Crabs, Trannies, Turkey and Dented Doors.

I love to eat good food. I especially love to cook. It's an activity that brings people together and makes people happy. A big meal can turn a boring night into a big event. I could go on and on about why I like to eat so much but I would be completely missing the point.

The point is like a chick who drowns her sorrows in a whole pint of ice cream, I will cook a good meal when life's tribulations become tiresome. I like to let stuff roll off and the best way to do that is to take the attention away from whatever shitty situation I need to get away from.

I didn't make the top ten of the moviehatch.com competition. Bummer dude. It kind of pissed me off because "Taste" is clearly much better than "Attack of the Zombie Fish", "Loser Makes A Million" or some other movie pitch on there that will no doubt end up getting made and starring Seth Green.

I'm not here to bitch though. It is cool that I'm even competing in pitch competitions and I recognize that. There will be many, many more competitions and many, many, many more rejections. Regardless of the stated rejection I decided to turn it into something really cool. So I went to the grocery store to make a bomb meal. I purchased two whole dungeness crabs and a fresh bageutte for garlic bread. I also picked up a case Pabst's Blue Ribbon beer and a pint of Jim Beam. All the ingredients would be necessary.

Nothing takes care of your troubles and worries like the light, tender and succulent meat of a big ass crab. My roommate and I feasted like kings. As I tore away at this beautiful little creature's legs, crunching, munching and then tossing, I thought to myself "it's not a rough life. Could be much worse than this."

I smiled, pounded my beer and got up to grab another.

The crab offered a feeling of elation that could not be ignored by either of us. My roommate and I began to reminisce on some of the good ole days. That made me even more excited.

He reminded me of the time when I was in high school and I would torture our trainer because he had a weak sense of humor. I used to call him "Drewsky Poosky" and for some reason he just didn't like it. After swearing I would never call him that again I did about 10 minutes later. He chased me out of the trainer's room, out of the gym and into the parking lot with his tape scissors. He was screaming like a Banshee saying something like "I'm going to cut off your nose!" and "Die!". I begged him to stop because he had just cut the tape off my ankle and if I twisted it while he was chasing me then just have to spend more time in the trainer's room. My logic won out as it usually does but I think Drewsky Poosky might have given up athletic training after that.

There was pretty much constant laughter through the evening and once I got 12 beers deep I realized that only a couple hours had passed and it was still very early in the evening.

"We gotta go out!" I exclaimed to my cohorts. After careful deliberation of which drinking establishment we would grace, we came to a decision and made haste off into the night. The walk there was not exactly easy. Either the side walk was in dire need of repair or I was just drunk, honestly I believe it was a little of both.

The particular bar was just out of reach of the heinous hipsters and to grimey for Hollywood douche bags. You will occasionally see somebody in there that makes you say "Hey I totally know that person from somewhere." I once saw Donna from that 70's show in there and fell in love. This is an important fact because before I get into this it must be established that I use the term "falling in love" or "dream girl" very, very loosely. I'll fall in love five or six times a day on average. That's just how I roll.

The place was packed and as usual it was an interesting mix of interesting looking people. I shuffled through the mix to find a spot at the bar to order a round. Trying to order a drink at a crowded bar is like trying to bend a spoon with your mind. You have to have a "there is no spoon" approach to get a beer.

I surveyed the area while I waited. There was quite a bit of potential. I looked around for a good standing spot. In such cramped quarters location is crucial. You could bump into a beautiful, well-read blonde that ends up being the girl of your dreams or you could get stuck next to a bunch of guys wearing Affliction shirts and drinking Jager Bombs.

I'm still holding out for my beautiful, well-read blonde but I did bump into somebody. Oh the horror that would follow after I got the beers and started walking back to the table.

I handed my buddy his drink then out of the corner of my eye I pick up a very tall brunette walking past me. She walked just out of my peripheral vision before I could get a decent look at her figure. In a very slurred, slow manner I leaned over to my roommate and said...

Me: Love of my life.

Rm: Dude, that's not a chick.

Me: Scuse me?

Rm: That's a dude, dude.

Me: There's no way.

Rm: No it's definitely a guy. In fact I saw him walking this way as you were coming back from the bar and I was hoping you were going to say something like that.

Me: It's an honest mistake. It could happen to anyone. I didn't get a good look!

Rm: No that doesn't just happen to anyone. I don't think many people just accidently call a tranny the love of their life.

I look over to get a better look and see a very clear and robust Adam's apple on his throat, a Mel Gibsonish jaw line and sunken pirate ship eyes. I gagged for a minute but was too proud to show weakness.

Me: I agree that is a man but I think you know I use "love of my life" pretty loosely.

Rm: You might say a little too loosely.

I talked to this cute girl by the darts for a little while but then she turned out to be a lesbian. I was frustrated and tired of the crowd so we left. As far as I can remember it was a long walk back to the apartment. My associates were continually harping on my tranny blunder. I was just starting to get flat-out peeved off.

(Apologies for using the word peeved in such close proximity to tranny.)

The next thing I knew I was in the back seat of a car without any shoes on but thankfully, pants were on. Apparently it was decided to go to Tommy Burger down the street. I didn't know we were at a Tommy Burger and once I realized that's where I was I wanted some Tommy Burger. Without closely examining how close the car was next to me I opened the door and hit the car next to me with a deafening thud.

I froze. I knew that I had now created a situation I must somehow manage to get out of. I saw the angered face of the Latino man I hit and I knew I needed to proceed with caution. I knew it was best to be delicate.

"Hey buddy move your car! You're parked to close for me to get out." I exclaimed loudly. I realize now how that could of been mistaken for yelling at the guy but his windows were rolled up and it was the best way for him to hear me.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he says not surprisingly but says in perfect english which I found surprising.

He opens his door and tries to get out but can't because we are parked so close together. It's now a stand off. Either he shuts his door and let's me out or I back down and shut my door letting him out. I won't concede and inch to anybody no matter the situation.

"Just shut your door and I can get out. I think it's fine." I say beginning the smooth over process.

"No you shut your door dude." he says with his girlfriend in the passenger seat yelling at him.

"Noooo you shut your door dude." I answer back maintaining my control of the situation and dominance over this close parker.

"Fine, I'll shut my door." He shuts his door and waits for me to get out. Then he gets out and walks around to the front of the door.

I get out of the car and step out into parking lot in bare feet. Side note: I was never able to figure out why I was without socks or Chucks. Never figured that one out.

I lean over to closely examine if there was any damage. I rub the side of his car like you would rub the belly of a pregnant lady and tell him it's going to be all right. His girlfriend starts yelling at him louder.

"Hey man you are going to have to give me your information or something" he says in the tone of a whipped dog.

"Information?! Information?! I don't even have shoes let alone information!" I said waving my arms to emphasize.

The Latino guy slumped his shoulders and hung his head in defeat.

I leaned down next to the dent in question as to not make a scene and said "this will buff right out. No biggie." In my mind the situation had been resolved and I was getting back into the car to eat my chili cheese burger. My friend, the good soul that he is, gives the Latino guy his number. I was upset that after my smoothing over he would undo it by giving him his number. It actually was the cherry on top because he gave him his work's fax number.

I ate my chili cheese burger and it didn't even bother me anymore that I had hit on a tranny. The moviehatch competition was light years out of my mind. Thanksgiving was on my mind though. I love Thanksgiving. Great food with great people (even if you only see them for a couple days out of the year). This Thanksgiving I'm thankful for more than I have room to write about in this blog.

Times are kind of bleak right now. There is a fixation on "The End Times" and the fascination our country has with epic doom confuses me. Our campaign and war cry of "Hope" to get Bush out of the office has been met with more of the same. It would be easy to fall victim to the black cloud of burden that hangs over almost every American to some degree. I won't though because I have my own war cry. I have my own tried and true testament that allows me to brave the storm through the roughest of seas. It's simple but effective and it will never let you down.

Live life, have fun.

With Love & Respect Always,

Mike James

The Epilogue

"Tip the world on it's side and everything loose will fall in Los Angeles."

-Franklin Lloyd Wright

The midwest was much too quiet for me. The lack of sirens, cars and general city noise disrupted my sleep more than I could of ever imagined. The cold. Oh, the cold was in the low 50's and I could barely stand it. I was mocked and ridiculed by my friends that I had not seen in so long. I have become acclimated to the southern california climate beyond return.

It was an incredible journey and the stories I shared online only scratch the surface of the best tales to be shared. The faces, the voices, the adventure all get stamped, filed and stored for future use. I accomplished everything and then some on my trip but there were many responsibilities to come back to.

Mainly a responsibility to myself to get a few things accomplished that have been on hold for the last few months. First off is "Shotgun Wedding". It's a shame it's taken me this long to finally get it to the cutting room floor but now it's there. Like shaving your balls with a straight edge razor, it's very time consuming and requires great focus or you can lose something very important.

The moviehatch.com independent film competition comes to a close the end of the week. If you have yet to give my script "Taste" 5 stars stop reading and go vote now!

http://www.moviehatch.com/index.php?option=com_moviehatch&task=detail&movie=210

I find out next week if I'm a finalist so cross all your fingers and toes. If you are a paraplegic then please cross your eyes.

Being apart of the rising number of unemployed in this country is settling just fine for me. I've started another script which I believe to be hilarious and ridiculous. Although I believe everything I write is hilarious and ridiculous so it's difficult to have any kind of objective scope on how funny or ridiculous it is until after it's over. It's a lot like my sex life actually.

Speaking of which that reminds me of how great I thought it was going to be for me with the ladies when I started my last job. I had a business card and a legit job title. I figured I would be pulling enough strange to warrant my own VH1 reality show.

This of course was not the case in anyway. With the exception of a few winks, nods, smiles, flirty giggles and one very intimidating cougar lady that made me cookies, it wasn't getting me any play. All work and no play makes Mike a dull boy. Thankfully before I could go on a axe wielding rampage I got canned.

This has a lot to do with my not jumping at the fence to get another desk job or any job for that matter because I'm pretty sure they are about as elusive as unicorns at the moment. I'm not letting this terrible downturn in the economy and job market spoil my good time. In fact I've had some of my best luck when I am unemployed.

There was the time when I got booted out of Brazil and then came out to LA for a week before I went back to Franklin to graduate. I was riding the bus from Santa Monica to Venice. A couple stops right after me a beautiful curly haired brunette with brown eyes got on and sat in the seat right behind me. I caught her eyes right as she was sitting down and I started searching my brain of something to say to holla at her.

Ask her where something is at? No! That's touristy. Compliment her dress? No! That's totally creeperish you only saw her a second. Maybe I won't say anything I'll just get up and sit right next to her. Great idea! That's at least in the top five ways to get maced on a bus.

I was fidgeting in my seat and scratching my head trying to think of something when I felt the soft touch of her hand on my shoulder.

"Excuse me but I have to ask you something" she says batting her eyes at me ever so innocently.

"Ask me anything" I say like an over-medicated Brad Garrett from "Everybody Loves Raymond".

"Does my hair smell like weed? I'm on my way into work and I don't want to get in trouble" she said holding her long dark brown hair out for me to get a whiff of.

I leaned over and got a big huff of her hair. It smelled fine to me. Not particularly spectacular or anything but I had just got done smoking a spliff literally minutes before I got on the bus so my sense of weed smell was way off.

"You smell wonderful" I said with an expression on my face that didn't really reflect my words.

She laughed and thanked me. She told me her name and I told her mine. She gave me her number and told me to call her at a certain time later on. Her name was Marcy.

I called Marcy and met her at a bar in Venice. I told her I was a writer but never mentioned I was not only unemployed but I hadn't even graduated college yet and that was still kind of up in the air. It was one of those nights where I met and talked to a million people but didn't actually remember one person the next morning when I woke up next to Marcy. Apparently she was nice enough to offer me a place to stay. I miss such courteousness.

Then there were those crazy days back when I first moved out here. I had no idea what I was doing so I just kind of made it up as I went along. There are women walking up and down Hollywood Blvd. that would literally eat you alive, crap you out, then steal $20 bucks out of your digested crap wallet because they forgot to do that first.

It makes for a rather interesting place to live if you are a bull shit artist. My favorite instances are when I come across a real straight shooter with a sense of humor. Those are two characteristics that are a rarity to find in the same person. I met this girl, let's call her Jenny, at Happy Endings on Sunset (It's a sports bar, I know what you're thinking. I thought the same when I saw it.)

I was outside smoking a cigarette and I spotted her walking out by herself. After nobody followed her out I stomped out my cigarette walked out the opposite exit, went back in through the front of the bar right back out to the smoking section with Bond-esque smoothness.

I pulled out another cigarette and asked her "got a light?"

She smiled and lit my smoke. We had small talk for a moment and I asked what she did.

Jenny: I'm in marketing. I work for a company that does movie posters.

Me: Right on I bet your place is covered in movie posters.

Jenny: Only one. So what do you do?

Me: I'm a writer.

(After lots of practice I've become much better at fielding this next response.)

Jenny: Cool, who do you write for?

Me: I'm kind of freelance.

Jenny: So you're trying to be a writer. You aren't ACTUALLY a writer.

Me: No I'm the real deal sweet heart. I'm just currently not being paid to write.

Jenny: Well I could say that I'm an astronaut but I'm not actually being paid to go to space.

Me: You said you were in marketing and if you were an astronaut, paid or not, I would still find that very cool.

Jenny: I know I said that but...

Me: Are you making any steps towards working for NASA?

Jenny: I was trying to make a point...

Me: Don't give up on your dreams Jenny. It's not too late to get to space.

(I then with a very serious face wrap my arm around her and point to the sky.)

Jenny: I saw you put your cigarette out when I walked out here. You are pretty confidant aren't ya?

Me: Borderline annoyingly confidant but without all the douche bagginess. But trust me you will probably only be less impressed from here.

Jenny: So where you live?

Me: Right down the street.

Jenny: All right let's get out of here.

We walked back to my building after picking up a sixer and as I was walking in one of my friends that lived in the building was coming down the stairs in tears. I asked her what was wrong and she said that she thought her stalker was somewhere in the building. She was running from some dude that had been putting notes under her door and following her everywhere. Then she ran outside.

I turned to Jenny and she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said "At least it will be a good story to tell my friends." I laughed and told her we will get a long just fine.

I will probably never see the Finnish girl I met in San Francisco again. She was definitely future ex-wife material but I'm hopeful love is in the air. I'm unemployed, broke and full of ridiculous stories that no sane girl in her right mind would ever believe.

That's why I'm so glad I live in Los Angeles because out here they are all completely fucking crazy.

Love & Respect,

Mike James

Headed Up North: Part 3

"You will experience great success in your life but you will be at the center of many controversies. You're an instigator of many things and will always threaten stability of any kind."

-A psychic I met on the dance floor at the DJ Tiesto show in Chicago 10/31/09

I was just getting into Washington when it began to rain. There were still so many miles between me and Vancouver. There were even more miles between me and Los Angeles. The endless hours on the road and the solitude were starting to wear my nerves down to a thread.

I growled at the rain and turned my windshield wipers on. They began to clear my windshield of the rain like windshield wipers are made to do when the passenger side wiper began to lose it's windshield wiping tenacity. This alarmed me at first but then I realized there was no point in a fully functional passenger side wiper because I had no passenger.

I shrugged and carried on. Then the driver side wiper began to lose it's guster. I didn't panic. I did the most reliable trouble shooting technique that has aided users of all forms of technology as far back as the early eighties.

I turned the wipers off. Paused. Then turned them back on. It didn't work. I was hauling balls down the 5 interstate a few hundred miles from the border, it's pouring down rain and it just now dawned on me that I was too fucking stupid to check if my wind shield wipers would work back in LA.

It never rains in LA! How is this my fault?!

I tried putting my hazard lights on and just going slowly but that was pointless so I pulled off at the next exit into some small town that started with a L.

I pull into this gas station and fiddle with my wipers for awhile. Meaning I turned them on and off a few times then completely gave up. I go into this gas station and see three teenage girls talking a mile a minute with some teenage boy staring at them just waiting to pounce on the opportunity to say something as soon as they gave him one.

I walked up to the counter without them even noticing me, they are still talking incessantly.

Me: Excuse me, I know that you probably can't help me but my windshield wipers quit working and do you know anywhere I could go to get them fixed?

Teenie Bopper 1: Why couldn't we help you?

Me: I didn't mean it like that. I just need to find somebody that knows something about windshield wipers.

Teenie Bopper 2: You saying we don't know anything about windshield wipers?

Me: I'm not saying that...I just need to get...

Teenie Bopper 3: Maybe we can help you. (gives disturbing look)

Out of nowhere the scrawny fourteen year old kid who was trying to get in on their conversation when I walked up and who was probably the high school basketball team's towel boy finally has his chance to save the day.

Scrawny: There's a auto body shop just three doors down. They are open until 4.

The scrawny kid beams with pride as I thank him and pay for a watermelon Airhead.

As I turned around to walk out I could hear the three teenage girls ganging up on the boy and giving him shit for ruining their fun. I gave him a thumbs up before I walked out the door. He a learned lesson that will stay with him the rest of his life.

If you want to get something done just shut those bitches up. Good job Scrawny.

Scrawny's directions were spot on and I was able to find the auto body shop. It took a little sweet talking and forty bucks but I got the mechanic to fix my wipers and get me back on the road.

As they were being fixed the owner of the shop told me not to worry if the mechanic could not get them going again. He said there was a hotel right down the street were Elvis Presley had stayed once. He was serious and I just stared back at him without a response. If this mechanic through the graces of God was able to get my wind shield wipers going again, I was going to go back grab Scrawny and take him to Vancouver with me saving him from this rainy hell-hole.

The mechanic got my wipers wiping again and I stepped on it headed for Seattle. There was an Australian girl I had met in San Francisco I was supposed to meet up with in Seattle. She messaged me that morning and said she would call when she got into the town.

In standard fashion I was in to big a hurry and she was to slow. I went right on through Seattle and was an hour north before she called.

"Sorry baby, I got a date with Canada."

Rain, rain and more rain then I finally made it to the border.

Border Guard: Are you coming for business or pleasure?

Me: Definitely pleasure.

BG: Are you employed?

Me: Yes! Of course I'm employed I work in television.

BG: Oh yea, what show?

Me: The Bonnie Hunt Show.

BG: Really? That's still on?

Me: It's funny you should ask that but last I heard it was.

BG: What are you doing up here?

Me: I'm on temporary hiatus. An opportunity presented itself to me so I jumped at it.

BG: That show doesn't film in LA. I thought it filmed in Chicago.

Me: No it films in LA, Culver City to be exact and that's a common mistake. Bonnie is from Chicago. Oprah films in Chicago.

BG: You carrying over $10,000 in cash?

Me: Like I said I work for The Bonnie Hunt Show.

BG: (Laughs for a bit with a laugh that is less annoying but the same pitch as Fran Drescher) That's funny, go on through sweetheart.

I was amazed at the ease I had crossing over. Thank you Bonnie Hunt.

The sun was setting and I was exhausted. It began to rain again and as I drove into Vancouver my eyelids got heavy but my heart was beating rapidly.

I had made it all the way to Vancouver. It was amazing I had accomplished such a feat on a complete whim. I drove and drove looking for my hostel I had reserved at $10 a night. I didn't think I could get much for ten bucks a night but at this point all I wanted was a beer and bed.

I could not locate the hostel so I just drove down Main St. looking for something that would suffice. Out of nowhere painted on the side of a tall brick building. I see "Backpacker's Hostel and Pub".

Boom! Two birds with one stone! I was overjoyed so I immediately pulled onto a side street, parked and ran through the torrential down pour to get inside and get a room. There were quite a few vagrants meandering around the entrance but that was nothing new to me, no alarms were going off yet. The guy at the counter was chewing on his gums like he had Winterfresh flavored gingervitis. Now alarms were starting to go off.

The room as only ten bucks more but since there was a pub directly underneath I felt it leveled out. The room was decent. The mattress wasn't made of straw or anything but I'm fairly certain there was plenty of wildlife in it. The elevator smelled of urine but there was a TV with cable in the room.

I put my stuff in a locker and went down to the pub for a pint. I had to wait for what I thought was a 300 pound biker dude with leather chaps to finish his pool shot so I could walk around him to the bar. After he finished I realized it was a she when she said in a very raspy voice "scuse me baby." The only thing I had to eat that day was a watermelon Airhead and I about posted it right on the he/she's forehead.

I finally got my cold pint of Molson and sat in a far back corner.

"Vancouver isn't quite how I pictured it." I thought. I pounded a few more Molsons, just enough to get me to sleep in the rat trap. I feel asleep to the sound of little feet scurrying around beneath me.

The next morning I woke up with my jacket on, shoes on, on top the sheets with my hands in my pocket. I grabbed my laptop, rushed out the door and down to my car to see that I had gotten a ticket the previous night. I took the ticket off of my car, put it on the car right in front of me and took off.

It was sunday so I needed beer and something fried. The Colts were on bye week so I watched Brees dominate and when that game went to commercial I threw insults and curses at Brett Favre.

A few beers and a little research solved the problem at hand. I located a new hostel in a new part of town. I told the bar tender where I had spent the previous night. He laughed and gave me a round on the house. Apparently I posted up at a halfway house for vagrants, drunks, miscreants and most likely terrorists.

I got the hell out of skid row and headed for Granville St. The entertainment district and center of night life in Vancouver. I got a legitimate parking space right in front of the Same Sun Hostel. There to was a bar in the hostel but it occupants were much younger and skinnier than the burned out Whitesnake groupies at the last joint.

My room was nice and the kids staying there were really cool too. It was almost all inhabited by Australians. Apparently there is some kind of work exchange program between Canada and Australia. After college Australians are sent to Canada to find work.

The funny part of this is that none of them were trying to find work in anyway. They got hammered every night and smoked copious amounts of BC bud until the money ran out and went back. I thought it was genius seeing as Americans do the same but we don't even leave our country and we do it for four years instead of four months.

I know I should give some fantastic tale of debauchery in Vancouver but I really don't have one to give.

That's kind of the cool part of this entire saga.

I met good people. I drank good beer and ate good food. I walked around and took lots of pictures. I smoked some fine BC bud and meditated in Stanley Park. I went to an aquarium. I played a lot of poker.

I just chilled.

Just by arriving in Vancouver I had already accomplished everything I wanted to accomplish. My job was done. Like I said, I didn't even want to leave LA in the first place but I had to.

I needed to gain a new perspective and the only way one can achieve that is by leaving one's comfort zone. The pursuit of truth and beauty requires you to go to places you have never been before. Discovering new ideas, philosophies, people and places can be overwhelming, sometimes even scary.

There were many points during my journey that I wanted to turn around. Many times I thought to myself that I had to be crazy. I couldn't logically explain why I was doing what I was doing but once I got there it all made sense.

The open road is a perfect allegory for life. You may not know where you are going but you do have a destination whether you choose one or not. There may be break downs and speed bumps. There will definitely be lots of construction. None of this can stop the journey though. You have to keep moving because if you stop in the first decent place you see to get out of the rain you will never know what lies ahead of the storm. You just have to keep moving so you give yourself a chance to see it all.

Love and Respect,

Mike James

Headed Up North...Part 2

"A man goes to knowledge as he goes to war, wide-awake, with fear, with respect, and with absolute assurance. Going to knowledge or going to war in any other manner is a mistake, and whoever makes it will live to regret his steps."

-Don Juan Matus (Sunday, August 20, 1961)

From "The Teachings of Don Juan" By: Carlos Castaneda

This past Monday morning I awoke as usual at 7:00 AM. I got up, got in the shower, walked across the street for an iced coffee, came back to my apartment and got comfortable in my chair to watch Tony Harris on CNN like I do every morning. What was different about Monday morning was that I watched his entire broadcast and did not leave for work because I had no work to go to.

Normally I can stand approximately 17 to 23 minutes of news in the morning before I can no longer stand the absurdity of what the focus of our national attention has become. I had no work to go on Monday so I ended up watching more news that what I was comfortable watching.

It was a horrible experience my friends. Not watching the news because I am a certified headlines junkie but the fact I had nothing better to do but to sit and be told of how much everything is going to shit.

I got up and I started packing. I started packing for Vancouver. Now as all the 9 or 12 people know that read this blog is that I enjoy telling stories very much. I often have a tendency to allow these stories to get ahead of my actual intentions. My "get-the-hell-out-of-LA" Canada plan was one of those stories. I had been telling people about my intentions to make a run for Vancouver since I lived in The Manor.

I was supremely confident the situation wouldn't arise.

It did and I'm OK with it. Well at least now I am because I can tell you with sincerity that I did not want to leave LA. I love LA with all the capacity I have to love some place. I'm here to tell you now that leaving the city, being fired from my job and then once again going on an adventure with no clear goal in mind frightened me.

That's exactly why I'm doing it.

My car was completely packed with at least three works of clothes firmly and securely in my back pack. My Coleman propane stove in the trunk, my tent, my journal and my Macintosh computer were all tucked away in my car.

I got some Thai food and went upstairs to play Guitar Hero afterward. I finished eating and played a couple songs. Then a couple more. Time was ticking away. I kept watching the clock. I was on no one's schedule but my own. The only one in the entire universe I had to account for or report to was myself. I could easily smoke more pot, eat more Thai food and play video games as long as I so desired. No one would blame me. Many would envy the fact that that situation alone was presented to me.

It made me sick.

I was terribly anxious about making the journey by myself which had me glued to my Guitar Hero controller. I was tearing myself apart for partaking in recreational activities while I should be working. There was only one choice.

The open road.

I took my three weeks pay and cashed them immediately. Through some intensive Google searching I located a hostel in San Francisco called The Green Tortoise. The Google reviews pegged it as the present day Hotel California. I figured it was a bet worth taking.

The drive was easy. Two stops between Silverlake and San Francisco brought me to the Green Tortoise Hostel in North Beach on Broadway Ave. It was dusk when I arrived and I parked into a public parking spot right beside the hostel. I was stretching my legs and working out a near cramp when a small Asian man began to hassle me for money. I urged him to be patient but he only wanted his money. I gave him forty dollars and informed him I was planning on being here a couple days. I was annoyed by his forceful nature and just wanted him to leave me alone. I would later learn on my departure that it would of only cost me thirty dollars for two days.

That bastard.

The hostel appeared at first to be in a rather shady area. There were people in front that looked like they smelled like Jerry Garcia's jock strap after a rousing game of Bocce Ball.

With apprehension I proceeded inside to check-in. (This is funny because not a few hours later that night and the next night I would be one of those people in front of the hostel watching the occupants come in with utter bewilderment.)

I got my key and walked to my room. I opened the door and was taken back by who I found in the room. Two ridiculously gorgeous girls from Finland, one blonde and one red head, simultaneously said "Hi!" as soon as I walked through the door.

I know that you are thinking that I'm making this up but as I've said before, I can't make this stuff up.

I've heard of the saying "a girl makes up her mind if she's going to sleep with you in the first ten seconds of meeting you" before. I always abide by it and I'm rarely proven wrong. I completely blew my first ten seconds.

Blonde: What are you doing here?

Red head: Yea, what are you doing here?

(My jaw is dropped. My mind is pretty much blown and I'm desperately searching for something to say to not make myself sound like an idiot.)

Me: I umm I got fired from my job in Los Angeles so I'm taking a trip to Vancouver.

Redhead: Ohh you got fired?

(I'm thinking in my head that opening up with the fact that I got fired was possibly the worst opener that I could think of. Saying that I'm headed north to club seals would of been better.)

Me: Yeaaaa, I used to work for a TV show. No big deal. Just some talk show. I didn't do anything wrong just so you know...kind of. Soooo where are you from?

Despite my horrible first impression the girls agreed to meet up later for drinks. I got out before I made a bigger ass of myself and found a bar down Kearney to gather my thoughts.

I sat at a classy bar alone, sipping Anchor Steam and thought about the events that brought me there. I began to realize what I have been doing the last few months. I was working. I was working a desk job and doing pretty well. I was in bed by 11 every night and up early every morning. It was a good job with benefits and stability. It was also draining my very soul out from me. Bonnie Hunt was literally exorcising my eternal being out from my nostrils in between breaths of booking the good people of America for the day time talk show that wasn't Oprah or The View.

I came to a realization there as I combed through my phone book for someone to call and talk to. Nobody answered and it was clear to me I was there for the adventure. I was there for the story. I was domesticating myself by attempting to fit in to the 9-5 life style. I had to bury the untamable side of me in a burlap sack and ignore that it existed while I spent my time in the office. I can not be contained and by thinking I had the ability to stop the party I had started years ago would be foolish.

I went back to the hostel for those girls and for the rest of my adventure.

I met them in the community room of the hostel along with; Jordan the one-man-band street performer, Mike the Irish traveler here on work holiday, Pascal the Belgian seeing the states for the first time with his entire vacation paid for by his work, an Australian named Caroline that had soft eyes and was at the tail end of her month long journey through the states and also the two beautiful Finnish girls.

I sat in an open seat at a round table and a beer was handed to me. We all began to share our stories. My adrenaline rushed through my veins as I listened to their stories and shared mine. A table of complete strangers all brought together by the desire to see and experience something else. Tales of debauchery and ridiculousness were thrown out on the table as if we were playing a globe traveler version of poker.

It was the most exciting and compelling evening I had ever spent at a round table.

The next day it rained. It rained hard all day long. We found ourselves right back at the very same round table from the night before just going on about the most insane subjects we could come up with to entertain ourselves.

We discussed how many flights a cat would survive if you threw one out of a window, we talked about the best international drinking games, we were just getting into politics when (obviously) the Irish guy suggested we start drinking.

The booze started flowing at our table like the rain that roared down the steep hill roads of San Francisco. The atmosphere was surreal. Perfect strangers from all over the world who knew nobody going in were all of a sudden the life of the party.

We were the party.

We were by ourselves before we met each other and then out of nowhere something brilliant was happening. There is a beautiful bond that is made between people who travel. It is instant and it is intense. It is intense because it is sincere and honest. There was nothing out of the ordinary of the night, we went out and bar hoped.

I told stories that I knew would get laughs. Like the time I drilled rocks into my Boy Scout Derby car to win and was disqualified with dishonor. They especially liked how I had trained my pigs I raised on my farm growing up to sit and come to their names on command for jelly beans.

I talked about how I possessed virtuosic ninja skills when the Blonde said she had been a kick boxer. I then got up and did several round-house kicks, scaring the shit out of everyone in my area and almost kicking my drunk Irish friend in the face. It was a pretty normal night out for me all considered and that's what made it so magical. That a perfect night of fun was possible with absolutely anyone from any background or culture.

The next morning was rough. To start with there was an insanely long line to get a toasted bagel and secondly I had to say good bye because I had a campsite reserved. I really had to get going.

I, of course, fell in love and wanted to follow the Blonde to LA. I had to continue North though. I became close friends in a short amount of time with the Irish guy (in the same that I had with many of the other characters I've met on my travels). Before I rolled off for The Redwoods National Park I shared a cigarette with him. He called it "the last day of school" and that "it fucking sucks mayne!". I laughed and told him that I agreed. We exchanged emails and agreed that if the Indianapolis Colts made it to the Super Bowl we would meet up in New York for it.

You can bet your sweet ass the Colts will make it to the Super Bowl.

The Redwoods was a spiritual experience. That is an abrupt subject change and I'm still processing what I learned in the forest so I will save it for a later date. I did have an inspiring conversation with my supervisor from my time that I was working in Canada though that gave me fuel that didn't present itself on my fuel gauge.

(Keep in mind this is my boss from almost two years ago and we had not spoken until two days before this conversation took place.)

Me: I'm going on an adventure to figure out my next move.

My boss: That's fucking great man. What do you have to figure out?

Me: Well, What I'm doing and how I'm going to do it.

My boss: Vancouver is beautiful and you will have a great time there. But what did you go to LA to do man?

Me: To make films.

My boss: And you think Bonnie Hunt (The day time TV talk show I was working for) has any effect on what you are trying to do?

Me: Not really actually.

My boss: Then it becomes another good story to tell man! In my opinion you probably should of been fired months ago. Are you not a rock star, man?

Me: Well, yea I am headed up the west coast to Vancouver with no real plan.

My boss: What are you really trying to do?

Me: Make films.

My boss: Then go make fucking films man and next time you need the obvious told to ya you've got my home number. Pay attention to the road and send me an email, eh?

After checking into my single room with king size bed at the Travelodge on Burnside in Portland, I showered, got dressed up and headed across the street to a nice restaurant for a steak. I walked up to the bar and the only open seat was next to a dark haired girl, late twenties early thirties but soft complected and with a ninja wielding a samurai sword on her right forearm. She was drinking an extra dirty dry martini.

We exchanged looks. She was older but very cute. She said something quirky to the bartender and I commented. We were instantly in conversation after that. Turns out she grew up between ages of 5-12 in Broad Ripple, Indianapolis. We talked about the Children's Museum. I could tell she was interested when she changed her bar tab from outside, where she was dining with her friends once they finally arrived, to the restaurant bar where I was sitting. So she could talk to me every time she needed a new drink.

I finished my seventh or eighth IPA and paid my tab. I could see the table where her friends were sitting. I could see her looking at me expecting me to walk over to the table.

I walked out the door of the restaurant and returned to my room at the hotel. I made myself a drink and opened up my laptop. I had better things to do. I had to write. There's always going to be more stories and adventures but there's never enough time to write about them.

Such is the life of a Road Man for The Lords of Karma.

With Love & Respect,

Mike James

Headin' Up North: Part 1

View Larger Map">
View Larger Map

I ended up getting fired on Friday and I couldn't be happier about it. In no way

shape or form is my termination a "good thing". I had benefits and a contract

and all that jazz but nothing that has ever happened to me that ended working

out just fine could be classified as a "good thing" by any rational mind. I'm not

exactly rational all the time but I'm certainly not crazy. The job and television

for that matter is not a good fit for me. So I'm hitting the open road. My natural

reaction to rejection isn't to run away but to go find something better. That is

precisely what I'm doing as soon as I finish writing this in fact.

I didn't think I was going to have to use my nuclear melt down plan this early into

my foray into Hollywood but this is an emergency. While I was working in Canada the

secretary for my supervisor grew up in Vancouver, BC. She was a very sweet girl that

was sincere with her every word. She told great stories about growing up in Vancouver.

I had it in my mind then that if things were to ever get out of control or meltdown I would

head north. Stopping in San Francisco for a few days, followed by camping several

nights in Redwoods National Park and finally making a flat out sprint all the way north

right out of this God forsaken country.

I had always thought I would have to make the run for the northern border under

duress. This is not the situation. I am not bitter about getting fired. There's no reason

to even attempt to explain as to why I was fired because the circumstances are

pointless when compared with the big picture. Also, I would prefer to make up

ridiculous stories as to why I got fired as opposed to trying to explain the truth.

This will be without a doubt an adventure. That is precisely what I need. I am not

the 9-5 type and don't believe I ever will be. I feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing

when I'm wearing a collared shirt and khaki's. I'm more suited with a back pack and

a book under my arm. This feels right to me at the moment. I'm excited to see what

I might discover. I leave so that I can absorb what has taken place. When I arrive I will

process what I have gathered then when I come back I will create with that I now know.

It's a standard process. It's just another day at the office.

Love & Respect,

Mike James

I Lost My Mind at La Brea and Pico

If it's easy, it's honestly just not that much fun. I have always stayed absolutely dedicated to this mentality. If you are constantly trying to accomplish impossible tasks then you end up succeeding at so much that you never set out to succeed at in the first place.

Granted, this does place the burden of constantly battling the impending failure but this is merely a side effect. My Grandpa would say often "If ya never got out of been in the mornin' then hell you'd never fail at anything!" This is a very wise statement and one that I keep in mind as I write this.

Los Angeles is one cold hard bitch. A rock solid jab to the testicles or vagina region await around every corner. It's unforgiving, unapologetic and unjust. A lot like the world that we live in. As ugly as it can be there is something beautiful in this hobo ridden, smog laden, cess pool of floozies and fly boys.

Tonight I lost my mind at La Brea and Pico. It all built up and I went completely flat...literally.

It starts with this job. I'm on a great show with great people. I however have never done anything close to what I am asked to do for my job. I have never kept track of the amount of stuff I've had to keep track of. I've never had to talk to the amount of people that I have had to talk to. I've never had to juggle as many thing at one time as I've been asked to juggle now. Figuritively juggle of course, asking me to actually juggle would be absurd.

It's gone well or so I thought up until last week. I will just say that I have been giving all that Mike James has to offer (which is quite a bit, I have this blog to prove it) and it's not quite enough. My time there is in question and also in question is my next move if it doesn't work out.

I am am someone who infamously always has a back up plan. Today as I was leaving work I had the feeling of a dead man driving. (thought I would update that cliche for a sec) I remembered that I walked out this morning after throwing up repeatedly over the stress of having my paycheck hanging in the balance over what was in my inbox when I got to work. I saw that I had an almost flat tire. There was nothing I could about it at the time because I couldn't be late. I had to drive on it all the way to Culver City. I felt the tire go flat. Completely flat. Somehow though I got to work.

It's been pretty stressful between constantly wondering if I'm going to get caned, getting my bike stolen this weekend by some soulless hood rat, my undefeated fantasy football record, some blonde that doesn't even deserve the right of me caring that she fucked with my head (but she did anyway) and the fact we are in the greatest economic crisis since the Great Depression (thus the worry about losing my job),

So needless to say, I forgot that I drove to work on a flat tire today. I wanted nothing more but to come home, open a beer and finish Monday Night Football. That wasn't going to happen.

I stop at a gas station traveling down Venice. No working air pump. The tire looks bad. Maybe I can just pump it up and it will work? Idiot.

I get as far as La Brea and Pico. The car is no longer drivable and the driver (me) has no business being behind the wheel. I pull up to the side of the gas station and proceed to lose my shit.

Now in print I am admitting that I, Mike James am not invinceable. Los Angeles beat the shit out of me and I had fell into a urine stained wall at a gas station at La Brea and Pico.

Of all the things that I have laughed in the face of that flat tire completely deflated every ounce of strength I had in my body. If this was the Thrilla in Manilla then I was rope-a-doped the fuck out.

I meant what I said about my bike being stolen this weekend. In the same way that I mean everything I say on here. This blog isn't my way of trying to gain attention to myself or win any acclaim for the idiocy I write about. It's an accurate track record of what it's been like. I'm a journalist and I must document my experiences and journeys in an objective, truthful manner.

I about threw the towel in on LA tonight. I didn't though. I rolled up my sleeves. I popped the trunk of my car. I threw all the pointless clutter that was in my car to the ground in a very angry manner and I got out the dough nut tire. I put the car up on the jackand I changed that flat tire.

Nice try LA. I respect your effort but it's going to take much, much more to bring me down. This is with out a doubt a speed bump I'm currently experiencing. I may not be employed a week from now and in that case you can guarantee I'll be rolling with it. I might also still be employed and collecting my weekly pay check. If this is the scenario then you can bet that's what I will be doing.

You see friends, I'm a Road Man. I'm a Road Man for The Lords of Karma. There's not many of us but there was never supposed to be. It's not a burden but it is a commitment. Los Angeles is only but one stop on the tour for me. I'll be needed elsewhere and when that time comes by you know I will be ready to roll. We should all be ready to roll. I'll go first though because it's just not that much fun if it isn't hard to do.

With Love and Respect,

Mike James

Unpublished Kush LA article: Reach Out & Smoke WIth Somebody

The Hollywood Holla is not associated with Kush LA Magazine.

Greetings! The Indianapolis Colts have pulled off another hard fought victory and Peyton Manning has proved once again that he is the most dominant quarterback in the world. After an exhausting weekend, work day and Monday Night Football game I'm forcing myself to muster out a few measly sentences on the bloggidy blog.

Last posting announced I was now writing for Kush LA Magazine. Well sometimes things don't always work out how we intend or imagine them to work out. I will not be writing for Kush LA Magazine and my first article with them will be my last. Apparently if the magazine was a Baskin Robbins my flavor of comedy would not be in their top thirty two. (I can go all day with weed/food references, they don't know what they're missing!)

The work schedule and the film has prevented me from sharing more of my tales of excessive awesomeness but I do have a little something for you. Below is the piece I wrote for them for this month's issue. Unfortunately it was not printed in the magazine but fortunately I run the perfect journalistic outlet for this type of article, this blog.

So I'm past weed writing for now. The marijuana-lit genre is still a wild frontier and I have a "been there, done that" outlook on it for now. Enjoy the piece below because if I can start getting paid for these silly words I might need to find a new subject.

Stay tuned for my weekly musical review.

Reach Out and Smoke With Somebody

By: Mike James

People these days are trying to connect in so many ways. Those unlucky in love go online and leave their hopes at finding that special someone to a website. Millions of people across the world are tweeting about their lunch, their sleeping habits and something about Michael Jackson with the hope someone will find them interesting.

The desire to connect with others is as natural an instinct as it is for dogs to scoot their bums across the carpet after they take a shit. The 21st century has us connecting in some pretty strange ways. Spend a little time online these days or just listen in on an office conversation about reality television and all of a sudden that dog scooting its hind parts across your carpet doesn’t seem so awkward, it now seems practical.

I have always had the belief that I have something to learn from everyone. I have had the privilege of knowing some ridiculously interesting and amazing people. The best part of these memorable connections is that it never would of happened if I didn’t smoke weed.

Marijuana is nature’s great equalizer and because of this it allows you to connect with people you may never connect with quite as easily.

The Passer-By

I find myself in conversation with random people all the time. One of my first visits to LA I was staying in the Santa Monica Days Inn across from the pier. I was girl watching on the pier and generally putting out the vibe when the opposite of what I was trying to do happened; some dude walked up and started talking to me. I’m polite, so I conversed until he asked if I smoked bud. I simply said, “what do you think?” and laughed.

He had a quad of some insane Purple God’s Gift OG. We smoked a couple blunts in my hotel room and laughed loudly about random things until there was an angry knocking at my door. I was staying in a non-smoking room so I had an inclination as to what the knocking was about. My new friend however panicked. I tried to calm him down, telling him I could handle this, it has happened to me many times before but he wouldn’t listen. He ran around the room looking for a place to hide but found none. I was beginning to open the door when I saw him dive under the bed. This room however had no under the bed. The bed sat on a solid oak frame. He knocked himself out cold on his dive attempt right as I opened the door and let a thick plum of smoke out roll into the face of the hotel manager.

He asked a lot of questions but I was way to slow to answer any of them until he saw my friend knocked out on the floor.

“He’s very sleepy” was all I was able to say.

“Get your shit and move to a new room in five minutes or I’m calling the cops” he said as some random, stoned dude with a possible head injury lay on my floor twitching. We’ve been great friends ever since.

The First Date

A legitimate, pre-planned and organized first date may be something others have no problem completing with ease but I am not one of those people. Meeting girls is not a difficult task but transferring over the charm and quick wit that set up the date in the first place over to the one-on-one evaluation is not always easy. There are so many rules, stipulations, guidelines and social mores that go with the “standard” first date that it can seem more like filing a tax return than trying to connect with somebody.

You talk about what you do for a living.

Yea that’s great let’s talk about work during the one point all week I’ve been looking forward to not thinking about work.

Then there’s talk about family.

I’m glad you were raised right but I don’t really care.

Or it’s…

Ok your family is messed up like everyone else and now I’m just depressed.

If you’re like me, you just try not to sound like an idiot.

I’m going to just keep eating dinner rolls and laughing because that seems to be working better than talking about my hatred for U2.

My best and most successful first dates have not included dinner, no movies, no “just hang with me and the girls” none of that. The best first dates have always been when we just got super high and talked about aliens.

Granted, this isn't the easiest maneuver to pull and does require some finesse but it is a practical way to determine if she's a keeper or not.

I believe marijuana is the ultimate aphrodisiac because it gives one the ability to transform a night with a girl where she would normally consider you a cheapskate into an artist. Think about that.

The Foreigner

This goes for either someone from another country in America (but is not needed like the latter) or an American in another country. I wouldn’t say that all Americans fit the stereotype that those abroad believe of us but for the most part we are all Jason Biggs’ character in American Pie to them.

That is until you reach out and break that stereotype.

I studied art for a semester in Italy and it opened my eyes to these types of realizations like never before. Take all the time I spent in museums, old churches and art galleries while I was in Italy and it doesn’t even come close to adding up to what I learned in one night smoking a spliff with our hotel’s night desk manager in front of the Trevi Fountain.

Old People

Never ever turn down the opportunity to smoke with an old person. I’m talking 70+ here, the ones who have honestly seen it all.

I met possibly the most epic man ever to walk the face of the earth up in Canada when I was working there on Parliament Hill a few years ago. He was an aged Nova Scotian and he didn’t even know how old he was. I’m guessing between 72-76 years old but he could of been 53, who knows?

A colleague of mine was living next door to him and one night when we were drinking beer and playing guitar on his porch I saw a shirtless old man, wearing a captain’s cap, dancing in the next yard over to Polka music with a bottle of whisky in one hand and tossing peanuts to a swarm of squirrels around him.

My mind was blown instantly. I put the guitar down and got up to investigate when I was stopped.

“I’ve got to tell ya, that’s The Skipper. You might never be the same after hearin’ what he’s got ta say you know” my friend said hiding a smirk.

I’m often warned and rarely slowed, so I walked over, pulled a joint out of my fro and said “you smoke?” to the crazy old man.

The Skipper jumped a few feet in the air and had me follow him back to his make shift fort in his back yard complete with transistor radio, scavenged VCR that played The Beatles’ movies on repeat and an eclectic selection of dried meats for snacking purposes.

The Skipper told stories of being a street performer in Halifax for years. He sang songs of getting in bar fights in far away places, wild women and of course smoking weed.

I returned to talk and smoke with the Skipper often while I was in Canada because even though he didn’t have a single useful lesson to teach me I learned so much from him.

Next time you are trying to come up with some cheesy pick up line, don't. There's no reason to feel uncomfortable around a bunch of people that are different than you. Why don’t you just smoke a doob, pass it to somebody and save everyone a whole bunch of trouble?

Love & Respect,

Mike James