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"The Strange Case of the by Dave "Sam" Bernstein
I was taking a weekend in the city of angels, the city of lost dreams, the city with the largest midget population; the end of America. The curb at LAX arrivals was lonelier than a sturgeon in Colorado. Even the cab drivers didn't hang around. I was glad to be out of there and into the welcome disarray of Randy's back seat. We sped off to "the office" to prepare the goods for distribution. The goods were matchbooks and an assortment of Burning Annie postcards that were decorated with stickers advertising the DancesWithFilms festival and the movie soundtrack. Good fest and a killer soundtrack. It's the kind of soundtrack you want on when driving between Oconomowoc and Prairie de Sac in the early evening. The granola bar and one-bite airplane sandwich had long departed my stomach, leaving no companionship for the slugs I picked up the night before - two whiskey and one unmentionable. Randy and Zack took me to a hamburger joint called Johnny Rockets where a pigeon who looked like Marlin Brando and aimed like Wild Bill Hickok used Randy's shorts for target practice. We distributed the aforementioned goods to anyone who would give us the time of day (and many who wouldn't), taking breaks to recover Randy's hat from his barber and check out the selection at Amoeba Records.
There was nothing special about Saturday morning, except that it proceeded Saturday night and the premiere of Burning Annie. Zack and Randy had the calm of an ace relief pitcher in the bottom of the ninth, that is to say, they were nervous and excited - they just didn't know it yet. Over a breakfast of challah French toast we were entertained by a mediocre Woody Allen impression. In this town, those who can act are gods, those who can't act, model. Those who can't act and aren't pretty, wait tables. We took in the early show at the film festival. It was a faux-reality movie about a group of guys who bamboozle their way through Europe pretending to work for MTV. The filmmaker had worked with our "Tommy" (the real one) in the past so it was a must-see. The flick had a lot of energy and some funny jokes, but could have used another edit. It was worth the Hamilton though. After rubbing elbows, we set off to hype our own project. Distribution of the promotional goods was intense through the UCLA area, especially at the In and Out - a local McDonalds-like chain that has burgers second only to Wisconsin's own ButterBurger. We pounded the pavement all afternoon, but as time wore on, our feet wore out. Megan met us at Wolfgang Puck's for a pre-screening bite. Randy discovered the difference between tap and bottled water was the presence of a bottle, while Megan and Zack steeled themselves for the theater. I hid my growing nerves by writing lines from the movie inside BA matchbooks. Ostensibly, these would be party favors later in the evening.
I was the pack mule for the shindig. During some downtime, I inadvertently talked [co star] Brian Klugman out of seeing the movie. You usually don't notice it, but actors are an insecure bunch. I guess that's why they're actors. My pack mule duties came to a head as curtain time approached. Megan loaded me down with over a grand in small bills. The cool grand could make for a hot night, but this was just chump change compared to what I'd see when our ship came in. You see, I have a stake in the film, and that stake holds the promise of a mountain of steak. Burning Annie was preceded by a short. I was too distracted by the wad in my pocket and the theater full of people to pay much attention to the screen. My stomach got queasy like I was in a dingy on the North Sea in midwinter. I looked over and Zack's leg was keeping time to a Charlie Parker song played at double speed. Just then, Randy appeared with popcorn greasy enough to slide the jitters right off the both of us. After the opening bit got hearty laughs, I sat back to enjoy the flick. The crowd chortled and guffawed through the opening scenes and then settled in for some good chuckles and giggles. Two hundred people watched the screen like cats at a canary show and gave an appreciative round of applause during the closing credits. Then the real fun began.
The wind felt good as we sped down a street that looked like every other we'd been on. The excitement of the theater was settling like a good stew when we pulled up to 14 Below. We were just in time for The Dollyrots doing "Jackie Chan," from the soundtrack. Good band, a lot of energy. The lead singer looked like a 16-year old valley girl who ran with Tony Hawk, and she had the voice to match. Then came The Randies. They're an all-girl band with questionable affiliation to one Randy Mack. Their performance was solid, like Sammy and Frank at the Belagio, only harder. Just about then I ran into one Macneil Shonle. Mac had a dame
on one elbow and a wise guy on the other. They escorted me to
a table in the back so we could talk privately. Mac was going
back to school in California and his fiancé was supposedly an
artist working with digital photography. Their cover was blown
when Zack asked her to take a picture of us with his own digital
camera.
On the way out I bumped into Gary Lundy, star of the show. I felt like a 12-year-old meeting Dave Winfield in the supermarket. It was partly his star-status, but mostly the unsettling fact that he played the autobiographical interpretation of my college roommate with an uncanny precision that locked my jaw. It has been said that Todd Duffy was more Tom Roy than Tom Roy, but Gary was as much Zack as Okey-Dokey is Cracker Jacks. What do you say to a guy like that? The bouncer yelled and I made a bee-line for the door. Once safely in the parking lot, Zack and Megan found me. I thought about telling the Mormons that I liked their set and asking them when the Midwest tour would be, but a cold, half-crazed look from the lead singer made me think otherwise. We chewed the cud with Izzy the Frisbee player until Randy had made nice with all the bands more times than a sailor hits on 18. Still in the mood for action, we and the bands hit Swingers for shakes, a turkey club and chili fries that wouldn't quit. While waiting for service I found a new rule to live by; never give the band matches. Rules were meant to be broken, but I like my shake this side of burnt. My eyes were anvils and I longed for the sweet comfort of Randy's couch as we drove home through the deserted streets. Even the little people need to sleep sometime. We woke up late in the morning, still groggy from the previous day's affairs. Matches were strewn about like rice at a wedding and there was a strange odor emanating from the study where Zack had collapsed. Breakfast was had at Barney's Beanery; a dive with a menu like a book and chili that stays with you longer than a Michener novel. The valet parking gave away the fact that this was where the stars came to slum. No stars this time, just collages on the table tops. The model/waitress dished us our pancakes and chili and we ate like linebackers at a Weight Watchers convention. We knew Dom was hot on our tail so we didn't wait for desert. Zack went to case the area while Randy and I made for the hills. The hills of LA are like a menu at a French restaurant; steep and confusing. We found the field and put on our spikes. You see, Randy and me are ultimate players. Dom would be lost in the hills for hours, so we had some time for hucking. The view from the field was unbelievable. The hills surrounding us and that great beacon to the world's mediocre talent, the Hollywood sign, above us framed the lush greenness we stood on. Nothing's perfect in this world; the great view was balanced by the fact that the field doubled as a dog park.
My stomach was rumbling like the uptown C train when we hit the Stinking Rose for some food-flavored garlic. Relief and satisfaction from the film festival washed over us like a Venetian high tide. Rolls became muffins, spicy ceased to mean hot, and our breaths went from bad to indecent. Maybe it was the garlic ice cream, maybe not. Full of garlic and in the need for some fresh air and a stiff breeze, we took a walk past a high class car dealer. They were the kind of cars that the average person couldn't afford to touch, let alone buy. Randy promised us all Rolls Royces if Burning Annie hits it big, but holding him to that would be like holding a cinderblock with a spatula. Randy got a call from the festival people and we hot-footed it home, fearing the worst. With Randy in the back room, Megan, Zack and I took turns thinking up worst-case scenarios. By the time Randy was off the phone, we had the theater burn down, the film destroyed, and the four of us charged with arson. Fortunately, the call was about a ticket mix-up that Randy was able to straighten out. I suspected Dom had something to do with it. If he couldn't catch up with Zack, was he going to content himself with sabotage? We'll never know. The next morning, Zack, Randy and I ate a quick breakfast at Randy's Donuts (no relation) and I grabbed the next flight outta town. They say New York is the city that never sleeps. I left the city that needs its beauty sleep for the city that takes prudent naps after watching a movie that took place in the city that woke up with a hangover. Time for some shut-eye, back in cheeseland. --Dave Bernstein |
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