An Ode From the Hollywood Bottom

I am supposed to feel ashamed for enjoying grit and grime. I shouldn’t enjoy the dirt that collects beneath my fingernails. The roaches that craw along my plates, my cups and my Triscuits don’t mind the clutter. There is no judgment in their inhabitance and they promptly leave when they know they aren’t wanted, unlike other inhabitants of my domicile that knock.

I will pick up the empty beer cans and the loose leafs of paper. Cigarettes stained purple on the butt from cheap wine get thrown away too. Empty bags of chips left from laughing and happy people. They ingest, they receive pleasure and once sated they leave.

I enjoy the stains on the bathroom wall. The stains are proof of life. Physical evidence of existence is comforting and exciting at the same time because plain walls can kill souls.

I don’t mind it when I wake up and my throat feels like an exhaust pipe on the 405 in August and I take a swill out of a beer I used for an ashtray the night before. I like falling asleep to the sirens of the police and the contradicting sounds of drunk drivers racing down the street searching for parking like savages.

Stacks of periodicals, old newspapers, and clippings from National Geographic that moved me to cut out excerpts with no destination scatter my small studio. I spend a lot of time worrying what a girl will think of my place before bringing her over. I don’t spend a lot of time cleaning it up for her.

Dirty clothes have a tendency to pile up. It’s not because I’m lazy. I’m actually quite ambitious. I just loathe tedious tasks. I prefer the laundry to escalate to an intimidating task. I want a pile of clothes that will make you sweat on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I want to make my way down three floors with the pile blinding my vision and making me stumble down the steps spraining my ankle. There might be a cute blonde at the bottom of those steps to heal my ankle.

Now who is the lazy one?

I do not possess any short-term memory. It has been completely eroded over the years. In no way is it a handicap however nothing is unless you make it one. To compensate I make many notes. Note cards that represent a small stock of my brain. Each gets a small piece of scotch tape and is then attached to my walls. This is so I can see what’s going on inside my head. The default operating system that has ran my brain for 23 years is unfortunately plagued with SPAM and spyware. Expelling all ideas onto note card to visually take in is a way around junk that clogs my head. I’m a child of the 21st century and that’s how we were programmed to receive information instantly & visually, with a few Target ads inbetween.

I rarely read a book cover to cover. I have a hopelessly short attention span and am constantly switching interests. I can barely stand TV and only having power over commercial breaks entice me enough to invest my time in it. The same is with my reading. I’m an obsessive consumer of information. Half-read books, torn pages adorned with strange drawings I added in a drunken excited stupor and pieces of yellow tablet paper with slices of my worthless analysis on life scatter every inch of my apartment.

Old hard-boiled eggs make opening my fridge like taking a solid pop to the nose, but a little cayenne pepper makes them easier to get down. Bologna and hot dogs are fixed seven different ways and each recipe more desperate and sad than the last. Eggo waffles are no longer just waffles but an agreeable replacement for bread and an excuse to add syrup to a bologna and Eggo sandwich.

If solitude wasn’t exciting enough then get ready to meet the neighbors. Years of heartache, lost dreams and mental anguish flow with more tenacity than any raging body of water when the right set of ears is found. Souls infested with disdain are more presently crawling around than the bugs in my kitchen. They are a pity. I wish I could reward them with as quick a death as the roaches I battle with in my kitchen. Unfortunately people aren’t always as lucky as the bugs we walk over.

On cold nights I turn the oven to 500, open it up and close the windows. I read in the kitchen next to the open oven, over an out of place lamp with cheap wine. I sling an old quilt made by my grandmother over me because I’m naked, trying not to create more laundry for myself.

Many would call my lifestyle irresponsible. They would ask why with such a brain I wouldn’t use my journalism degree. How could I not be able to just fetch some coffees for a few years then be granted a golden ticket to stardom? All you have to do is serve your sentence of indentured servitude to the Hollywood Gods until they deem you worthy of their presence. And then and only then!...Would you receive desired respect.

Like reality television and people who have some kind of philanthropic endeavor they are involved in; it bores me to tears. Pursuing a career is like waiting for an over-sized check to arrive at your door with pretty ladies and balloons.

I’ll move out of my flea-bitten, roach infested and narcotic drenched apartment building the end of May. Like everything in life, chapters come to a close and a time comes to start something new. It will be difficult to leave The Manor however, like The Eagles song goes “You can check out but you never really leave.”

My building is alive. Not just with insects but with stories of people with similar paths and dreams as mine. I like that. I like knowing others have appreciated the same roaches and the same stink in the air. I like the walls and the stories they will never be able to tell.

One day when there are no humans and only the Walls rule the earth they will tell of one farm boy that moved to Hollywood. He was clueless but ballsy. He was a Road Man for The Lords of Karma and they appreciated him. He was respectful and he has honest. The Lords of Karma don’t care about hygiene they care about character.

Which is the complete opposite of Hollywood.

With Love & Respect,

Your friend till the end,

MIKE JAMES