon, and you seem to confirm all of this; you remind us of what we are, so we presume on your presence and call you “muse.” 

Let me blow some chords here in tribute to you.  Words are just so many fingers dancing on the neck of my bass.  Let’s take a trip together and reunite music and ear.   We’ll make everybody’s head nod with the pulse, and inwardly they may hope we never come back from the moon, yet you know and I know:

You’re always around. 

Your son,

Mingle-dingle

with apologies to Jim Henson and his family…

*     *     *

(The episode opens with a knock on a dressing room door. It opens, and SCOOTER pokes his head in.)

SCOOTER: Ten seconds to curtain, Mr. Vice-President.

There is the sound of a gun shot. SCOOTER’s face is blasted with buckshot. He yelps and trembles, his face smoking.

SCOOTER: Um. Whenever. You’re ready. Of course. Sorry.

(CUT TO: the "O" in the "Muppet Show" marquee. KERMIT makes the opening announcement, accompanied by timpani.)

KERMIT: It’s the Muppet Show !! With our very special guest star, Vice-President Dick Cheney! Yaaaaaay!!!

(CUE the MUPPET SHOW theme. "It’s time to play the music" At the end, GONZO appears in the "O" to blow the final note on his trumpet. As he draws breath to play, he is tackled by a SECRET SERVICE AGENT. Cut to commercial.)

(Commercial ends. Onstage, with red curtain drawn. Audience applauds. KERMIT enters and acknowledges applause.)

KERMIT: Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight our very special guest is Vice-President of the United States Dick Cheney.

(Applause.)

KERMIT: Because the Vice-President is with us this week, you may notice we have to take some extra securitee measures.

(SECRET SERVICE muppet agents appear in background, in front of red curtain. KERMIT eyes them and returns his attention to the audience.)

KERMIT: Um. So just try to ignore them and we’ll continue with the uh…

(The head of a S.S. AGENT muppet appears from below, near KERMIT, looks around slowly.)

KERMIT: uh, we’ll just continue with the show as normal here. In honor of the Vice-President, we now present our national anthem.

(Applause. The curtain is drawn to reveal FOZZIE BEAR.)

FOZZIE BEAR (removing his hat): Aaaaaaaah, ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem.

(The Muppet audience is shown standing up by their seats.)

(FOZZIE BEAR sings ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’)

(The MUPPET AUDIENCE, applauding, sits down unleashing a loud chorus of whoopee cushions.)

FOZZIE BEAR: Aaaaaah!! Wacka wacka wacka!!

(CUT TO: Backstage. FOZZIE and musicians are departing from the stage, KERMIT is looking around.)

KERMIT: Well done, Fozzie. Uh, Scooter, would you please go get the Vice-President? He’s due on stage.

(CUT TO: Hallway outside the dressing room. SCOOTER approaches the door to knock, springs a trap that hoists him up by his leg and hangs him upside down.)

SCOOTER: Aaaaaaaauuuggghh!!!!

(CUT TO: Stage. MISS PIGGY enters in a smokin’ form-fitting sequined dress.)

MISS PIGGY: Bon soir, mes amies, bon soir! I have un petit chantoose in honor of Mr. Cheney’s birth-day.

(ROWLF THE DOG starts playing the piano. MISS PIGGY sings, breathlessly.)

MISS PIGGY: Happy.birthday…Mr. Vice-President…. Happy….birthday…

(COMMERCIAL)

(CUT TO: Dressing room. KERMIT knocks on the door.)

KERMIT (from outside): Uh, Mr. Vice-President? (knocks again) Mr. Cheney, can I come in? It’s Kermit! Kermit-deee-Frog here

CHENEY: Step slowly through the metal detector as you come in please.

(KERMIT opens the door, steps through a metal detector that glows and makes spooky laboratory sounds. KERMIT makes his disgruntled face.)

KERMIT: Hey, Mr. Vice-President, we are so very honored to have you on our show.

CHENEY: I’m pleased to be here, Kermit. You represent a very important constituency the future voters of our Republic. Although your show receives its funding from producers in London, we consider Great Britain a good close friend of the United States.

KERMIT: Uh, well, Mr. Cheney, the American networks wouldn’t touch our show so we had to go to the London producer.

CHENEY: Kermit, can you please confirm the identity of this person who seems to have been shadowing me?

(CAMERA moves to SCOOTER, head covered with a black hood. A SECRET SERVICE muppet removes the hood to reveal SCOOTER, looking shell-shocked.)

KERMIT: Awk! That’s Scooter! This is our Stage Manager! Please let him go. We need him!

(CHENEY regards SCOOTER with suspicion. SCOOTER regards him fearfully.)

CHENEY: Okay, boys. I guess he checks out. Get that dog out of here.
(A SECRET SERVICE muppet walks past camera, leading off an enormous MUPPET DOG who barks and growls ferociously. KERMIT makes his disgusted face.)

(CUT TO: Stage. A scary-looking screen and black curtain cordons off some enormous object. The timpani begins to roll, and GONZO enters, wearing a cape.)

GONZO: Ladies and gentlemen, I THE GREAT GONZO!! will now disarm this WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION that was found by our liberating forces in Baghdad!

(The audience gasps.)

GONZO: Ladies and gentlemen, I must have absolute quiet for this dangerous act. Please.

(The drum roll intensifies. There is a hush. GONZO dramatically approaches the curtain. He pulls it back with a flourish and there is nothing there.)

GONZO: Huh? Wait a minute!!

(CUT TO: The dressing room. MISS PIGGY, CHENEY and KERMIT are here, with SECRET SERVICE muppets in the background.)

MISS PIGGY: A loyalty oath? You’re making me sign a loyalty oath?

CHENEY: If you have nothing to hide, there really is nothing to be upset about.

KERMIT: I’m sorry, Piggy, but the Vice-President has noted that you speak a lot of French.

MISS PIGGY: Moi? I mean, me? No no, that’s just an affectuation. I love my country.

CHENEY: It’s just a precaution. Before I go on stage, and bring the seal of the United States to the stage of your theatre.

MISS PIGGY: Listen, you creepy VeePee, I’m not signing a piece of paper proving I’m a loyal American.

KERMIT: Piggy?

MISS PIGGY: Stuff it, Frog.

CHENEY: Miss Piggy, if you sign this paper, I am in position to send you on a very special mission.

MISS PIGGY: Moi is listening - I mean, what is it?

CHENEY: We have liberators deployed all over the world, Miss Piggy. Good, handsome, strong, American boys all over Arabia. An entertainer like you could, shall we say, perk up their spirits?

MISS PIGGY: Mmmmm. Arabia…princes…treasure… on second thought, Mr. Vice-President, I am proud to sign an oath swearing that moi is a true American!

(CUT TO: SWEDISH CHEF sketch in which he demonstrates how to make "Freedom Fries," or as he puts it "der foodum flies." The sketch ends when he ends up falling into the frier and disappearing.)

(CUT TO: KERMIT on stage.)

KERMIT: Well, we have already reached the end of our show and I am pleased to announce a very special surprise guest ladies and gentlemen, the PRESIDENT of the United States!

(Applause. A podium with the presidential seal is rolled on, and a muppet version of BUSH appears.)

BUSH MUPPET: heh heh heh… Thanks for havin’ me… Nice to be here. My fellow Americans.

KERMIT: Um. Um. Wait a minute. Wait a minute.

BUSH MUPPET: Yes?

KERMIT: This is not the president, this is a puppet!

(CHENEY’s head emerges from below, near the podium.)

CHENEY: Ssssh! This IS the President!

KERMIT: Good grief!

(ENTER MISS PIGGY)

MISS PIGGY (outraged voice): Hold on, Dick. This ticket is for not for Arabia, it’s for Pyongyang! I’m not ending up in anybody’s bulgogi! You double-crossed me! Hiiiiii-YAAH!!!!

(She proceeds to beat up CHENEY. The BUSH PUPPET goes flying. SECRET SERVICE muppets try to intervene and are soon airborne as CHENEY sinks below camera range, trying to defend himself.)

KERMIT: Start the music! Start the music!

MISS PIGGY: You chicken hawk draft dodger!!

(GONZO’S CHICKENS enter, outraged, and start pecking at CHENEY.)

(CUE ending theme and credits. When the music sustains near the end, cut to STATLER and WALDORF in their box.)

STATLER: Isn’t it terrible the way they treat those prisoners at Guantanamo Bay?

WALDORF: Could be worse.

STATLER: How??

WALDORF: They could make them watch this show with us!

STATLER and WALDORF: Waaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha.!

(The music finishes. END OF SHOW)

Today, I am a guest blogger on a friend’s MySpace page.  The piece is long but lots of fun, I think: "Dick Cheney Meets The Muppets." Please enjoy it. 

Meanwhile, in the scarier land of make-believe we call "reality," my body amazes me with the gentle way it has of just doing its thing.  It just takes care of itself.  My body is much wiser than I am. 

Today I have not been feeling terrific.  My "A" game feels like it is submerged in the tank of the toilet.  Could it be some evil egg foo young?  Could it be stress and anger at the DMV and the frustrations that go with trying to set foot on the vanishing ice cap that once was the American middle class?  Could it be sorrow over a lost friend, missing people who are far away, or one cross-town traffic jam too many this week? 

My ego, the Senator from "I-My-Me," demands explanations and accountability.  Who or what is to blame for me not being happy?  Who or what is to blame for my life being other than what it is, for my stomach being upset, for me having doubts and fears about my life?  Oh the injustice of it. 

Meanwhile, my body just does what it needs to do and doesn’t offer any testimony about it.  Some embarrassing noise, perhaps; a vapor; and then sleep.  A good, long sleep.  That’s all. 

My body is my mother.  Whether I’m bleeding or aching or peeling, it tends always to wash me up, give me some unsweet iced tea, and put me down for a nap - just like mama.

Today, there was one additional prescription: having my hair shampooed.  Although I happened to need a haircut anyway, this procedure was more medicinal than cosmetic.  "What you need," my body might say if it felt a need to talk, "Is someone else’s fingers scrubbing your scalp.  Go now." 

*     *     *

To SuperCuts!  To SuperCuts!  A large Armenian woman greeted me and took over where mama leaves off, soaking my head and giving me a good scrub and laughing when I fall asleep right there on the sink. 

Now we’re in the spinning chair that also goes up and down, wearing the purple plastic whole-body bib, listening to another customer flirt with the staff in a voice loud enough to be heard in the supermarket across the street.  "I LOVE ARMENIAN WOMEN!" he says.  "I LOVE THEIR NOSES AND THEIR EYES!"  I wanted to ask him, "How would you dispose of the rest of the cadaver?" but instead I pretended not to listen.  As if I had any choice about it.  "NO, NO PRODUCT IN MY HAIR PLEASE.  I KEEP IT CLEAN ON MY OWN!  WOW, YOU DID SUCH A GOOD JOB.  YOU ARE AMAZING."

Product?  Oh no!  Wait!  Before I can protest, product is being rubbed into my hair: quick-setting hair crap that smells like a urinal cake.  I hate that shit.  I smile and thank her because she is trying to make me look good.  Meanwhile, she has told me about her recent hair dye mishap, explaining why her bleached hair is streaked with bands of green. 

Young Mr. LOUD has left the building, but I still think I can hear him somewhere out on Sunset Boulevard.  My haircutter sighs.  "He’s a really nice guy, but he’s got big problems.  Drugs.  Big drug user.  Trying to get clean.  He goes to a 12-step meeting around here - and people are selling the drugs to him right there at the meeting!"

"Are you kidding me?  Right at the meeting?"

"Sure." 

I take my haircut to go, and leave with it.  I still don’t have registration stickers on my car and drive around feeling like James Bond in the enemy fortress, ready to be apprehended at any time.

"So, Mr. Bond, with all your exploding ball point pens and thermo-nuclear detonating keychains and supermodel nuclear physicists populating your Astin-Martin in between death-defying sortees for the glory of your Queen and democracy and slightly-restrained capitalism, you were just a bit careless, weren’t you?  Forgot about those little stickers on the license plate of your leather-interior turbo hovercraft!  Well, Mr. Bond, every game comes to its end…

"Jaws?  Send our favorite secret agent - to - THE DMV LINE!"

"NO!  NOT THE DMV LINE!" 

"HA ha ha ha ha ha ha ha….!"

*     *      *

And I wake up from another nap, soothing my eyes and running my fingers through my hair - until they get stuck there in a goopy mass of dried product, and I have to saw my hand free with a nail file. 

My mind is a shambles, but my body is mama.  And mama is patient. 

Rachel Bevilacqua is a minister in the Church of the SubGenius.

As with Buddhism, there is debate - surprisingly heated debate - over whether the Church (identifiable by its familiar pipe-smoking "Bob" icon) is actually a religion or not.  Theologians and performance artists and writers have exercised this debate since the Church appeared around 1979. 

If its a religion, it is a tongue-in-cheek religion ; a performance-art religion; a prank religion.  The "Flying Spaghetti Monster" is just a new kid on the block compared to "Bob."  There "devivals" are irreverent gatherings showcasing performance art, preposterous sermons by preposterous "ministers" of the Church, an uproariously silly theology, an injunction to play pranks and release laughter throughout the world; there is often live music and wacky costumes.  The kind of things you want to photograph. 

At a festival celebrating a SubGenius holiday that takes place in July, Rachel Bevilacqua, aka Rev. Mary Magdalen, was photographed wearing skimpy yet humorous costumes, some of which featured her wearing a fake goat head. 

Judge James P. Punch didn’t find the photographs very funny.  That’s fair enough.  He is reputed to be a very devout Catholic, and he was personally very offended by photos that showed Bevilacqua participating in a spoof of Mel Gibson’s film, The Passion of the Christ.

Unfortunately, Bevilacqua was in the midst of a custody battle when Judge Punch saw the pictures.  In February, when Bevilacqua’s ex-husband presented the photos (which had appeared on the internet), Judge Punch blew a rod and began yelling at her in court.  He called her a "pervert," accused her of participating in "sex orgies," and suggested that she suffered from "severe mental illness." 

Then he ordered her to have no contact with her son, none at all, effective immediately. 

Here is a more detailed history of the case, as told by Bevilacqua.  When the press got hold of this, the asshole judge recused himself, but this woman has still been deprived of custody and now must go through a slow and expensive process of proving herself fit as a mother, begging for donations to her legal fund, even though she is not alleged to have violated any laws nor to have abused or neglected her child. 

It’s really very simple: the court took her kid away from her because of her religion.  Or her performance art, if you like.  Whether this is a story about freedom of religion or freedom of expression, it’s clearly a case of injustice.

 

The G.O.P. complains about "activist judges."  Here is one that needs to be impeached.

Last night I was talking about this turn of events last night on a break during a film shoot.  Incredibly, two citizens of the United States of America listened and then asked me, "What’s the big deal?  Why are you bothered by this?"

When she is not busy touring the world singing pop music while hanging from an enormous cross, Madonna is at work on the problem of nuclear waste.  The solution she and her husband have been urging on the British government is to neutralize it using water that has been mystically charged by chanting and meditation as it is practiced at the Kabbalah Center.  According to witnesses, a frequent practice is for folks to face east and chant, "Chernobyl!!  Chernobyl!!"

Somehow, they’ve gotten pseudo-scientific papers written up about this magically-charged Kabbalah fluid (no jokes about it "not holding water," please), and they have been so persistent that the Department of Trade and Industry and British Nuclear Fuels felt obliged to study their ‘research.’  The latter informed Madonna’s husband that his hypothesis "defied the laws of physics" but he is too much of a positive thinker to let that discourage him.  Chernobyl!!  Chernobyl!!

No wonder actors are often mocked as public figures.

Dear Philip Berg: Could we get rid of the scourge of the Bush Administration by turning towards D.C. and chanting, "The world is round!!  The world is round!!?"  (No doubt, you would suggest we all purchase a rhinestone-studded copy of the Zohar, become members and donate, donate, donate.)

Better still, could we get rid of this opportunistic abuse of ancient wisdom traditions by fakers who twist them up into slick enterprises separating earnest people from their money and distracting them from truly waking up to themselves?  Maybe if we turn towards the Hollywood Kabbalah center and start chanting, "Poppycock!!  Poppycock!!" 

Further Chronicles of Hollywood Heights, an independent film currently being produced by a few friends of mine.  I have been volunteering on the film crew and my jobs have been varied.  Last night I was slate boy, car driver, and drunk-wrangler at our edgiest location yet.

———

The first shock of the evening was the director’s hair. 

Mr. Nelson is preparing to go to Burning Man, the annual blossom of anarchic wonderfulness in the Reno desert.  As part of his costume for the festival, he has dyed his hair green.  Hereafter, he will be referred to in this blog as Verdilocks, or El Verde.

Among L.A.’s neighborhoods, Highland Park does not have a grand reputation.  When people talk about Highland Park, they usually don’t mention the Southwest Museum or the Audubon Center or the historic architecture.  Maybe you remember Jackson Browne’s song about the chicano gang called The Avenues.  Well, this is where they live.  But then again, so does Jackson Browne. 

The cast and crew of Hollywood Heights came here after sundown Sunday night to shoot a few scenes outside of a somewhat-frightening-yet-very-personable hole in the wall: Mr. T.’s Bowl.  Overall, the place feels like it has a lot of exposed nails, but the folks running it couldnt have been nicer to us. 

The place is a former bowling alley with large areas roped off or hidden behind curtains, leaving a cozy dive bar where Paulina waits to pour you a Guinness or perhaps something stronger.  We were greeted by a quiet guy with named Arlo.  Arlo is the sound engineer and D.J. here.   The man is as gentle and unassuming as a soybean farmer yet he doesnt miss much of anything that goes on inside the bar or out in the parking lot.  By the way, Arlo is good at what he does.  It was a little slow at Mr. T.’s last night, and as midnight approached I found him going through all of the free weekly papers that were stacked up near the sound booth, looking for a crossword puzzle.  When I asked him if he liked sudoku, he twitched his salt and pepper moustache and said, "God, if I wanted to get into those I’d have to stop drinking." 

For extra lighting, our cinematography guru had cliplights powered by his truck’s battery.  Quietly, we went about our business while the neighborhood did its thing around us.  I was more or less adopted by a drunk Vietnam vet who still wore his cap from the service and could not, simply could not believe I didn’t smoke. 

We had other onlookers as well, oh yes we did.  There was an encampment of homeless people on the opposite side of the parking lot, sitting in abandoned chairs and drinking cans of beer.  At one point, their celebration of moonlight and song grew so joyous we had to take a break and wait for their discussion to subside:

"You know what’s a great song?  Here’s my favorite song!!  RROooooWWWWRRR!!!   ARRRROUUURRRRR!!!!!  GRAAAAARRRR!!!!!"

"GRRROOOWWWRRRR!!!!  ARRRRRGGGGHH!!!"

When a car from the Sheriffs Department rolled through the parking lot to check things out, El Verde whispered to Richard: "We are making a student film!"

There was also a tribe of young jerks who were more than slightly smashed, conversing amongst themselves in the parking lot at a volume level one notch below "Ungodly Scream."  They paraded back and forth into the bar, taking notice of the ladies in the cast, and attempting to lure a black passerby into a fight with them.  The black man didnt help things by shouting sentiments such as, "I hate white boys!" Perhaps he had consumed a cordial or two himself.  He went off about his business, leaving his white van parked there. 

Those "white boys" evidently bore him a grudge.  At about 11:30, they piled into their pickup truck to leave, and backed straight into his white van.  Bang.  To our amazement, they moved their truck forward, straightened the wheels, and did it again, ramming the van as hard as they could for a second time before speeding away. 

Through it all, we looked at one another with wide eyes and simply continued with our business as meekly as possible, doing our best to go unnoticed as we drank beer and shot our little movie.  At midnight, the battery powering one of the cameras gave up its ghost and brought the night to a close.

Night has fallen and the fog is beginning to roll up into the Hollywood Hills.  The cast and crew have returned to our Sunset Plaza Drive location, and we are filming scenes involving cars: arrivals and a few departures from the climactic Hollywood party. 

Richard’s HDV camera is a thing of miracles, enough to make a neanderthal like me fall to my knees and grunt in fear and awe.  "Unnggg.  Magic box take pictures.  AND don’t need heavy lighting equipment.  Ug!"   There follow many takes of people pulling up and walking into the house, strategically placing the cars so as to take advantage of security lights on the neighbor’s garage.

Halie is worried about the gas in her car, so Mr. Nelson and Richard send her down to get gas with Amber and her camera in the car, to film them on Sunset Boulevard and driving the car up, up, up into the fog.  Chris shoots Mark stumbling down the street and tumbling over trash cans.  Thankfully, the neighbors do not sic the LAPD on us. 

Gradually, actors are released to find their way down the hill in the dark, to Sunset and their paths homeward.  Meanwhile, the fog is rolling in thicker and faster by the minute, seriously messing with our view. 

There is still an important duet scene to film: in which a loyal brother visiting L.A. from Iowa, played by Mr. Schark, meets a woman with whom he makes a nice connection before getting hauled off by his sister.

This film is being ’scripted’ via actor improvisation, and this scene has not been rehearsed with the director.  While Mr. Nelson is off taking pictures of people in cars, the actors improvise with me watching and for a glorious few minutes or so I feel useful in a way that I’ve been missing for a long, long time. 

The director is improvising, as well, woe betide.  He decides he needs a short scene where Schark interacts with another party-goer, to help him make a transition from an angry mood to something more lighthearted.  Nelson explains this to me and says, "This means you.  Go over there and do a scene with Andrew."

"But Chris, I’m not in this movie."

"That’s just not true."

Richard grins at me, his camera on his shoulder like a pirate’s macaw.  Arrrr, me hearties, I have been shanghai’d.  Submitting, I remove my sweatshirt and  get in front of the camera.  No makeup, just five o’clock shadow and improvised lighting.  Yep, everything is improv around here.

Scene goes something like this, I can’t quite remember: Alg at the balcony, with a drink.  Andrew approaches. 

Alg: Are you enjoying this party?

Andrew: No, I am not.

Alg: Sorry to hear it. 

Andrew: You?

Alg: Well. Actually, I used to live here.  I had to sell the house about three years ago.  (drinks)  Gotta say, I hate what they did to the place.  Come on!  Would you hang that painting there?? 

Andrew: No, no I wouldn’t.  That brass pole is pretty ugly, too.

Alg: Yeah!  I hate that!  (sighs)  You need a beer?

Andrew: Yes I do.

Alg:  I’ll be back.

Thus ends my cameo.

We do a single take of THAT magic and move quickly to get two more scenes on tape before the fog completely covers the city lights, and before we are quite finished it is time to stop. 

Driving down the hill in the fog, suddenly I wonder: Where’s my contract?  What are my perks?  Any swag?  A personal assistant?  Where’s my trailer?  Where’s my coke?  This is ridiculous!  These people don’t appreciate me!  What kind of mickey-mouse enterprise is this?!  Get my agent on the phone!

Oh, right.  Don’t.  Have. One.

People’s reactions to bow ties are as individual and unique as the ties themselves. 

The proprietor of a hat store in Santa Monica commended me and asked for a demo, on the same day that someone else confessed to a “suspicion” of bow tie wearers.  Meeting a high school friend for coffee after being out of touch for 20 years, right after I finished work one day, I was told I looked like a lounge singer.  Men my grandfather’s age strike up lively conversations about the choice, younger men cringe.  Women tend to respond more affectionately to the choice but some snicker and ask me if I’m parking cars.  (To which I do not hesitate to respond, “Give me your keys.”) 

MSNBC talking head Tucker Carlson used to be known for wearing bow ties until he abruptly announced he was tired of them and, as he put it, “untied.”  Some time before he made the change, he had been quoted in an interview about bow ties commenting on how much hostility they attract.  He likened a bow tie to wearing an upraised middle finger.  Indeed, many of Tucker’s detractors found the bow tie an easy target for caricature and derision. 

To this, I rub my sleepy eyes in wonder.  Do people really care that much? 

All I want is a tie that looks nice and doesn’t fall into my soup.  Besides which, the conventional necktie looks to me like a thin bib that comes to a point, and for some reason it’s pointing straight at the cock.  I go into men’s lavatories and see guys peeing with their ties flipped over their shoulders and it just looks silly to me. 

It started as a bit of rebellion.  I went to a prep school with a dress code.  Bow ties were not expressly forbidden by the dress code, yet they seemed, somehow, impertinent.  That worked for me.  A Providence artist by the name of Madolin Maxey had been a teacher at my school, and she was married to an Englishman who grew up wearing these ties every day.  He showed me how to tie them.  (They aren’t difficult to tie: that’s a myth.)  A couple of times in my senior year, I sported a bow tie on campus and stirred up a teenage-sized kerfluffle. 

Somehow I developed a taste for them.  I don’t get comments on them every day, but among the comments I do get, more are positive than not.  Guys make faces at me, but every now and then something surprising happens – like the Goth chick in an airport terminal who broke into a huge smile and straightened my tie – and I get a hilarious dose of “don’t know mind.”