Hey Ladies!

First off, I must apologize to all my readers. It has been many a day since my last post. Several reasons, but really the most important being lack of inspiration and fear of not being entertaining. Lame, I know. Well I'm not sure if this restart will blow it out of the box (operative word for later... uh couldn't think of the grammatical term... foreshadowing?), but I'm gonna give it my all. First, a parental advisory: This post is unabashedly honest. So if you are some friend of mine's mom who stumbled upon the blog via facebook or something, be warned...

A secret from the road: Listen up girls and don't be surprised if your boyfriend/husband comes home with his Prius lifted 6 feet off the ground after reading this.

Pervy, I know, but just speaking the truth. Ladies, when sitting in traffic around L.A. do you ever get the feeling you being watched? I know, of course it's frickin L.A. But you think, "that giant white truck next to me is blocking any voyuer's view." Well on those warm summer days when your trendy skirt has shifted up a bit too high someone is looking down on you. Yep.

We are always checking you out and you know this.

I once had stopped for lunch with PT Cruiser (see ... and run post) at Tere's Mexican grill. A fine establishment I must say. PT had just introduced me to two other set dressers. These two hopped into their 5 ton parked right in front of Tere's. As they pulled away from the curb I could tell their turn was to tight and the tail of their truck was aimed to collide with 4 newspaper dispensers. I lept from my chair as if to warn them, but bam, bam, bam, bam. They made contact with all 4, then drove away. The dispensers all had a nice lean to them now and their truck had but one scratch added to the many before. Later PT saw one of these guys and asked what was the deal with the careless driving. The reply was simple, "we were checking out a chick across the street." Now if you drive by Tere's and you feel like picking up an L.A.

Express (more foreshadowing), there are none there. The dispensers have been removed.

We love you ladies, and all your parts. At any age, we don't care, you are always on our mind.

My wife and I were recently enjoying a calm afternoon in the park with our Great Swiss Mountain (more Rottweiler than anything, but for insurance reasons she is a Swissy) dog, Beatrice. She, Beatrice, had acquired a new friend, Asher. Asher is a high-energy, super cute 4 year old boy. After running Bea to exhaustion, he sat petting her. Inquisitive, as I would assume most 4 year olds are, he lifted her tail, twisted his neck to get a better look and then asked "is that her bagina (4 year old pronunciation)?" I searched my cat sized brain for an appropriate answer... nothing. He asked again, "Is that her bagina?". His 9 year old sister stood close by with a blank look. He asked again, and I can understand his lack of certainty. My dog has what I like to refer to as a furry bean. My wife hates this term. Finally Asher's mom, sitting close by said "yes, but those are her privates, that's enough Asher". Then innocently he stated what most men (and a few women) would like to say on a beautiful Saturday in the park, "I like baginas."

See Asher, this guy in west LA loves bagina and isn't afraid to tell everyone.

It's not all Porsches and Plastic Faces

Los Angeles has a lot to offer. Pulling off the freeway in Burbank last week I came to the bottom of the exit ramp and who was hiding behind a fluffy, dark green shrub? Not a homeless person pooping, but a California Highway Patrol orificer. He looked up at me "you don't have your seatbelt on, pull over". Damnit! Filling the quota I guess. When he approached the cab of my truck to issue my citation, I asked him if he ever hummed the theme to "CHiPS" as he barreled down the freeway or if he ever called his partner Ponch. I was given but a smirk. My rider/co-worker thought we would certainly be carted off to the pokey.
I was in line behind Erik Estrada at LAX not to long ago. He was a jovial guy and the all of the curbside baggage guys seemed to know him well. South of the border he is considered a stud, I think.
After cursing my way over the hill into Hollywood we were driving west on Beverly Blvd. This area is heavily populated by Hasidic Jews. It is common place to see the men of this religion walking La Brea and Beverly Blvds with their tall hats, long side burns(and I mean to their shoulders long), and all black suits. Over the years I' ve also noticed they all seem to drive unwashed American made 4 door sedans usually missing a hubcap or two. The wives drive dented mini vans and the kids walk or ride simple inexpensive bikes. But all live in houses I'd never be able to afford( The Big Man does work in mysterious ways). One thing that is not common place is to see these men in the same tall hats and suits but instead of the drab black, but today we saw a man covered in tiger print. Another looked kinda like a pimp, with purple fedora matching his suit with leopard print lapels. On this day we saw a boy waiting to cross the street wearing his yarmulka, but clothed in an odd camoflage; normal camo colors but with a little red thrown in. Hmm, were the Germans color blind?
As we drove by the boy something down a side street caught my eye. "hey did you see that? There was a huge camel down that street!" My co-worker replied "What?!?!, you're screwing with me". "No dude, I swear!".

My boss took these pics cuz my camera was on the fritz. Obviously the camel wrangler is not Jewish, or maybe she is and she is just celebrating her inner cowboy.

So the Jews were celebrating a holiday called Purim. Some of the cool girls at this furniture store we were picking up from informed us of this holiday, then one of my bosses who is Jewish filled us in on the rest. Back in the day there was an old school Hitler type guy named Haman who wanted to rid the world of the Jewish people. They were saved by Esther and now they ride camels with stuffed monkeys tied to them to celebrate their freedom ...Holla! or do they say Challah!... hey, I'm just white gentile( is that redundant?) from Florida.

Totally random... kinda

I'm not working right now, so this isn't a story from the road or set, just saving you a little time in case you have a better way to spend it. This story does relate to living somewhere other than bfe.
After a nice breakfast with the wife and a walk with the pooch, I decided to uphold my commitment to myself, surfing everyday no matter how crappy the waves are. I procrastinated, sifting thru maps and guidebooks, by planning our upcoming assault on the Kiwis.
Finally, I loaded up my gear and gently pedaled off on my trusty, but rusty Murray cruiser.
The tide was high and the waves a weak 1 to 2 ft. at best. Headed north I watched a sweeper shimmy and shake on a mushy right at 8th st. I kept going, hoping for a bit more size at Porto. A decent one came thru at 30th, but I stopped at 34th for some reason. One guy was stretching, about to paddle out. The sand bar had potential as the tide dropped. I called a few peeps to see if they were in the area, so I could share a couple waves with friends. But it would be a solo sesh for me.
Riding a new 5'9"(small for a clown like me at 6' tall and 180lbs.) my wife and I won in a magazine contest, I was skeptical. I locked the bike, suited up, and jogged down to the shore. The guy who had been stretching was up and progressing down the line at a pretty good clip. His green and yellow board looked like the middle of a longboard, fat. By 'middle' I mean it looked like the shaper cut the nose and tail off a longboard and came up with something that worked. This guy was catching every dribbler that came thru. A friend of his paddled out, an intermediate surfer, and they chatted. I waver between intermediate and experienced...or so I thought.
The new Surf Rx board I was riding was working out, I was getting some decent ones and throwing some ok turns. A pod of about eight dolphins approached us from the south. They came within approximately ten feet from us. Slowly trudging northward they breached as if to say "hey". One of the last slick gray mammals to pass thrashed its tail about before finally submerging.
Over my shoulder I heard a greeting aimed at the guy on the green and yellow board. I turned away from the horizon to see nineties surf star and big wave charger Brad Gerlach. WTF was he doing out in 2ft. junk, in Manhattan Beach? My carefree session was now filled with angst.
I could give a rat's ass if I was face to face with any movie star, but a pro surfer or a rock star, I hate to admit: starstruck.
Some of you may recall the time I met Mike Ness, famed singer of one of the best punk bands ever, Social Distortion. I was in New York, at Barney's, shopping for shoes as was he(I ignored the fact he was at Barney's). "Hey, are you Mike Ness?" I mumbled. "Yeah" he replied. "Right on" I said. Then I stood there, sweating, staring at him. Somehow the silence was broken, some menial words were exchanged and he walked off saying " enjoy your friend's wedding". Man I suck.
So there I was sitting 15ft from a Hall of Fame surfer, totally mind screwing myself out of good waves. He caught one and simply destroyed it. I caught a closeout and almost ran him over. Man I suck. I gathered myself and managed to catch a couple decent ones, doing a floater here, throwing a little spray there. I know he was watching me surf... uh no.
I wanted to talk to him, some kind of connection would certainly improve my surfing or make me cooler or validate the notion I was NOT a kook, right?
I knew my wife had directed him in something... " this is totally random but I think my wife directed you in a promo or p.s.a. or something like twelve years ago" I blurted out of nowhere. "What's your wife's name?" Brad asked. "Eileen" I said. "Yeah, I remember her, she was super cool and funny, and really helped me relax, I hadn't had much experience doing stuff like that. Tell her 'Hi'" he said. I mentioned what she was up to now as far as work went, asked why the hell he was in L.A. (implying "why are you surfing gutless slop, when you've surfed some of the biggest waves on the planet?") and then, I think Bradley and I were best friends... uh no.
I ended up talking to the guy on the green and yellow board too, Davey I think his name was. We discussed the equipment we were riding, and he yelled out to Brad "you used to ride Surf Rx boards, right?" Brad answered back " yeah, Doc is cool and very creative".
Davey soon after hooted me into a decent 3 footer. I was right in the right spot, a bit tired, I hopped up with my leash caught between my toes on my front foot. I did a wheelie bottom turn (not cool, in case the non-surfer readers are still reading), totally flailing, I tried to recover, but shot the board toward the lip and fell. Brad saw the whole thing. Man I suck.
It got windy and eventually we all went in.

Gerr is pictured below on a wave measured at 68ft, which enabled him to win Billabong's XXL contest
I am pictured below on a wave measured at 3ft, which enabled me to achieve nothing really, except maybe the thrill of surfing... which is tremendous actually.

... and run

The sun was barely breaking through a light drizzle in the Culver City afternoon today. I was standing on the liftgate of the truck(see below), I looked across the intersection of Adams and Fairfax to see a women exiting her newer white Mercedes sedan. It was apparent she had been rear-ended. I didn't hear the contact and didn't pay it much mind. It's L.A., it happens every 5.3 seconds somewhere in the city.
A few moments later I glanced up to see her calmly turning the corner, pulling over to exchange info and insurance with the other driver. The other driver, a diminutive Latino man(* if I generalize and call him Mexican or give him a stereotypical name like Pedro or Raul, my wife will hit the imaginary un PC buzzer she derived years back. More explaining the buzzer at another time) had other ideas, like getting the hell out of there. He , gripping the wheel at 10 and 2, drove his gold '88 BMW 325, with the bumper askew and the grill dangling, like Our Lady of Guadalupe was appearing south in Inglewood. His passenger, also of Latin descent(Juan), had a look as though they were running from the INS. The two buddies were long gone by the time the lanky lady exited her car, realizing she had been duped. She kicked and punched the air. Her car really didn't have any damage as far as I could tell, and I felt kinda bad for the two in the gettaway car for some reason... although my memory was just jarred. A similar thing happen to me several years ago, except I chased the guilty party until they pulled over.
Anyway, that's what I saw today, a rainy day in L.A.



Addressing Questions and Confusion:

1. What is a FIVE TON?

It is usually a white box truck( overall length approx. 32ft long) with: air brakes, a hydrolic lift gate(with tilting action), jockey boxes(seperate compartments on the outside of the truck, below the box. Somehow my wife does not give me the buzzer when refering to these strorage areas, hmm...), and a granny attic(area of the box over the cab). These trucks come with various size cabs, some hold a driver and a rider, some can hold a driver and up to 5 riders. The larger cabs are sometimes refered to as 'union cabs'. They run on diesel fuel. Inside the box there are slats to tie furniture to. It is basically an oversized, fancy moving truck. Oh, and it's gross weight is somewhere near 5 tons, I think. If it does have airbrakes, then you are required to have a commercial drivers license. See, isn't Hollywood glamorous?
Below are a few pics.


Rider(or P T Crusier as he fondly refered to) is standing in the back of a packed 5 TON. We had 23 pick ups the day before. By the way, Rider is one of finest and most hustling(is this poor English?) set dressers in the commercial world today. The other pics are the author, driving a lawn mower into an empty 5 TON. A famous pop singer later drove this same mower. I guess I butts touched indirectly, hmm...

Until next time, when we discuss where the homeless use the restroom...

Graffiti

One of the cool things about my job and living Los Angeles is checking out graffiti and urban art. Some may think this marks a bad neighborhood, the ghetto if you will. Others like myself, believe graffiti adds flavor to an otherwise bland landscape of concrete and metal.
L.A. is home to many street artists, Shepard Fairey being probably the most famous at the moment. He designed the Obama "HOPE" and "PROGRESS" posters and slathered them all over town. His infatuation with the old wrestler, Andre the Giant, launched the "OBEY" following. Fairey was arrested in Boston this week on vandalism charges. Kinda cool these guys get arrested for making art, I'd say.
Another popular street artist who has a couple pieces up in L.A. is BANKSY. Early man seen with a fast food dinner is on Beverly Blvd. just west of La Brea and one of his rats is on Melrose just west of Mansfield. Check out his web site for some new work in New Orleans. http://www.banksy.co.uk/

One thing I'm sure of, there is some sort of argument about whether or not 'tagging' is art. I think it is trash. Tagging is illegible writing scribbled on walls or freeway overpasses (some can be seen in these graffiti photos I have posted).But what kind of street cred do I hold??? I do work with a guy who does hold a little cred. His name is Seth, but he goes by Meex. Sidenote: people in L.A. have unique names, or regular names but they are spelled all weird or you may be asked to pronounce them differently. I don't know what the deal is with that.
I do get to meet quite a few artists, rockers, and actors, etc. on different paths as I work. Below is one of Meex's works in Venice Beach.

Anyway, once working on a TV show we were dressing a building somewhere in East LA. The driver of our five ton got out to stretch his legs and found someone had tagged his truck while he was snoozing away.
Look around your city and see what is out there.

WE BEGIN

No, this isn't going to be about wine barrels, drinking wine, or leaves. I will take you on a ride in and around Los Angeles. The things we see, the things we hear, and in some instances...the things we smell. From Trannys to Elvis impersonators to beautiful sunrises. L.A. is bizarre, but most never notice. The cab of a truck reveals many different perspectives. I may retell some stories, like when a cute asian girl flashed us her breasts and then tried to grab my junk, all at 2 in the afternoon on a busy street corner...well we never did resolve the debate as to her/his gender. You'll hear new stories about lame actors, directors, and clients who think they are god, crushing the Hollywood mystique. Resturant, movie, and music reviews will be included as well. All this and much more from the driver seat of a FIVE TON.