Phantom of the Pirate Opera

   There's a great line from an old John Wayne movie called 'The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.'  A Newspaper Editor, after hearing the truth of who killed Liberty Valance,  tells Jimmy Stewart's character:  "This is the West, mister. When the legend becomes fact; print the legend."

   Thus, the truth is thrown away; preserving the legend of the gunfight between Liberty Valance and Ransome Stoddard. 

     Out here in the West, Capt. Jack Sparrow is the "legend". The "fact" happens to be me. And as you can see--I plan to print the legend.

The 'FACT' of me is... I hate to take pictures. I busted my bottom lip, when I was a pup, and also smashed the top lip. I still have a scar and it gives me a crooked smile. To correct this, I have to press down on my bottom lip when taking pics.  Having to sadly fill Johnny's shoes as a pirate is more than a challenge and many times gives me fits of anxiety. Try meeting up with seventy-five screaming grade-school kids who ask, "Are you the real guy?"

     Of what do I reply? I usually say. "He's the actor, I'm the pirate, savvy?"

     One thing about doing Jack Sparrow is that I've become addicted to wearing eye-shadow, Guys, eye-shadow is a cool aphrodesiac to women.....

     (To be continued) 

3:14 PM - 5 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

My First Valentine. (Glinda Rostadt.)

    Once upon a Valentine's Day eve, while in third grade, my  Mum took me to a department store to buy Valentine's Day cards. She was annoyed when I bought FOUR bags of cards. "Why do you need four when all you need is one?", She asked.  Well, it took four bags just to find ONE unique card for this little blonde girl who had captured my heart in class.  To me, she deserved more than just any card, she needed THE CARD. And to find that card, well, it took more than one bag to find it.  Of course, I didn't tell that to my mother.
This girl, with her sun-dappled smile and a sprinkle of freckles, was my first Valentine. Her name was Glinda.  And, in third grade--to the fourth grade-- I was her hero. Yep, she would cheer for me during my most greatest, heroic moments on the playground at baseball, dodgeball, foursquare, poetry rectital. (Hey, I memorized the Walrus and the Carpenter poem in 4th grade and had to recite it by memory to the whole class.) 
     I still remember her jumping up and down shouting my name, telling the other kids how I was the best.  So, she got the best Valentine's Day cards ever, from me. And her cards, ended up under my pillow, of course.
    Then, one day,  much to my chagrin, "HE" came along. Every grade school class has to have that one 'Jimmy Dean' of the lot who gets his coolness before the rest of us even knows that coolness is something more than the exuding frost from a popsicle stick.
And this Jimmy Dean was named Matt Walsh. *(As in Matt Dylon Walsh, how's that for coolness?) Yeah, the guy was so cool He would drive his brother's car while the rest of us were pedaling bikes. And, of course, of all the girls in my class....he set his fancy on my little blonde.

    What ensued could best be described as a battle of pre-adolescent charm for the heart of one little girl.  Unfortunately for me, Matt was winning the battle. I therefore had to draw my final ace up the sleeve to thwart him; my ability to make Glinda LAUGH.  Routines were drawn up, rehearsed and served relentlessly to an unsuspecting fourth grade class whenever Matt started his overtures to her.  And, yes, Glinda laughed, Matt kept quiet and....my teacher, Miss Paskell,  got angry.  I had suddenly become a disruptive force in the class and many times had my desk placed in the corner, or next to the teacher herself.  Almost every day I was kept after class with Miss Paskell standing above me, saying: "Dear gussey, child, what ails you?"

   The duel between Matt and I was the talk of the school. Glinda was finally asked to just say who she liked best, Matt or Jim?, and put an end to it. The answer, she said, was coming soon.  And then one day...

Miss Paskell  said: "Class, may I have your attention, Glinda has something she would like to tell us all." Glinda walked up to the teacher, faced the class and said: My Daddy is in the airforce and we're moving to Alaska. Today is my last day here... .... I'll be back in three years...

I remember the walk home after school. I felt a sense of loss that was beyond overwhelming. When I got home  I climbed up to the roof of my house and prayed, prayed, and prayed to God to perform some sort of miracle to allow Glinda to stay. The next day, in class, her empty desk confirmed that this was beyond God's assistance.

    She was gone. And something inside me went with her. I stopped caring about hitting  homeruns and reciting  long poems. And, of course, along with Glinda went my disruptive class behaviour. (No longer necessary)  Miss Paskell was pleasantly surprised when I suddenly became her well-behaved, little angel. She also was perplexed at my sudden drop in grades and  unwillingness to learn or apply myself in class. My parents had no idea was what wrong with me. Miss Paskell tagged me with a learning disability and FLUNKED me with a total repeat of the fourth grade.

    Many years later, nearing the end of high school,  I met Matt Dylon in a grocery store parking lot as we were coming and going in our respected muscle cars. We shook hands, smiled, and both said, "Man, she never came back."

     For this Valentine's Day, I sat in my room, with an Absolut Mandarin, on the rocks, in hand and pondered as to what this particular day in February means to me. And for all the lying, cheating, scandalous girls who cued up in the following decades... I can only relate this day to a time when love, or the thought of it, was simple and pure and measured in those forgotten little cards with hearts and names.

3:43 PM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

My Broken Right Foot.

   I was raised on an acre of wooded land in a small house that was meant to be a duplex for two couples. I shared my room with two of my brothers, they got the bunk I got the single. Every morning my Dad would walk into the kitchen to make coffee while my Mom made him breakfast. I would hear my Dad complain about the bills and he would always say: "We'll be sent to the poorhouse!"  The thought of this bothered me. 

    My elementary school was across our backyard on the other side of the block. I liked school because I liked girls and the only way to have been around them was to be in school.  There were no girls who lived on my street, or the adjacent neighborhoods, which meant the last day of school, before summer vacation, was the saddest day of the year for me. I would actually sit down and pout after coming home from the last day.  I knew the coming three months of June, July and August were going to be lonely.

     This is where that one acre of backyard became my best friend. With the help of my imagination it became a stage where I could escape the loneliness of summer. It became the western plains where I could transform my bike into a horse and lead a cavalry charge to a distant fort. It became the forest of medieval Europe where I would challenge the blades of  entire heathen armies. And one day, under the crushing heat of Texas sun, it became Nazi-occupied France.

   I hammered wings and machine guns sticks to the branches of an old tree in the backyard and transformed it into my B-29 fighter plane that was to take me over enemy lines so that I could parachute down into Paris and rescue the beautiful daughter of a Parisian Resistance fighter.  With a scarf around my neck and some goofy drill-goggles I climbed the tree into my imaginary cockpit and flew over war-torn Europe.  

      There in between the tree branches  which I shook to simulate the  impact of German anti-aircraft flak while shouting commands to my rear-gunner. "We've  been hit! We've been hit!"  is when the wood underneath me gave way.  Down I went...in a nasty pop that came from my converse tennis-shoes. A bone from the instep of my right foot popped up. I pressed down on it and wrapped rope around it several times and hobbled all the way back to my room.

      As I sat in my room I could only think of how much it would cost my family to take me to the hospital for xrays. I thought of my Dad saying: "We'll be sent to the poorhouse!"  The image of our family residing in a poor house literally scared the shite out of me. I  therefore decided not to say a word to no one about my foot.   I took aspirin and spent the next few months sitting at a desk trying to learn how to draw and write because I  could barely walk.  My Mom was impressed by my 'new-found' dedication to drawing and so brought me coloured markers and tablets. My Dad bought me my first set of Kohi-noor ink pens. So I spent all summer drawing Godzilla comic books and creating my own characters. And my foot healed incorrectly, and I never told my parents of the incident.

     After all these years... I still find myself sitting at a desk, afront a typewriter, or computer, writing and drawing to my imaginative urges and purges. And, yes, my foot still cramps up now-and-then  with the most god-awful feeling  that seems to magnify with age. (At night I have to wrap my foot in a winter scarf so it will not cramp up in cold temperatures.)  I guess this is Destiny's way of reminding me to keep working on my creative energies so that one day, perhaps, I will be ready for pitch and presentation,  after all, an Artist, as the quote said, is nothing until they share their work with the world.  

    And so, for nothing, as nothing, I write, draw, write, and grimace in pain, and write some more in the hopes that one day ...I can get out of the poor house.

9:15 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Once upon a night in Hollywood...

It was Halloween night, many years ago. There was somewhat of a moon in the sky casting an element of magic and mischief on Hollywood Blvd for the annual Halloween walk-around parade. (What parade? It's just a bunch of people walking around getting silly-string'd, and the only marching bands to be seen were small packs of fork-hair'd,  safety-pinned punk-rockers trolling the streets looking for kicks.) I was depressed, wanted no part of it, just wanted to sit in a bar and nurse a few beers. Fuck it all. That's when she crossed my path. She was a hot German girl on vacation from Berlin. Her name was Zabrina. She asked me directions and where she could hang out for the parade. I answered all her questions in a very polite charming manner that she just had to inquire if it was possible that I hang out with her as a chaperone. Sure. Why not? Someone had to keep her safe from those silly-string maniacs.    So, there we were, strolling about. I kept guard over her as she went around videotaping the local yokels. (Tourist thing.) The clock was nearing twelve. This is when the L.A.P.D.., bless their souls, crank up the testosterone, grab their riot gear and march off to Hollywood Blvd in a style reminescent of a few scenes in one of those old Planet Of The Apes movies. (Allright, whatever, boys.) Zabrina starts to panic when she sees a gauntlet of cops  in riot gear and transparent body shields marching west toward us while a helicopter trumpeted  a warning to disperse and go home! ( Talk about bringing a bulldozer to do a shovels work.)  Some punker with a triceratops  hairstyle had to go and throw a bottle eastward. Then came the sound of BOOTS STOMPING the ground as the police started to move west in half-run mode. Then came the teargas. Screams and cries as families and revellers started to panic. More bottles sailed east--a tear gas cannister replied the bottles. (The perfect prescription for good ol' fashioned pandemonium.)  Zabrina panicked, grabbed my arm  and gave me that classic 'Deer in the headlights' expression and cried "What do we do? What do we do?" Me, hell I didn't care. I cupped my hands on Zabrina's face and turned her toward me "This is what we're gonna do."

I kissed her. Just planted a hardboiled kiss as she wrapped her arms around me and lip-locked me in return with that typical fearless, stoic, German efficiency that made these girls a legend in the second World War. We just stood there kissing in the midst of fleeing, trampling, screaming people.( I could've swore I saw, at this time, what looked like Eddie Munster tear-assing around a corner.)  "Garb my hand, toots. Follow me." I told her as we broke into a run and headed for Las Palmas Ave. There, amidst hundreds of confused people,  Zabrina and I ran smack dab into one yellow cab. "Melrose!" I shouted to the equally confused driver as we leaped in. Zabrina literally had her arms AND LEGS wrapped around me in fear as she stared out at all the madness. Me, I just smiled to myself.

    We watched the unfolding drama from Hollywood on  television once we got to my apartment. After hundreds of hot German kisses I cabbed her back to the old Holiday Inn on Hollywood and Highland. (Now the Renaissance Hotel.) There were more kisses and an exchange of mailing addresses. She was leaving with her tour group at 6.a.m. and heading back to the Deutschland so this was it. "Will I ever see you again?" She asked. I smiled in reply: "Here's looking at you, kid." Her eyes watered as she murmered "Casablanca." She knew what that meant. She knew! Smart kid. As I walked off toward the now-deserted streets of Hollywood Boulevard I looked back over my shoulder. She was STILL STANDING in that doorway....staring at me.  I could not help but think... now is the best time for some Frenchman to be walking next to me. (Where's Renault when ya need him the most?)  What a moment that night was.  I never saw her again. I just wanted to share what was probably my most romantic Halloween I ever spent with a girl in Hollywood. Sigh... And for one  pathetic, beer-throwing , punk-rockin' asswipe...this bud's for you, fucker. 

1:31 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

My Johnny Depp/Jack Sparrow bandanna

    Yes, it is an authentic bandanna. It was made in India and seems to be a peach colour with floral/flying carpet design running across the edges.

It was given to me by Penny Rose who is the costume designer for the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. She apparently was impressed with my recreation of  her costume. I am incredibly honoured to wear it. It is sacred material, to me, and I will probably have it draped over my coffin when I depart this mortal coil. My attempt to recreate this costume was out of respect for this amazing character, and... out of the disdain of seeing others strut about in their insulting renditions that should have them rightfully marked for the gallows. And, yes, impersonating Capt. Jack Sparrow, accent including,  is SO MUCH FUN! People have thanked me for giving them the closest chance they'll ever get to meet their favourite movie pirate,  in person;  with hat,  gold teeth, eye-shadow and all.   :{D}=

    *And let me add.... this costume is DAUNTING in its detail. I was going insane to recreate it exactly as it looks in the movie. And when I do this character I try to portray the Pirate, not the man (Mr. Depp). So, when people say, "Hey, it's Johnny Depp." I quickly snap back, "No,  Captain Jack Sparrow. '  "There's a diff'rence."   Out of respect.

1:07 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

If men are dogs and pigs...

... women can bark and oink just as well. It's true.

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