Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Fuck Westwood!

You know there is this unwritten rule here on the Westside and it's called "stay in your own city". Now I know this rule well, which is one of the main reasons I rarely go to the valley (well that and the fact that I owe people money). But let me tell you about yesterday.

So I'm in Westwood, trying to book the Crest theater for this screening. The Crest is money because it's an old historic theater with a huge mural painted on the inside that is really cool to look at when you are really fuckin' high.

Ok so it's rainy like biblical proportions and of course everyone in LA is afraid that they are either going to melt or float away so they drive at about .5 MPH. But whatever, I have to meet these people and do this deal.

So I really didn't want to park on Westwood, you know because when you live in West LA, you like to keep a low profile...in case you happen to see an ex-girlfriend or your landlord (I swear I just mailed the check..) So I bust a right and park on a side street. Now keep in mind that I am late so I put my quarters in the meter and I run off because I really don't want to get wet. Not because I am a pussy but because as I see it, one of the reasons it costs so much to live here is that you are paying on a daily for the sunshine. So when it rains I think we should all get refund checks in the mail...but that's just me.

So I waiting for my publicist so we can do this thing. Now before you start raggin' on "oh you have a publicist...how broke are you really" let me explain. This is LA. Trying to have a premiere without a publicist is like trying to shoot a porno without an erection. I need to play ball and get the asses in the seats...and we are running out of time.

So we go to the theater and they won't even let us in. I guess you need a $1000 check and some exec's cum on your chin to book this place, but who the fuck am I? So now we are discussing locations and other possibilities and we decide to take a little drive. Now I know that my meter is about to run out...but I am in denial. I am a filmmaker, I am a producer...I can stretch it.

Ok it is now 5 o'clock. I am an hour past the time but I am counting on the fact that it is raining and people in LA are lazy. So I turn the corner and what do I see? I see my fuckin' Z on the back of a flatbed about to be towed. Now for all of you that are not car people, getting your classic towed is only slightly less upsetting than finding out you just got your girlfriend pregnant.

So now I am running across the street...well walkin' actually. Because this is still LA, and I still have to act like I don't care to get anyone to take me seriously. So as I flag the guy down, he seems surprised. So now I am all ready to shuck & jive and get my car off this fuckin' truck. Now realize that I am a big black guy. 6ft, I'm like 210lbs and I lift so my arms are kind of...hmm what's the word.. oh yeah ...freakish. And it is really tough to beg and grovel when you look like you could strangle someone...but I am trying anyway.

So I do my "I’m just a poor filmmaker" routine and he is really not buyin' it. He says "aw dude.. if you would have been here maybe 10 min's ago"....like that makes a fuckin' difference now. So I just cut to the chase... "how much dog... I need my fuckin' whip back"...I mean losing your ride in LA is only slightly worse than losing your celli. I mean your are out of the game big time. Most of us will think that your are dead...or worse you gave up and moved to the Midwest.

So he says I have to pay the towing fee since they already have my VIN number. So now you know it's a fuckin' racket. Now if I was back in Philly... I'd jack this motherfucker for his truck and be done with it. But I have to play by the rules now ever since my probation hearing (and I didn't shoot him...I shot at him..they act like I was trying to kill the guy).

$145 and I still have to pay the $70 parking ticket. I'm so fuckin' swole it ain't even funny (swole = swollen = salty = upset). But that's ok...I'm gonna come back here and bang the shit out of a few UCLA chicks just to even the score...you motherfuckers will rue the day!

ok.. so now I want to smoke a blunt. And I still ain't got a fuckin' theater to show my film. So I decided to go home and play a little PSP to forget how I am now working for the city of Los Angeles (Villagarosa.. this is how you do me...I know where you live dog)



Ok so.. Now it's like 3 hours later...we have to go see this guy Dave Portal play a set tonight at Avalon. My publicist...whom I will just refer to as Yoda (no really Sun..she does Jedi mind shit all the time) well she wants this guy to open up the screening.

Now I will admit I am a bit skeptical. I mean I am an audiophile but I tend to like hard shit (system of a Down, Queens of the Stoneage, beats)and profanity; but I figure I will humor her. So we are in the Spider lounge at Avalon...and if you have never been there here is a piece of advice. Don't get too fucked up because they have these huge crazy cocoon lookin' lights that will make you feel like you are watching an episode of Puff 'n Stuff (no seriously I was trippin'). So I'm up in this spot.. like hella conspicuous because apparently black guys don't drink beer and speak in complete sentences....ok..that was a joke.. the staff at Avalon is totally money...but I am still like the only dreaded motherfucker in here...so the crowd doesn't know if I am going to bust a rhyme or rob the joint... and I'm pissed that I can't get a Guinness.

So I think I see publicist Yoda..waving at me from across the room...and I storm over there like I know what I am doing.. only it's not her... it's not even a chick. Damn I need new glasses. Ok so I am trying to play it cool even though this guy is sure I am trying to fuck him...because I can't just walk away - motherfucker this is LA.. you gotta act like you are running shit every minute or the jig is up. So I think to myself.....I am a big time producer. I need to get on my cell phone and have a loud conversation or something..."you tell Spike we are gonna make this fuckin' movie with or without him...yeah well I have a six-pack of attorneys...and insurance"... that kind of shit can work.. but you have to be really funny when you have the pretend conversation or else you are just annoying.

Ok.. so here I am...halfway through my second Stella, and Yoda is not here. I should mingle... but I'm not exactly an Abercrombie & Fitch model.. so I know these chicks ain't gonna dig me. And what is with the cute little hats...LA chicks are fuckin' comedy. Ok so, I am starting to feel the first Stella (Jamie was right..these bitches do pack a kick). Ok so Dave starts his set...and first let me tell you what he looks like. Dude he's eastcoast all the way. He's got the knit cap..and the baggies.. and he says "yo" a lot (which is strictly an eastcoast/hip-hop thing)...it's a total G-Love/ Danny Hoch vibe...if only I could burn one in here...

So he plugs in and I am blown the fuck away by this cat. He's playin' harmonics, his shit is mad soulful and he's got the kind of lyrics that you'll be reciting when during your next break up (not that I think you should plan a break-up speech/come back to a break-up speech)...but if you were to do that... this guy is the man to reference.

Ok.. so he fuckin' kills it, no I mean kills it like white guys do to their pregnant wives (don't get mad it's just comedy...jesus). So Yoda shows up with her mate (friend for all you that don't know any Brit's). It's so fuckin' cool to drink with a Brit'....it's like you can start throwing chairs and shooting people in the chest but no one says anything because every US person is a sucker for a British Accent.

So I meet Dave and he's like mad cool. And he is all about it. His EP hasn't even dropped yet. He's the coolest thing since water based lubricants. I can't believe he wants to play the screening...this shit is coming together

Now...who do I know that can make it all come together....well it's down to my franchise players...time to get the attorneys involved...'cause they run this town.

Cooprdog

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