Hollywood Holla Issue #4

"Love without pain is like food without taste."
-Marquis De Sade
 
*NOTES FROM THE HOLLYWOOD BOTTOM

*DIG TWO HOLES; ONE FOR YOUR HEAD AND ONE FOR YOUR MONEY, IT'S ABOUT TO GET UGLY

*WELCOME TO HOLLYWOOD BABY, THIS IS THE 21ST CENTURY…ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN
 
It was in the Denver International Airport, at the end of January, when I initially realized the harsh realities I would now have no choice but to face. I had long ago passed the point of no return. I remember it like it only happened a moment ago. As usual I had drank extravagantly the night before and had over slept my flight. I awoke on the floor of a room, which was clearly not mine because my associate and I had been kicked out of my 7th floor Holiday Inn Suite in Santa Monica over looking the famous pier the night before for noise complaints and smoking copious amounts of ganja.

The manager of the Holiday Inn was most accommodating. He allowed a total of ten minutes between my allowed departure from my suite and the contacting the authorities. This is a gesture I have yet to forget.

I remember exactly what caused the calamity with excruciating memory. It was a sensitive time. I had recently been removed from Franklin College's January term class, photojournalism in The Amazon and Brazil, for admitting to smoking marijuana on the beach in Bahia.

Two whole days I had in Brazil before I was promptly removed for making a sincere and direct effort to learn, connect and grow from the environment around me. Friends, I write to you tonight with a message. I write to the people that matter to me the most in my life about what it is that I live for. Why is it that I am who I am and do what I do? Why is Mike James, Mike James?

I write to the only people that I care to make it aware that I am alive, regardless of each individual reaction to this e-mail, to know that I am very much alive and thriving.

Yesterday was my 23rd birthday. I am 23 years old now, wow.

I was on my way back to Indiana from LA at the end of January when I was collecting my thoughts in Denver Int'l. I put up a Facebook message that was nothing out of the ordinary. Something that went like…

Mike is…"posted up hollerin at biatches in Denver."

Nothing that would raise concern or attention from anyone that knew me. But it did raise a lot of concern and attention, from myself.

I was very much a different person when I returned from Los Angeles last summer and I was even more of a different person when I returned from being kicked out of Brazil after being there only a couple days. As anyone that has ever known me for more than a few minutes they are aware that I wear my heart and soul on my sleeve. It defines who I am. I can say this with the utmost confidence I have ever stated anything in my life.

This is the GREATEST challenge I have ever faced in my life.

I have been alone before. My years after Val died were all spent alone until I met a few good friends. That set the model for the rest of my life. A few people that made me laugh and feel better about myself. A few people that laughed at the same thing I laughed at. A few people that listened to the same kind of music I listened to. I few people that hung out at the same places I hung out at. I'm now realizing how much I have relied on these people, not just for emotional support but also to be able to function. I'm realizing who Mike is…just as Mike.

My conclusion is he is not as good without his family and friends, never will be. There isn't a shot in hell any of this would have happened if a few people along the way thought I was worth a shit. This isn't mine alone!

I was terrified when I returned to Franklin for spring semester senior year. I felt like a failure. I collapsed into a dark hole of depression and alcohol that was all too familiar to me. Then I emailed Professor Nuwer. I made the initiative to ask him for an internship for the spring semester. He directed me to Indianapolis Monthly Magazine where I worked for the dining section.
I knew I had to do something or the idle time would get me into trouble. So I threw myself into the world of fine dining. The world I discovered was fascinating, everything was new. Trying to convince everyone around me that I had an advanced palate and the experience to back it was a challenge. I've always been an adventurous eater but never ate anything beyond pizza and sandwiches or a variation of the two, on a regular basis.

I felt like a food writer with no taste.

I am constantly exhausted, frustrated, lonely and separated from anything that I could ever consider home. I love every excruciating minute of it.

I have started a new chapter in my life and thus had to make the appropriate steps to ensure that this life, which I have professed I would live vocally so many times in the past, is what I say it is.

My lifestyle has changed dramatically. That was the first adjustment. When I first came out here I had graduation money and the buzz of an incomprehensible dream that was literally just down the street. Then the bills came. Then the parking tickets came. Then my car was broke into. Then I was taken for almost two thousand dollars by a bad investment. Then I was almost fired, twice. Welcome to Hollywood son, this is not a safe place.

My favorite author, as many of you know once said this about the music business:

"The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, a journalist who has influenced my writing and ideals over the years hit the nail on the head. This quote can also be applied to the entertainment industry as a whole.

I am a production assistant for Vin di Bona Productions, helping produce the 19th season of America's Funniest Home Videos premiering on ABC October 4th 2008. I am in daily worry that I will lose my place in line. I am in constant concern if I will be able to make rent the next month. I have trained my body to be able to thrive on a banana or bagel with cream cheese (if I'm lucky) in the morning, a small ham & cheese sandwich with mayo and two-week old macaroni salad for lunch, four 8-ounce Red Bulls through out the day, eight 12-ounce Tecante beers a night, a slice of pepperoni from Raffalo's pizza after I finally find a parking space. I then go directly to my computer where I write until I no longer can do so. Before I collapse, I pop in a DVD or turn on Sportscenter at 4 in the morning. A few hours of sleep then I'm doing the same damn thing the next day.

There are times where I can literally feel my soul draining out of me.

For so long, probably since my sister died, I have surrounded myself with as many people as I could. I have groomed and tailored my ego for everything leading up to this. I've spent my whole life with no real group to associate with, no real clique that claimed me as their own, never a jock, never a punk, never a prep, just Mike. It was incredibly lonely for so long.
Having a place and purpose in this world cannot be underestimated.

I was shaking when the stewardess came through.

"Can I get you something to drink sweetie?" the stewardess said with empathy, seeing my clearly visual anxiety of being on the plane back to Indianapolis.

"Coffee. Black." I said as I closed the seat back in front of me with every bit of anger that flowed through me.

"Are you 21?" the stewardess asked me sensing my anxiety and my thirst for bourbon.

"Yes! I don't want a drink though. I don't need it. I used to drink hard but not anymore I got my head straight." I said as I waved her off.

"But you're so young. Why would you need to?" she exclaimed sympathetically.

"I am wise beyond my years. I am God's own experiment. I am a Road-man for the Lords of Karma."

She looked at me with alarm. Then she pushed her cart on to the next line of seats and continued her almost mechanical recitation of the Northwest Airlines soft-drink-giving speech.

"How will they treat me? How will they look at me? Am I self-absorbed asshole? Am I actually crazy?"

These were all questions that continually ran through my mind as I waited in the Denver International Airport for a chance ride on the waiting list to Indianapolis after missing my flight by three and a half hours.

I had just finished throwing up in the men's room after trying unsuccessfully to get down a sandwich, I purchased with a copy of the daily newspaper just a few feet from my gate. I brushed my teeth with my tiny travel toothbrush, obviously specifically designed for being used when extremely hung over and extremely late for a flight when thousands of miles from home, completely broke.

I had blown every last penny that I had for my "self-discovery expedition" to Brazil. I paid for four nights and five days of the Honeymoon Suite at the Santa Monica Holiday Inn and only stayed a night before being asked to leave. A trend had clearly formed.

My second exodus from an establishment offering a service I had pre-paid for occurring in no less than a month was ill timed.
Walking alone down Santa Monica Pier, a failure, the last thing in the entire world that I wanted was trouble or any kind. Knowledge I had blown my shot at New York and brought shame upon the journalism department for being a leading staff writer as well as a known drug user. I was in shambles.

I reached the end of the pier and posted for sometime. I then heard someone really loud behind me yell:
"Hey you, with the crazy hair, you want to smoke a blunt?"

This is how I met Tex (I'll call him Tex because he is in fact from Texas). I don't know how I attract these people, but I sure as hell do. To give you a quick reference of the type of person that aided my removal from the Santa Monica Holliday Inn in January, I will elaborate on a few key details.

He has had an on-again-off-again relationship with Jerry Rice's daughter, Ja Qui Rice, for some months. From going out a couple times with them I can tell you she is a really cool, chill girl. Tex however is bat-shit crazy. In the last few months my escapades with him have included:

 *Making death threats against 30 Seconds To Mars' junkie manager for stealing thousands of dollars of stereo equipment from his apartment to pay off Jared Leto's debt.
·  
   *Throwing a beer can at Dee Snider because it could lead to the start of his own reality show.

·      *Conning a virgin Indian we met at the bar into giving us 300 dollars cash to take him to Crazy Girls and show him how a real woman looks without a burkha.

·      *Then recently he was fired from the Beverly Wilshire (where he made $400 in tips an afternoon as a door man) for sexual harassment on an unnamed celebrity. It was settled out-of-court.

I guess the whole point here is this guy is the first friend I made in Los Angeles. I was hopeless and desperate to make something of myself, & the life I dreamed of living. He didn't give a shit. He just wanted to high. It was a welcomed relief.
We talked about ridiculous things. Some of the discussion would evolve to be the beginnings of the script I'm currently working on. The hysterical moment that took place in that very smoky suite, paid for with Brazil money, was Tex knocking himself out cold. We were smoking, steady for a while; not giving a care to the world of anything that was taking place beyond my suite over looking the ocean.

Then there was a loud knocking at the door.

I looked through the peephole then turned around and said "It's a guy with a badge. But don't worry I don't think he's a real cop."

My words weren't reassuring to me new-found-friend, Tex. He had a history with the police and was going to avoid a confrontation at all costs. He immediately began to look for a place to hide. He made a desperate move to evade what he thought was absolute doom.

We were going to jail. This was the end. Finally I had pushed it too far and I was going to be locked up. In fact I supported the notion. A maniac like me shouldn't be running the streets.

Tex dove to hide himself under the bed. The only thing is that it's impossible to hide under the bed seeing as hotel beds prevent this with a running board around the frame of the bed.

Tex tried jumping underneath the bed as soon as the General Manager started knocking on room # 703, my suite.
Tex did not know about the bed. He leaped to hide underneath it and knocked himself out completely out cold. I smoothed it over with the manager, graciously thanking him for not showing up with police. He said to be out of the room in ten minutes. He looked over the room and let up a little bit apologizing for yelling at me.

"It's okay sir, I'm used to this. Standard operating procedure."

"Right. By the way, is he ok?"

Tex was laying face down on the floor with his head only slightly hidden by the bed's comforter. He might have been bleeding.

"He's sleepy."

I smiled and closed the door. I packed my bag as fast as I could while kicking Tex in the process trying to wake the crazed man. I went out the back through the kitchen, maintaining my composure.

"Off to a great start Mike" I thought to myself as I jumped on a bus and sat next to a pretty brunette with brown eyes. 
I could go on with other stories but I will save them for another time. Instead I will include a scene I wrote the other night for the script. I'm at 72 pages and the walls of my apartment are covered with Post-It notes and index cards. It's pure magic.
The following is a monologue I wrote the other night. It is the final scene of the first act. It's a flashback to Mason's college days when he has the lust for life that propelled him to the success he is currently experiencing. Mason meets and falls for Kate, a fellow art student, instantly. She is stunningly beautiful. She is the reason that Mason chooses to derail his carefully laid plans when she comes back into his life 10 years after their meeting at the gallery in Los Angeles. This is just a little taste.

Enjoy.
 
Mason walks over to the painting. He stands to the left of it then he walks over and stands at the right of it. Then he walks a couple feet back and squints at it for a minute. He slowly starts to smile as he walks up to the painting.

MASON

This piece right here is life.

KATE

Gotta do better than that.
Kate shakes her head.

MASON

It is. You see life is pointillism. It's one huge picture made up of dots. Every portion of the piece is carefully pre-gridded out before the first brush stroke hits. Each dot of color is an experience in your life, whether it be good or bad is irrelevant because the color of the dot is what matters. At the time it may not make any sense why it's the color that it is but it serves a purpose. Each and every single little dot in the piece has significance. Each dot carries equal importance. Because alone it's just a dot. But together it becomes the entire picture that is your life. Whether the picture is dull or bright is up to the artist. Signac had faith that each one of his tiny dots mattered and he knew that not one of them could be wasted. The end result is a magnificent painting. The end result is life.

KATE
Let's get out of here.
Mason and Kate run out of the gallery hand in hand. 

Your friend till the end, 

Mike James