Hollywood's Decision Makers

Slightly older than Miley Cyrus, probably a fan of her music – that’s who decides whether your movie gets made.

So I’m at this event for new film school graduates where, on the eve of their commencement, they get to pitch films to Important Studios and Hollywood Agencies, hoping against all odds to sell an idea. These are eager, ambitious people, bursting with fervor to gain traction on the movie they just spent two years and $90,000 writing, their voices trembling with energy, skin radiating the message, “Please…”

These people have been led to believe that this is a room filled with decision-makers, power players, a launchpad for dreams, gateway to the business they dreamt they would join, and rightfully so. They are good writers. The program well-regarded, the faculty top-notch.

But imagine the surprise of the 28-year-old artistic type who sat down in front of two Agency Representatives about midway through the session, ready to pitch his dark drama about a psychic teenager, only to find himself utterly ignored. Across the table from him were two of Hollywood’s front line of true decision makers - drunk 21-year-old D-girls. And this pair were having one of those important insider conversations that precluded the writer from getting a word in edgewise – which of the agents in the room they were going to try to fuck later.

When one girl finally decided to listen to the poor guy, she began to yawn, openly, unabashedly, twirling her hair while the dude pitched his heart out. Yes, these are the people who forge the output of Hollywood – drunk sorority survivors who know only too well the real currency in Los Angeles: Pussy.

Could this business suck any more?

Crazed Employee Attacks Workplace with Water Weapons

A fun alternative to that classic chestnut, the office-wide killing spree.

So that sweet bitch Summer is on her way, and you’re stuck pulling pea-dick at the same soul-murdering joe-job, quietly orchestrating a workplace massacre with the precision of an alienated MIT student? Painting up the office in brain is a tempting fantasy, and your boss’s chest cavity could use a few more decorative bullet holes, but before you go all Columbiney on little ol’ Lawrence from accounting, consider a more fun-in-the-sun oriented outburst. On Taco Tuesday, hang on to that internalized anger, but instead of M-16s and hand grenades, why not rampage through the office with an array of squirt guns and water balloons? One of three outcomes will occur:

Fired

Citing your conduct as unprofessional, your superiors will likely terminate your employment. But imagine the look on your coworker’s face when you storm into the office all trenchcoated out, muggin’ a Danzig glare that says “I am the Angel of Death, come to reap…” Your manager’s life will flash before his fat eyes, and he might even piss himself, up to the point when you matter of factly produce a yellow and purple Super Soaker. Sure you’ll be out of a job, but at least you’ll get a cool Digg headline: “Crazed Employee Attacks Workplace with Water Weapons.”

Crazy Leave

If your job is progressive enough like Google (i.e. “fun” colored walls and a company Smoothie bar), you may find yourself on the hooked up end of a sweet, paid-ass vacation. Use your new found loony-flow to settle up a righteous custom Xbox, all under décor Aztec mural style (Master Chief cradling a Tenochtitlan virgin upon a stormy mountain top). When you return, everyone will treat you with more respect, nervous to upset you into maybe using real weapons.

Water Fight

The best of all scenarios, you might be surprised to find that other employees share your anti-repressive beliefs, and the drench attack turns into an office wide water fight. This surprise jolt of liberation will in turn get everyone’s freak flag flying original Woodstock high, and escalate the crew into a classic job-orgy. Once things mellow down, and the last of the naked human resource department cease to snap and twang the flesh ditty, some Js will get floated around the make shift sex camp, your bellies and thighs fat with pleasure, like shiny rich hogs. You’ll all grow closer as a company, and productivity will shoot up 30 percent. Plus no one is dead!

Drug Laws Apparently Do Not Exist at Reggae Shows

Feeling "irie" in public is apparently OK as long as you're accompanied by a group of Jamaicans.

I had the honor of seeing reggae legends Toots and the Maytals play at The Roxy recently. Now, I've been to plenty of outdoor reggae concerts, so I know the score. I'm hip. I'm down. I know what happens when a bunch of reggae fans are outside and looking to have a good time: A certain narcotic tends to get consumed. It's expected and that's alright with me.

But this show was at The Roxy, which is an indoor rock club that holds about 300 hundred people. You might think not even the most brazen of blazers would dare roll up a woolie in a public place the size of your parents' living room. But low and behold, the green fog was so thick that I got a contact high from the inordinate amount of marijuanas being smoked in there.

This was especially confusing because for being such a tiny club, the Roxy was crawling with security; a brigade of 350 pound dudes with chips on their shoulders and balls for brains. They weren't really the kind of guys whose authority you challenge. Plus you can't even smoke cigarettes indoors in LA, so its not like you can pretend the smoke coming out of your face isn't a controlled substance.

But there we were. Dancing, drinking, and inhaling the sweet aroma of the devil's herb like we were in a college dorm room on April 20th at 4:20pm. At first, everyone was making eye contact with everyone else, almost to ask, "which one of us is a nark?" But it turned out it was none of us, and we all spent the evening like I imagine this country spent the 60's. We were high, the band was high, The Roxy sold an unbelievable amount of cheese pretzels.

So I guess as far as the law in concerned, reggae concerts are like international waters where no court can convict you of a crime. Next time I'm at a reggae show I'm going to try something really illegal just to see what happens... like starting a cockfight.

Battle of the Illegals

There’s more than one group of lawbreakers menacing LA.

Back in 2002, the city of Los Angeles banned any new billboards from going up. Like the laws against public urination or gang murder, the law has been largely ignored. According to LA Weekly, since the ban, over 4000 illegal billboards have gone up in Los Angeles.

On the other hand, with the current rate of growth, the LA area is set to be home to 1.3 million Illegal Immigrants by 2010. Mathematically, I think that works out to no Mexicans actually in Mexico.

Two groups of lawbreakers. One LA. Which one is doing the most damage to our fair city? Well, here’s the breakdown on how each group helps, or harms Los Angeles.

A pretty one may marry me for citizenship?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Probably not, but maybe

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Make me sad by reminding me that I flunked Spanish in high school?

Immigrants: Yes

Billboards: Yes. Many billboards are in Spanish.

Winner: Tie

Place for ugly graffiti?

Billboards: Yes

Immigrants: No

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Might team up with a friend to remind me when Indiana Jones comes out?

Billboards: Yes.

Immigrants: Even if they did, I don’t speak their illegal immigrant language.

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Take the job of one of my friends or another hardworking American?

Immigrants: Possibly

Billboards: Possibly. I have a friend who is a sign holder.

Winner: Tie

Cook me a delicious meal at one of LA’s fine restaurants.

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes.

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Hold a rally that holds up traffic?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Make me wait longer at an overcrowded emergency room?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Move leaves from one part of the yard to another part of the yard using a device that blows air?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Yard owners

Make the Home Depot parking lot look like a crowed, popular, happening place?

Immigrants: Yes

Billboards: No

Winner: Illegal Immigrants

Make a Republican upset

Billboards: doubt it.

Immigrants: Yes.

Winner: Illegal Immigrants

Results:

Immigrants:8 points.

Billboards: 4 points.

Yard Owners: 1 point.

It looks like illegal billboards are harming our city far more than the illegal immigrants. It’s time to round them up and send them back to where they came from.

Your Testicles Make Me Feel So Much Better

Seeking solace in a dancing beefcake's leather crotch...

Conventional wisdom says that, if you’re feeling unattractive and alone, go to a gay bar for an upbeat atmosphere, good music and the potential to feel wanted again in the advances of a doughy Filipino in a sleeveless fishnet shirt.

This is total bullshit. If you’re straight, no matter how many up-and-downs you get from a dude in tight Wranglers, it just ain’t helping your ego.

So I wasn’t looking for affirmation when I walked into The Abbey in West Hollywood last week, a gay institution set in a former place of worship. What I found, however, was something even more gratifying: a weird and genuine appreciation for Los Angeles.

Because here is a place so demonstratively, outwardly gay that it could only lie at the throbbing heart of this city, and it put to shame the other gay bars I’ve been patronized in my youth. These have sometimes been gaudy places, trying too hard, or terribly underwhelming. I’ve been to gay bars in England, where the most homoerotic gesture you can make is to loan someone your scarf, and been less than impressed.

But my first image on stepping into The Abbey was thus: A heavily-muscled Latin man wearing only a headband, wristbands and underwear that wouldn’t fit my 8-year-old nephew, hanging upside down from a rafter over the bar. And then he did a split.

Later, taking a seat, I found my view of a mostly-nude, dancing Asian man in six-inch platform boots obscured by a bodybuilder in a cowboy hat who stood directly in front of me and waved his junk – vacuum packed into a pair of Spiderman Underoos – just inches from my face… right before someone stuck their hand in there, rooted around a few seconds, and deposited a dollar.

I don’t often like L.A. It’s big, it’s dirty, it lacks a certain character. But I will say this – it isn’t afraid to put its bulging, sweaty testicles directly in your face and let you know who it is. And that makes me feel better.

Hillary Clinton Might be a Redneck

...Or not.

For much of the past year, despite the bickering between the two major Democratic candidates for president, there's been little to differentiate the two -- aside from the fact that one of them has a penis and the other one is black. Zing! But I digress. Now, thanks to the backlash from Obama's "clinging to guns and religion" comment, Hillary has stumbled upon a goldmine of voters: the poor and the stupid.

It's a noble enough gesture -- after all, I've heard they're people too -- but by giving speeches from the beds of pickup trucks and throwing back brewskies in hillbilly dive bars, she's implying that somehow she's one of them. Apparently, you might be a redneck if you got your undergrad from Wellesley and went to Yale Law School, married a Rhodes Scholar, and wrote two New York Times #1 best-sellers.

Bill, with his "Aw shucks" Southern charm, could pull it off versus Bush Sr., but Hillary, for all her effort, has the down-hominess of a cucumber sandwich. Still, judging by her nearly 3-to-1 margin of victory in the Toothless Belt of West Virginia and Kentucky -- where race trumps sex every time -- her shtick seems to be working.

She needs to take care, though. Having lived in southwestern Virginia in a town where the first day of deer season was a legit day off from school, I know the type of electorate that Hillary is courting, and she may want to think twice before she continues down this path. Otherwise, if she's elected, she'll be deluged by lobbyists from the gun rack and banjo industries. Her leading corporate donors will be Skoal, Slim Jim, and Wild Turkey, and we'll have the Ku Klux Klan marching band performing Hank Williams, Jr. covers at her inaugural ball.

Sure, it's all cute and folksy right now, but you give these people an inch, and they'll take a mile. If only there was a way to segregate them in some sort of "separate but equal" framework...

Truth is, every politician is an elitist. Even Dubya went to Yale and owned the Texas Rangers. If we really wanted a man of the people, Jesse Ventura would be president, with Randy "Machoman" Savage as the Secretary of Whoopass.

How Long Until Miley Cyrus Goes Batshit Crazy?

At 15, Cyrus may be “going through some changes.” Will those changes include a complete mental break? Or is that further down the road?

Here’s a trivia question. What is Hannah Montana’s real name? If you said Miley Cyrus, you’re wrong. Her birth name is “Destiny Hope Cyrus.” Let’s just say her parents had some expectations of her.

Cyrus is up against a lot when it comes to sanity. Her dad is the famous hick who wrote Achy-Breaky Heart. She herself is a child star loved by “tweens” around the world. And to those who aren’t already familiar, Destiny Hope Cyrus goes by Miley Cyrus, who plays Miley Stewart on tv who plays Hannah Montana on stage within that TV show. I believe the correct diagnosis here is identity crisis.

Even before the infamous Vanity Fair photographs, certain pictures had surfaced that were, uh, suggestive. Let’s face it, our Miley is growing up. She’s the age where she no longer wants to be that cute little hick, she wants to be smoking hot. Disney must be shitting themselves.

The fact is, Miley Cyrus could be an even bigger star if she successfully makes the transition from Disney “tween” star to sex kitten pop idol. Of course, she’ll have to remain innocent for another two and a half years. And it’s the success of that transition that makes so many young starlets lose their proverbial marbles.

Britney Spears, like Cyrus, has eccentric redneck parents, and an early career with Disney. She was 17 when her controversial photo appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone. It was another five years before that her insanity peeked it’s head when she got married to Jason Alexander, and eight years before it achieved full maturity when she shaved her head during a break from rehab.

It would appear that Cyrus is running two years behind Spears, on track to go totally out of her tree by 2016, at the age of 23. If Disney tries too hard to keep Miley’s sexuality under wraps, she could rebel and go mad as a hatter in a couple of years. Her only hope is to go the Hillary Duff route: stay innocent and virginal, and therefore pass-up Madonna-size success. Of course, the jury’s still out on Duff- she’s only 20.

My prediction is that Cyrus will go Mad as a Hatter somewhere in between her 21st and 22nd birthdays. I welcome all other predictions.

Libation Logic: A Guide for the Ladies

Before you get drunk know what you’re getting into…

I’ve been drunk plenty of times. In fact, some people might think that my giant tits are the proverbial camel’s humps that house mountains of liquor and allow me to drink day and night with ease, but they’d be wrong. Drinking like a girl isn’t a bad thing if you have any idea what you’re doing...

Beer – If the situation is unfamiliar and you want to loosen up a bit stick with beer. Luckily, all the beers in the world won’t make anyone better looking or more desirable. The added bonus is that it will take you longer to get drunk so you can call your friends to pick you up when the creep at the bar stops taking a hint.

Gin – You’ll start the night out as a princess but end up acting like the sad, sorry sack of shit you hate the second you start drinking gin. Your clothes will probably come off, but whoever is dealing with you will have to validate your every perceived physical imperfection.

Vodka – Vodka drinkers are a sordid sort and probably drink it all day long at work just to make it through the day. That water bottle people see you carrying is VODKA. You can drink steadily all night long and wake up in time for work. You also sleep with an ice pick hidden in places no one could begin to imagine so anyone that tries to mess with you will be sorry.

Tequila – aka Mexican Demon Juice. Introduce this into the mix when you don’t care what the outcome is, as long as you accept the fact that you’ll end up naked. The problem is where you’ll be naked is a veritable mystery, but the surprise over whom you’ll wake up next to is something you come to accept overtime.

Whiskey – Ever want to know what it’d be like to be Cobra Commander with nice tits? Anytime you start throwing back shots of whiskey like you’re John Wayne you risk finding it out. You will go home with the first idiot that dares you and then hate fuck him in a way that was previously considered impossible.

Jagermeister – Serious Jager drinkers are champions beyond human comprehension. You can drink any man under the table and easily turn men into boys that run out of the bar while puking into their own hands. If you’re not a drinking champion, chances are that you’ll morph from a sultry nymph into a fountain that vomits crude oil.

Celebrity Retardation

Stardom is the lead poisoning in the water fountain of show business.

Having lived in LA for five years now, I've had my share of opportunities to peek "behind the curtain," which has taught me the Golden Rule of Show Biz: success is inversely proportional to one's ability to function as a human being. No, I'm not talking about writers or grips; I mean people with discernible talent. I mean actors and singers. I mean "stars".

They always talk about stars having a certain "it" factor, and "it," as it turns out, is complete and utter social retardation. Stars can't function in the real world. They can't hold a 9 to 5 office job for two days without defecating on someone's keyboard or snorting the Sweet 'n Low packets in the break room. They lack the basic ability to communicate, manage time or recollect even the smallest promise.

They don't know simple rules of everyday living, like, "Don't put aluminum foil in the microwave" and "Don't bathe with your TiVo." That's why they all need personal assistants. They HAVE to be in show business because otherwise, they'd die violently with a household appliance.

And the more famous stars get, the more retarded they get. They become so used to asking people to do stuff for them that they forget how to do the few things they actually know (mostly hygiene-related).

If you want to blow a star's mind, introduce them to the possibility that someone might not be dying to help them. After all, why wouldn't you want to help a major f-ing star?

I'll tell you why: because you can forget about asking for anything in return. They'll either forget what you asked for, or they won't even comprehend it in the first place, only pretending to do so with a dismissive nod and a "Sure, no problem, man."

I would call them idiot savants, but at least savants can remember to leave two tickets at will call.

I'd like "Non-producer," please.

A call for a new trend in LA dining.

Choosing between "smoking" and "non-smoking" when dining is a practice we no longer deal with here in LA since smoking is now banned in all public gathering places. And you know what? I fully support that. I think its one of the more progressive, health-minded decisions our state has made in the last 20 years.

And in the spirit of being socially progressive, I'm publicly petitioning the city of Los Angeles to provide two new restaurant sections to take the place of "smoking" and "non." I think it's critical for the dining establishments in the greater Los Angeles area to provide "producer" and "non-producer" sections for their patrons.

Since I moved to this city, I don't think I've had a single meal out that didn't involve trying to talk over the loud, cocky, empty ramblings of a producer in an adjacent booth. Whether they're having a business meal or just blowing off some steam after work with a few El Nino Margaritas, their constant biz speak is much more disruptive than a few hipsters puffing on a cigarette while they eat their pancakes.

So I, and the rest of the LA dining community, would greatly appreciate the option of these two new sections: Choosing the designated "non-producer" section would allow you the luxury of eating your meal in peace without being subjected to unwanted glad-handing, Hollywood lingo, empty promises, and hearing the word "project" more than twice per minute. Choosing the "producer" section means you'll hear your fair share of douchey double-speak, however you do have the right to approach any producer eating their meal and, without warning or tact, pitch your "awesome idea" for a new reality show.

Its not just a move towards a more peaceful dining experience, its a move towards social justice. You know what they say: if you can't beat 'em, segregate them into the back corner of a restaurant.

Say Uncle

One of the best ways to get a foot in the door in Hollywood, I’ve heard, is to have family connections. So I decided to get in contact with my connected family.

Martin Wiley is a half-way successful producer, and he’s also my uncle. Now, I’ve never actually met him, I’ve only ever met George Wiley, his brother, my other uncle. He’s a very friendly man, and the last time I talked to him – about 4 years ago – he took me out to lunch at Canters. We enjoyed our matzoh and discussed his younger brother’s ascent from film student to producer of such great films as Under Seige II and Chill Factor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to Martin – for that matter neither could George’s son. This man has been AWOL from his own family for the better part of a decade or so.

When I moved down here I figured who better to induct me into the halls of Hollywood righteousness than the producer of Mutator (aka Time of the Beast)? I arranged to meet up with him a few times, but whenever the day came he’d be calling me up with weak-ass excuses involving a meeting or a car repair.

I was forced to pull out the big guns. I talked to my aunt, the ex-wife of his older brother, who in turn got in touch with his mother in an attempt to lean on him to cut this bullshit out. I received a cryptic third-hand message that supposedly originated from him, then passed through his mother which was then told to his brother’s ex-wife and emailed to me, the content of which consisted of him urging me to persevere. My exegesis of this proverb entailed my leaving him increasingly terse voicemails, until one day I could no longer persevere. That was about two years ago.

So Martin, if you’re reading this, let me just say I’m highly anticipating the release of The Heaven Project, and I’m a huge Paul Walker fan.

Leave me your new phone number in the comments section.

MAGTA IV

So, you're ok with me picking up a hooker and beating her senseless in the back of my stolen car…as long as I haven’t had a few cocktails first?

Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) want the Entertainment Software Ratings Board (ESRB) to reclassify Grand Theft Auto IV (GTA IV) from a Mature (M) game to an Adults Only (AO) game. Not surprisingly (NS), this is because of drinking and driving, which these mothers are against. Also not surprisingly, I think MADD should STFU.

GTA IV doesn’t make the player drive drunk during the game. In fact it is discouraged. But if you really want to, you can. And having that option is what’s made MADD so, um, angry.

MADD even asked Rockstar games to consider not distributing the game they spent 100 million dollars developing “if not out of responsibility to society then out of respect for the millions of victims/survivors of drunk driving.”

So out of the millions of victims/ survivors of drunk driving, how many of them were killed or injured because of people drinking… in a video game? I suspect the number is about the same as the number of winning NASCAR drivers killed by blue turtle shells.

And if drinking and driving is a good reason to pull the game, what about everything else in the GTA IV? The game is named after a violent felony. It is essentially a crime simulator. Is MADD against drunk driving, but ok with killing cops with an AK-47?

Besides, for a game that features a lot of driving, doing it drunk is annoying as hell.

If I wanted to cruise around a virtual city with sluggish controls and blurry vision, I’d just play the game after a few Zimas.

Driving like crap in a game isn’t going to make kids walk away with the idea that drunk driving is awesome. If anything, it might teach people that being drunk makes it difficult and dangerous to drive. Mothers should be more worried the aspects of the game that are awesome. For example, lately I’ve had the urge to steal a helicopter.

In a country where drunk driving kills something like 13,000 people every year in real life, maybe MADD can work on that first, before getting their panties in a twist about the make-believe stuff.