Sean Young's Bloody Yarn

A few years ago I was waiting to go up at the Hollywood Improv when the host came on stage and announced “we have a special treat, Sean Young is in the audience and she’s going to do stand-up for the first time.”

Sean Young is an actress semi-famous for making an ass out of herself. Most recently at the DGA awards for heckling Julian Schnabel, but also for dressing up in a homemade Catwoman suit and storming the Warner Brothers lot in an attempt to win the role in Batman Returns.

Sean took the stage and lit a cigarette “I really just wanted to come up here so that I could smoke,” she said. The audience laughed. With one simple line and a dash of D-list celebrity magic, she had won them over.

Then Sean went on to talk about how when she gave birth to her first child she was really into mother earth, so she kept the placenta and buried it in her back yard. Needless to say, this anecdote did not go over so well. As much as the audience liked her for killing them with second hand smoke, they didn’t want to know the intimate details of her hippie childbirth.

Unfortunately, it only got worse, as Sean described how her dog dug up the placenta and ate it, at which point the audience collectively threw up in its mouth.

At this point one would have hoped that Sean would graciously exit with a “thank you for enduring my bloody yarn, and good night,” but she didn’t. The room was tense in the way that only a celebrity publicly humiliating herself can make it, and the red light in the back of the room that is used to tell comedians that their time is up was flashing like crazy. But Sean is not a comedian, so she didn’t understand the light system and barreled on.

Digging herself deeper into a whole, she recounted the birth of her second child and how once again she kept the placenta and buried it in the back yard, and once again her dog dug it up and ate it.

Then, in a moment of ultimate mercy, the host of the show approached the stage and lured Sean Young off with a glass of wine; at which point I turned to my friend Jason and said “that’s funny, that’s exactly how we get my grandfather to take a shower after he’s pissed himself.”

I can’t say I did any better that night then Sean. She pretty much killed the room. But at least I kept my dignity and left my placenta where it belongs, in the freezer next to the icy pops.

The Seven Wonders of a Hollywood Studio Apartment

There’s a studio apartment for rent in my historic Hollywood apartment building. If you’re dying to live in the heart of Hollywood, where dreams are killed and midwestern tourists walk by stores selling bongs and stripper shoes, this is the place for you.

Here are seven things you should know before you sign the lease.

1. The Price

$925 a month buys you your very own studio apartment in the middle of movieland complete with a homeless guy for a doorman. Can’t afford $925? Get a roommate or, if you’re Mexican, a wife and three kids. In Los Angeles a studio apartment can house two besties from Peoria or an entire family from Guadalajara!

2. The Address

Tell your friends back home in Illinois that you live in Hollywood and they will think it is so glamorous. Tell your friends in Echo Park and they’ll tell you to move east.

3. The Neighbors

Whenever you’re feeling down on yourself, take a quick trip over to the Grumman’s Chinese Theater where grown men who couldn’t make it as background extras get dressed up like Spider Man and Jack Sparrow to hustle tourists out of $5 for a photo. There’s nothing like observing someone else’s pathetic life to make you feel better about not booking that SAG experimental from Backstage West.

4. The Parking

There is none. Nor is there pubic transportation. And don’t even think about walking more than two or three blocks unless you want to be mistaken for a homeless person or a tranny. You’re screwed with a car or without one. Get used to never leaving your apartment or get a second job just to pay your parking tickets.

5. The Odor

There’s nothing better than coming home after a long day of PA work to an apartment that smells like someone else’s dinner. Well, except maybe inviting your date up for some post-car-make out, pre-sex “tea” only to find that your apartment smells like a fish market in Chinatown. To combat, keep a stash of incense and take your revenge by making loud gratuitous noises during sex.

6. The Sounds

If there isn’t a mariachi band playing in the restaurant downstairs, there’s a ghetto bird in the sky or your loud obese neighbor yelling at his girlfriend. Invest in some earplugs or a prescription for Ambien.

7. The Other Odor

Since the shower is 30 feet from the kitchen, and the kitchen shares a vent with the apartment below, you can look forward to smelling your neighbors breakfast while you try to wash off last night’s sexual encounter with Jack Sparrow. This means that when your neighbor decides to cook broccoli at 10am, so will your shower and you will never really feel clean. Welcome to Hollywood!

Peer Pressure Does Not Wane in Adulthood

I always assumed the peer pressure to have the coolest toys on the block was a phenomenon confined to the ages between 4 and 16.

But I'm finding now more than ever that not having a next generation gaming console is excluding me from real-life social events. Quite often I'll hear two of my friends recounting a Halo game they had last night, or how they can't believe they beat those German teenagers 5 to 2 in Super Smash Brothers Melee. Not only can I not participate in their digital games... I don't even know what the fuck they're talking about.

And I don't make a lot of money, so buying one of these fancy "fun machines" isn't really an option for me. Plus I feel like I shouldn't have to miss out on in-person social interaction because my gaming system doesn't output to an HD TV. But the negative effects of my last-gen gaming situation are really starting to build up.

Last week a friend of mine lugged all of his Rock Band instruments over to my apartment and we had a very awkward moment when I told him I don't have an XBox 360. It honestly kind of ruined the night. His tone with me implied he was not only disappointed in the situation, but disappointed in me as a person. I am a GROWN ADULT and not having wireless controllers has stopped people from coming over to my place to hang out.

I want to say this is happening because I have nerdy friends, but the sad part is that deep down I honestly feel uncool. I've never really gotten into playing video games, but to be honest with you I've seriously been considering buying a PS3 with my $600 Government Rebate check.

No, no, you know what? Forget those guys. I'm going to play Crash Bandicoot on PS1, masturbate, and fall asleep in a puddle of my own tears.

I Hate Baby Boomers

I think that's because they are the prototype for the contemporary hipster. But there's more to it than that.

You can spot them a mile off. Just as people with Down Syndrome all look alike, so, too, do Boomers – middle age bellies, sour fashion and wrinkles so deep you can wedge several half dollars in them.

I became aware of how annoying Boomers are when Dennis Hopper started appearing in commercials urging retirees to park their cash at Ameriprise Financial. This from the ambassador of a generation that still considers itself brilliant because they flirt with Marxism and think Al Gore is a fucking genius. Far out, Mr. Easy Rider.

I can't wait until Vincent Gallo starts appearing in commercials for tax shelters.

But Boomers are an unhinged lot; they are dangerous because they still consider themselves cool, relevant – or worse – both. This 40+ years after telling dad to fuck off as they brooded on the living room couch reading Ginsburg.

Their heads are a mess. Cognitively, they're at that place where senility and too much acid converge. This greatly hampers their ability to contribute to society in meaningful ways (so do the hot flashes). A Boomer's attempt at creativity proves that they are to be avoided, as evidenced Isabella Rossellini's "Green Porno."

Despair not: there is a solution to the problem. Of Timothy Leary's famous dictum, "Turn on, tune in, drop out," Boomers ought to heed the latter. Hopefully they'll listen.

Hollywood After-hours

Impractical advice on what to do for fun in L.A. after last call…

One-thirty is a sad time for the party animals located in the beauteous L.A. area. It’s last call, and as a woman you can chance a good old fashioned gang bang at an after party or look for something a little more interesting to do. Too bad almost none of the typical late-night plans I end up getting into go along with anything considered regular late night activities because the proverbial game of chance I play is unparalleled.

After a night of extraordinary amounts of alcohol consumption myself, my sister and our other female friend decided to stop at Benito’s Tacos on Highland and Santa Monica before heading to, whichever useless after party we’d decided to attend. Besides being the location for Benito’s this corner is also the local hangout for really disgusting prostitutes.

One of these lovelies pranced in front of my car strutting her stuff. Before my very eyes shone the most striking thing I had ever seen, this black beauty was 300 pounds and wearing cut off shorts that had been fashioned in a way that wedged between her ass cheeks like a thong. I was amazed, I was delighted and I definitely needed a picture. In my daze I realized that I needed to capture this Hallmark moment on film so that I could brag about it FOREVER. Too bad Angela Asscheeks was not having any of it and the second she saw a camera she stormed towards my car like a rhino.

For reasons that were unclear, she had a never-ending supply of bottles, which she angrily hurled towards my car. Awesomely, she managed to get three bottles through the sunroof of my car while my sister drove in circles around the parking lot while we screamed and laughed at her. In the midst of the chaos, I happened to get a half-assed photo of her makeshift assless chaps; my sister ended up with a concussion and my friend in the backseat doesn’t remember it ever happening. I guess if you’re ever in the mood for a little late night mischief, go ahead and hassle your local hookers, cause what the hell else is there to do?

The Title

Pretty much everyone who has a job tries to make it sound better than it really is by taking liberties with their title.

Here are some typical title enhancements:

-- Postal Worker – “Federal Official”

-- Receptionist – “Office Manager”

-- Secretary – “Personal Assistant”

-- Gas pumper – “Petrol Exporter”

It’s much worse in Hollywood. No longer need one’s title have anything whatsoever to do with one’s actual vocation. A good example of this is the waitress who claims to be an actress, a singer and a dancer. But somehow our server enumerating her various little talents strikes us as kind of cute, charming, and reassuringly pathetic. It’s less benign when egos are on the line and deception is involved.

You’re at a party yukking it up with a twenty-something who’s wearing a blazer over a T-shirt with elaborate designs, and it’s pretty tricky to figure out whether he’s a producer or a local sceney douche bag. He says he’s a producer. What he doesn’t say is that he’s actually a bartender at the Dresden who intends on one day possibly being a producer, should the stars align just right. You proceed to waste the next couple weeks sending him your script or head shot, or whatever, until you bump into him on a Wednesday night and he introduces you to the only power brokers he knows – Marty and Elaine, who both perform nightly.

This is less annoying than the fact that Angelenos think projecting success is a necessary first step to becoming successful. They don’t take many steps to become successful past the initial projection.

Here’s how conversations would go if we were half-way honest with each other:

Guy: So, what do you do?

Other Guy: I burn copies of reels all day, sometimes pick up lunch, and get reamed by anyone in the office having a bad day. What about you?

Guy: I post internet videos that are kind of funny.

Unfortunately, this is how it actually goes:

Guy: So, what do you do?

Other Guy: I’m a post-production supervisor and media consultant. You?

Guy: I’m a producer.

Near-Death in Venice

That's Venice Beach, California, for our international readers.

As I pulled out of my parking spot on a residential street in Venice and began picking up speed, a woman came out of nowhere and side-checked my vehicle with her purse. I was convinced I must have committed involuntary manslaughter and I felt it was important to make sure the woman was alive, so I stopped abruptly. That’s when this leather-jacketed, 40yr old, entirely unattractive broad hopped into my car and told me to, “Move it!”

I stayed put.

Now that could’ve been because I was in shock, but it’s also possible that I’m naturally calm and rational under duress.

Suddenly, a broad-shouldered beefcake appeared running towards us at TOP SPEED from around the corner. “GO! GO bitch!” she screamed at me but I didn’t move. Again, that could’ve been because I was frozen senseless with fear and horror but it’s also possible I was unaccommodating because the cunt-whore beside me was calling me names.

Her boyfriend quickly climbed atop my vehicle and once he got into a spread-eagle position demanded me to, “GET THAT SLUT OUT OF YOUR CAR.” But just as quickly he folded, took a slight crawl towards the passenger side and pressed his mouth against my windshield. He kissed it and in a sweeter appeal said, “Baby they’re going to kill me if I don’t give them that money.” This didn’t work either so climbed off my hood, screamed primally, ripped his shirt from his body, then tore his shirt into smaller shreds WITH HIS TEETH.

This was the moment when I finally pressed the gas.

In some sort of divine providence there were two female cops who’d pulled over a teenage driver around the corner, so I gave them my statement and ole Leather-Jacket finally got out of my car.

There is a moral to the story and that is: Always Lock Your Car Doors. That way when a wayward girlfriend tries to climb into your vehicle, she can’t get in. No need to get caught in the middle when domestic disturbance takes to the streets.

Baracksploitation

Barack Obama could be the next Ronald Reagan.

With his 18- to-49 demographic appeal, chiseled good looks, and roster of Hollywood supporters, it's a no-brainer that Barack Obama could pull a "reverse Schwarzenegger" and go into acting if this whole politics thing doesn't work out. Unbeknownst to many, he already has a few offers on the table.

Barack in the USSR: A political thriller set in the early '80s at the height of the Cold War, starring Obama as a US spy on a mission to pants Leonid Brezhnev in Red Square, symbolically revealing to the world the instability and anatomical inadequateness of Communism.

Roebama vs. Wade: A hard-hitting courtroom drama in which Obama plays a lawyer who defends a woman's right to choose because he's simultaneously sleeping with the female defense attorney, who's now pregnant and needs an abortion, stat!

Obama Baby Mama: A romantic comedy in which Obama plays a lifelong bachelor whose life is turned upside down when a woman claiming to carry his love child shows up on his doorstep. They go through wacky hijinks involving Lamaze classes, female hormone imbalances, and delivering the baby on a cherry picker. When the woman eventually reveals that Obama's not really the father, he rebuffs her, but his heart is won over when she shows up one night outside his window, the bastard child in her arms holding a tiny iPod boombox over its soft skull, playing George Michael's "Father Figure".

Barackatoa: A disaster film in which Obama and his family vacation on a volcanic Indonesian island. When the volcano threatens to erupt with an intensity that would cause a new ice age, Obama gathers a ragtag team of scientists, mechanics, and petty criminals to venture inside the mountain and blow it up. Tearjerker moment: Obama says goodbye to his wife using Oreos and a downtempo rendition of the theme song to The Jeffersons.

O'Nama: A searing war epic that finds Obama as a battle-hardened Marine on the front lines of the Viet Nam conflict trying to balance his desire to withdraw the troops from an unwinnable war with his duty to kick as much ass as humanly possible. For the most part, the ass-kicking wins.

Turok Obama: A sci-fi epic blockbuster in which Obama goes back in time to stop dinosaurs from evolving into Republicans.

Oh! Bomb! Aahh!: An action adventure in which Obama is a S.W.A.T. team member who must defuse a bomb on a bus wired to explode if it goes over 50 miles per hour or stops completely. Luckily, it's a gas-electric hybrid that combines great gas mileage with the mediocre performance required to maintain a low speed. To be shot simultaneously with Oh! Bomb! Aahh! 2: Bomb Appétit.