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The 4th

July 4, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

On the 4th of July, we celebrate an idea.

There was no battle that day, no event, nothing actually changed.   The Declaration of Independence probably wasn’t even signed that day.  But on July 4, 1776, a group of men agreed upon
the words that changed the world as few words have before.

I think that’s amazing. A holiday for an idea.  An anniversary of editorial consensus.  A celebration of words.

July 4th is a celebration of words.

How powerful words are, how inventive.  In the beginning there was the word.  And then there was everything else.  Doctors theorize that the reason we don’t
remember our earliest years is because as babies we don’t yet have words to name and describe our experience.  That means words are the very essence of thought. We literally create our experience of life by describing it with words.

We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness — That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive to these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect (sic) their Safety and Happiness.

Along with the memorable “When in the course of human events” paragraph that proceeds this one, these are the words from the Declaration most familiar to me.  I re-read the document before I sat down to write today.  What surprises me is, aside from the two crowd pleaser paragraphs I remembered, the rest of the declaration is a list of grievances against an unjust ruler.  And what a list.  “HE has plundered our Seas, ravaged our Coasts, burned our Towns, and destroyed the Lives of our People,” is pretty descriptive of the theme of the piece.  The framers contend that genuine wrongs, harm and violence had been done to the colonists..  Even so, the majority of their grievances express the longing of our founders for a strong central government of their own choosing.  They wanted a judiciary, they wanted an elected house of representatives and they deeply resented and deplored the fact that no such representation was available to them.

Lately I hear a lot from the people who think Paul Revere was warning the British and that Concord, Massachusetts is in New Hampshire.  They seem to believe the whole point of the
American Revolution was to do away with government altogether so that we might be “free.”  In fact, from the gate it would appear the Founding Fathers — and probably the mothers, too – stated
very clearly that what they most wanted was the freedom to “form a more perfect UNION, establish justice, insure domestic TRANQUILITY, provide for the common defence (sic), promote the general WELFARE, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity . . .” as they later wrote when they described the government they wanted in the US Constitution.

Powerful words.  I highlight some that seem forgotten lately in the mad rush of selfishness that describes the age in which we are now privileged to live only because of the freedom these men fought and died to give us.  Many of those who have benefitted most from our grand experiment in self-government spend their efforts and their character seeking to get out of their responsibility while screaming the house down about their rights.

Today is the day we celebrate not the rights of individual states to vote out the rights of minorities (Yes, I’m talking to you Mr. President) but our hard earned right to form “a more perfect union.”  The Fourth of July is not set aside to commemorate the rights of people to threaten to seek “second amendment remedies” but to “establish justice and insure domestic Tranquility.”  They did not fight the ensuing revolution to protect the right of every man to keep every penny he can ring out of gaming the system, from the Boston Tea Party forward. We fought to “promote the general welfare.” That means not just to benefit people who’ve lucked out and wound up with everything but the welfare even
of people who’ve had the bad taste and lack of foresight to be poor or sick or old.

Words are powerful.

We use them very carelessly in the pursuit of the sale or the job or the object of our affection or the election.  The framers of the declaration spent a month deciding on the perfect 1,300 words to describe their reasons for taking leave of a king who had “plundered our Seas, ravaged our Coasts, burned our Towns, and destroyed the Lives of our People” and to assert their right and their yearning to have their own government.

Lately, people who would seek to be President can’t take the time to differentiate between actor, former socialist and Franklin Roosevelt supporter John Wayne and mass murderer John Wayne Gacy.  Today, people call themselves patriots but
express disdain for their responsibility to the government that has provided us with the lives we celebrate, even as they demand the very rights that government has afforded them.  That includes paying for it, if I’m not being clear enough. It is a privilege worth celebrating to help pay for the government of the richest and most powerful country in the history of the world.

Lovely Downtown Somalia

For those who don’t want to pay their taxes, for those who don’t want a strong federal government that does the very things those men risked everything to declare they wanted their government to do on that long ago 4th of July may I recommend Somalia? There they have no taxes, no pesky government regulations, in fact there’s not much of anything at all.  In Somalia you can keep all the rocks and sticks you can eat, unless some pirate or warlord steals them from you.  You can take all your big guns.  You’ll need them when the pirates come to call.  But best of all, when you’re in Somalia, those of us who actually want to live in the United States and are willing to pay for the privilege of citizenship here won’t be able to hear your endless whining.

Now that would really be something to celebrate.

So, to those of you out there who actually do celebrate the ideas that created these United States and the commitment to one another that those men declared with such courage on that July day in that city of brotherly love, those of you willing to take responsibility for keeping and maintaining that commitment, I wish you a Happy Fourth of July.

And to those of you who think the Boston Tea Party was about those early patriots not paying their taxes I say:  See Scenic Somalia!

Scenic Somalia Awaits!

Posted in opinion/editorial | 2 Comments »

Learning to Post

June 20, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

 

I’m learning to post on my own blog.   My favorite TV theme and isn’t he HOT!

This is copy from word. 

Snow at Mom's

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , | 2 Comments »

Ciao Roma

June 16, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

The Colosseum and me from the porch of Hadrian's Temple to Venus.

My list of what I want to see in Rome is now much longer than it was before I arrived.

It was impossible for me to fully realize Rome in absentia in much the same way I could not have understood the American desert southwest before regarding it face to face.  I had seen pictures and Roadrunner cartoons featuring the buttes and canyons of the big square US states.  But not until I stood flatfooted on the high desert plain and saw mountain ranges hundreds and hundreds of miles away as clearly as houses across the street, could I begin to comprehend the vastness and the immense privacy of that awesomely desolate place.

So too was my experience of Rome.

I have seen pictures and paintings of the Coliseum so often in my life that, like Devil’s Tower to the characters in Close Encounters, I could probably have reproduced il Colosseo in some detail before I ever actually climbed into the stands of that most storied stadium.  But, as I made my way onto the Palatine – the hill on which the city began – I found myself experiencing the oddly familiar surroundings of this eternally famous place in a wholly unexpected way.

It is inexplicable to me that such a wonder as Rome could have sprung up in a time when most people were living under hides stretched over sticks.  I can see how those who are so disposed, could easily make a case for the intervention of some extraterrestrial or interdimensional  intelligence intervening to alter the course of humankind forever by creating the anomaly that is Rome.  In context, the achievement, is as alien and unexpected as such an outlandish explanation might suggest.

Dazed, I wandered through rubble still so monumental in its ruin as to impress and amaze a man who had actually flown across the world in less than a day for a glimpse.

The ruins of the Roman Forum still nicer than many of the neighborhoods where I've lived.

My day on the Palatine and in the Forum was too long without food or water.  Unlike most of Rome, there was not a cafe on every corner.  In these places of ancient sanctuary the very stones are accorded protected and endangered status  and are unblemished by Cafe Romulus or any such blasphemy.  So, by the time we’d made our way through Severus’ palace, Domitian’s Stadium, Augustus’ living room, Trajan’s Market, Saturn’s temple and the Basilica of Constantine, I was in a kind of dehydrated, creatively hallucinatory state.  Since Xanadu had already been written – the poem not the musical – I turned my unfettered thoughts to the improbability of the city around me.

We took refuge at a cafe in the Piazza Novona.   I sat sipping limone te and contemplating the plashing waters of the Fontana dei Quatro Fiumi– calling it the Fountain of Four Rivers is like singing Puccini in English, just not the same in translation somehow.

The Fontana dei Quatro Fiumi and company in the Piazza Navona.

Hundreds milled about me.  Some idiot woman was desecrating the site singing whiney-American-lady-pop-music.  I tried to avoid eye contact with any of a roaming band of mimes for fear they would endeavor to “entertain” me.  I wondered at the place.  I tried to imagine the cheering multitudes and the thundering hooves of the horses orbiting the circus of the hippodrome that had once stood where I now sat dipping indescribably good bread into drinkably fresh olive oil.

Suddenly, I saw it.

I understood Rome.  Perhaps it was just that it was nearly five in the evening and I had yet to have lunch.  Or maybe it was a little belated jet lag.  Possibly it was just a little too much science fantasy  and SimCity over the years.  But I don’t think so.

Rome is a trap for the smartest animals in the world.

I hate to use the world trap because it sounds so negative, but there it is.  Unlike the more innocent creatures of the wilderness, a cage or a pit wouldn’t hold us for long.  Many simpler creatures in fact simply stay, never thinking to leave.  But people are tricky.  You have to make them want to say, fight to stay, work to stay.

This bit of Serverus' Palace plumbing was around 200 years old when Christ was born -- I was much younger then, too.

First, you have to get them there.  Well, they say all roads lead to Rome, but that’s not quite true.  The fact was all the roads started in Rome, so they had the effect of leading there, but really served as much as an enticement as mere transportation.  The roads of Rome were among the greatest, if not the greatest, technological achievement of their day.  They were the equivalent of today’s telecommunication in their effect on the world they connected for the first time.  Christianity owes as much to Roman roads and the common language of Greek as to the words of Jesus himself.  Without the Greek lingua franca and Roman roads to carry those words, Christianity might be a small middle eastern Jewish sect.

Okay, so now the Roman roads have led the “prey” into the city.  How do they keep them there?

This is where the 40 ft statue of Constantine stood in 308 AD and where I stood in April 2011 A

Like any seduction, Rome is at once attractive and illusive.   For thousands of years there’s been so much to see and to do in Rome, but it has been and remains, very hard to stay.  So our trap draws people in, “captivates” them and then makes remaining in the delicious snare a personal achievement that one might work a lifetime to maintain.

That’s a pretty brilliant trap.

The Pyramids are great – new and old world.  The Parthenon and its environs are the seat of philosophy and forms of governance that we are still debating and perfecting without, as yet, much improving – though women are allowed to vote now and we have dispensed with the whole hideous slavery aspect of ancient democracy.  But no place represents the same kind of achievement as that of Rome.  There are cities/traps modeled after it, but there’s no debate about the source of their form.  We’re still building coliseums and filling them with gladiators.  Many new roads surround us.  Our prey arrive in cars and ships and planes.  People pour in and then work themselves literally to death in order, not only to stay but, to pay for the care and maintenance of the trap.

I don’t think that it was aliens or that the Roman’s ever thought about the building of Rome in such terms, but the effect is undeniable.

I try to imagine the world then — not as myself, who will not walk on the grass in front of my own house or go outside if it can be avoided, but — as a noble savage.  It was a green and abundant world unspoiled by the civilization for which Rome is the ultimate blueprint.  My savage self might spend his days wondering through this simple world, tasked only with my survival, plucking olives from the trees, making fires for warmth and cooking, living out a brief but uncomplicated life as free as the birds of the air or the other creatures in the forest.  Or I could go to this violent, foul smelling crowded heap of stones and waste called Rome.  There I could fight and claw for enough shiny metal to buy the very fruits and flesh I might have plucked or hunted for myself for free so that I might live out my short and dark life surrounded by and in the company and close proximity of the most vicious and dangerous creatures on the planet.

All that's left of 40 ft Constantine and a lot of extra me -- thanks pasta!!

Intended or not, that’s a pretty awesome, impressive and fearsome achievement.

And then Cafe Navona brought my lunch.  A perfect, pizza caprese, a bottle of still water and te caldo and I was ensnared, as content and as captivated as the other simple savages who’d come before me, charmed by the most beautiful and successful trap in the world.

Posted in Events, Italy, Personal, Uncategorized | Leave a Comment »

Shame

June 9, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

Basic cable wannbe Colton Haynes kissed a boy and tried to “Big-Homophobic-Brother” the evidence. Ashton Kutcher made out with Sean William Scott in a movie and will be making 750K an episode on 2 1/2 Men this fall. Who’s sorry now?

Never do anything you wouldn’t want to read about on the front page of the newspaper.  Admittedly, today the front page of a newspaper might be a good place to keep a secret, but you get the idea.  Those are words that I try to live by.

I don’t mean live your life like you’re in a PTA meeting or on the Mouseketeer’s Club or as a living saint.

I mean if my life was being reported in the paper or on-line or in a continuous series of YouTube posts, I wouldn’t alter my behavior to suit others.  I try to suit myself.  If I want to send out pictures of my junk on Twitter or sleep with my secretary or sell senate seats in Illinois, it only needs to be okay with me.  If I’d be ashamed for other people to find out about what I’m up to, then I shouldn’t be doing it.  But if I’m gonna do it, I own it.

No one can gossip about my behavior if I’m okay with it –Warts-and-Sunday-School – all of it.  It’s not gossip if it’s true.  So, if someone’s making stuff up about me or hacking my Twitter account to make me look bad, then that’s on them and I can deny it with confidence.  But if I’m sending dirty pictures of myself to people I met online and people find out and post it on their blog, we’ll then I’d best state proudly and in a good loud voice:  “And damn fine pictures they are.”

Insofar as I can tell, the only thing Representative Weiner’s has done that concerns anyone other than Mrs. Weiner is that he lied about the pictures when he got caught.  If he has holy hell to pay for that with his wife, that’s between them.

I feel the same way about that Senator who was screwing his married staffer, or that idiot South Carolina Governor or that guy in the airport bathroom stall or President Clinton.  It’s none of my business.  Usually they only get into trouble when they try to cover it up.

I guess it all comes down to that most useless of all human emotions – Shame.  I can’t think of a single purpose for this one.  A little guilt helps keep me on the right road, but being ashamed of my choices in life? That means I’m more concerned with what you think than how I feel.  That just seems a complete waste to me.  Especially if I’m feeling ashamed of what people only pretend to think.

It is not possible, in this age of E-Harmony and Girls Gone Wild, for us to continue to pretend to this ridiculous Victorian-at-best shock, horror and moral-blush-inducing-alarm.  I’d be willing to wager that the majority of men out there have or have had a picture of their junk on their phone and/or hard drives in the process of dating, adolescence and simply being male.  There is just too much online hooking up going on for that not to be true.  Sex is our most powerful and most sustaining drive and we will apply whatever technological means at hand in its pursuit.  I’d also plunk down good money on a bet that the second movie ever made was porn.  Maybe it was just a kiss or a woman’s ankle but, in context, still porn.

What’s more, our continued pretense around the penis seems to me to a form of sexism that surely we can begin to grow past.  Boobs are EVERYWHERE.  We are inundated with this most visible of the female sexual arsenal and, with the rather inexplicable exception of Janet Jackson’s left nipple, impervious to literally having boobs thrust in our face.

There is an entire industry built around the design and manufacture of foundation garments that make breasts more visible, noticeable and unavoidable.  I don’t think that’s a good or a bad thing, but it is an undeniable fact.  Imagine garments that made the penis stick straight out and pants cut so low that you could see all but the tip.  I think it would be incredibly uncomfortable, but then I’ve no idea how it feels to walk around with your boobs half-exposed and pointing the way.  We are surrounded by women’s breasts all the time yet we have no reaction.  But, apparently, even a glimpse of penis through thick, decidedly-unsexy-gray-underpants turns us into a pack of grade school simps.  By this standard, the Sears Catalog, if it still exists, is more shocking than Representative Weiner’s pictorial but there has literally been nothing else on the news for going on two weeks!!

My point is this I think.  We’re only pretending to be shocked.  No one cares, save a very few very silly, probably very old people.  MoveOn.org was originally founded to get the House and Senate to GET OVER and MOVE ON from Bill Clinton’s cigar interlude with that horrid little opportunist who saved her dress for the DNA.

The number of under-and-unemployed in this country is holding around 25% and all we can talk about is how you can kind of see this representative’s junk through his underpants? Really?

But more than that, we have got to stop telling public figures and particularly politicians that they should lie to us.  We’re a big, grown up country now and we need to start acting like one.

When a football player sends pictures of his erection to some woman, we should be thankful that he’s not accused of raping her after she came up to his room drunk at two in the morning.  If some Freshman Republican House of Representatives guy is all excited about what he and his new trainer have done with his chest and he posts it on Craig’s List, we should turn the photo over to Mrs. Freshman Republican and close the door.  That way, when some little hottie gets a gig on the basic cable channel that brought us Gay-Porn-Star-VJ Simon Rex and the ambi-sexual bed hopping of The Real World he might not feel so much shame over an old picture taken of him kissing some boy for a magazine that he hires lawyers to help him pretend it didn’t happen by claiming it was porn.  (Winner Worst Defense EVER!!)

In fact, it might even be possible that when horrible old Newt tells the truth about Paul Ryan’s death-to-grandma-coupon-healthcare he can actually scrape together enough character to own his own words.

I think we live in an age of cynicism where politicians pretend that we can skip paying taxes and maintain the highest standard of living in world, closet cases pretend they’re the Family Research Council and racists pretend that it’s the about the birth certificate.  We don’t believe any of it, but we pretend we do, because we’re just as ashamed of what we really think as they are.  Shame, it would seem, leads us to that still more Victorian practice: hypocrisy.

So, in the end, the building is on fire and we’re all too embarrassed to admit that we smell smoke?  Now that’s a shame.

Posted in Events, Personal | 2 Comments »

Benvenuti

June 2, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

The blisters on my feet are gone for the most part.  A little more work with the pumice and the luffa and they’ll be just a memory.  The pants that I struggled to button in Florence are falling off me now.  And, of course, there’s the ear I can’t quit talking about, still “pressurized” since landing at Heathrow on the way home from Venice.  But none of these are the memories I take away from this dreamy excursion into unfathomable history, iconic art and a glimpse of the exquisite.

I loved Italy.

Ah, Venice. Now this, for me, is the happiest place on earth.

I’m a little surprised how much.  I knew it would be a wonder.  I expected to be amazed by the art and the sheer historic gravity of pretty much everything.  But they don’t call me princess for nothing.  I’m a pretty good sport and a good traveler.  I can bear up when things go wrong as they so often do on extended trips.  Still, I’m like a silk shirt – best under ideal conditions.

I figured Italy for a sort of Mediterranean, late-for-a-nap kind of ambiance, delayed everything and disinterested people fatigued of being trampled by ugly Americans.

The late-for-a-nap part was kind of true.  There were some surprising gaps in the service at some of the more remarkable and elegant locales, but the Italy I found defied my preconceptions and much of what I had been told to expect.  I suppose it’s the Isenberg Principal.  My Italy is unique, having as much to do with what I brought as what I found.

It’s like with everyone’s friend: Angry Guy.  Angry Guy gets to the restaurant, or the store or the hotel or the DMV and begins yelling at people.  What do  you know, everyone is shitty to Angry Guy.  Angry Guy believes he lives in a world out to get him, acts accordingly and, presto, that’s where he lives.

It was like that.  For whatever reason, though I was certain I would be amazed by the gravity of what I saw, I had very few expectations otherwise.  The trip was a gift so I had almost nothing to do with any of the planning.  The hotels, the schedule, even the airlines seats were a surprise to me.  Christopher, the friend who gave me this amazing birthday present, has known me a while, so I’m sure he made choices with me in mind.  But, honestly, I was freed of expectation of much beyond simply being in Italy for the number of days specified.

The Ponte Vecchio and il Turistica Vecchio. It's a bridge and a jewelry mall (the Ponte not the Turistica).

Everyday in Italy turned out to be a surprise party.

I guess every vacation is to some extent.  Each morning we’d meet for breakfast and decided what we were going to try to see.  Then, we’d see what actually happened.  Like placing a bet.  Some days went as planned, but we had just as much fun on the days that didn’t.

And oh my God, what I saw.  Just the thought of having lunch across from the Pantheon in a piazza where Augustus Caesar might have sat and contemplated the events of his day 2000 years before.

The Pantheon from my lunch at Augustus' usual table at Cafe Napolitano. That baby at the next table was out of control.

Or sharing an artist’s vision and as he struggled to express himself and his talents while being restricted to painting or sculpting on the same couple of dozen Christian subjects over and over again.  Or witnessing the love that the Emperor Hadrian had for his lover Antinous writ large in massive sculptures that endure to this day.

Antinous got up as Dionysus -- the one camera right.

Or seeing how the sensibilities of the Europe’s first banking family, the Medici, still inform the attitudes of the modern city of Florence.  Or wandering through the living work of art that is Venice and realizing the it was born as the dream of people trying to escape the persecution and pillaging of those who surrounded them on land.

By the time it was time to come home, I truly had difficulty bringing to mind what it was like to live in West Hollywood.  The trip was like a long, vivid dream I could not seem to awaken from, even when I returned home.  It wasn’t just those I-don’t-want-to-come-home-from-vacation Blues.  Indeed, I was completely exhausted and ready to come home by the time we were done.  I guess after spending so long in a heightened state of awareness in order to navigate a world so completely outside my experience, it was hard to slip back into the sleepy indifferent comfort that one feels for home.

One of the many renderings of David with the head of Goliath I saw that day at the Vatican.

Whatever the case, the trip seems almost illusory and improbable now that I’m back in familiar environs, but like tinted glasses, the perception of life that I found on that dusty old peninsula still colors how I see everything.

. . . More soon.

Posted in Italy, Uncategorized | 4 Comments »

Il Mio Ritorno*

May 18, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

Gentle readers,

I hope you can forgive my long silence.  I returned from Italy a month ago today and have yet to write a word aside from the occasional Facebook bleat.

I came back deliciously exhausted by three weeks filled with excessive quantities of inexcusably delicious food,  heart stopping scenery, beautiful Italians and hideous tourists.  Few of the clothes I’d packed still fit, I was so tired I could not hold my head up and I could not have been more pleased with how I got my extensive blisters.  To my dismay, so far the most lasting memory of this most amazing trip has been more than a little disconcerting.

For the past thirty days, I have suffered the oddest malady.  On the first leg of my return flight home, as my flight from Venice descended to land at Heathrow, my ears “pressurized.”  It was not my first flight so I wasn’t unaccustomed to the uncomfortable sensation, though this seemed especially painful.  We hung at the awkward altitude for a bit as we waited to be cleared, so it was also a bit more protracted than usual, but still.  My left ear went back to normal as we landed but not the right one.

It’s been thirty days.

I’ve been through doctors, anti-inflammatories, endless anti-histamines, even steroids and no change.  Thursday, another specialist and I hope . . . but we’ll see.

My point, dear readers is to let you know I haven’t forgotten you.

I have however been hopped up on allergy pills, roided into a stupor, sleeping at odd times and fitfully even then.  My protracted case of the mini-bends has put half my world on mute and given a mild case of inner ear disorientation, but that’s not the worst of it.  There has been a bad horror movie sound track – all heart beats and breathing (mine) – echoing in my head since London THIRTY DAYS AGO!

You know I almost never use exclamation points so you can tell just how strung out I am.

Meanwhile, every time I sit down to write, it’s not bad enough I’m hopped up on some med or other, I feel as though I’m appearing in a bad version of the Tell Tale Heart.

But I can bear my isolation no longer.

It is time to write about Italy, at least.  I can wait no longer (and the pictures are too good not to share).  So I’ll see how it goes.  If you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know there’s Raven, perched on the scalp of some Italian souvenir bust or other, croaking at me in triumph “Nevermore.”

On the plus side, unless Thursdays’ specialist is a miracle worker, I probably won’t hear him.

* This could possibly mean “My Return” but don’t take my word for it.

Posted in Events, Italy, Personal | 4 Comments »

Sweetzer Court ~ 12 The Martini

April 14, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

Michael was sitting on the step outside his apartment when Cody arrived.

“She in there?” Cody asked, not sure where the car was or what was next.

“Nope,” Michael said, staring at the play of light on the fountain.

“You know where she is?”

“Nope.”

“You want to tell me what happened.”

“Nope.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Not much to tell,” Michael said with a shrug.  “Milan came blowing in here like Katrina.  She and Gianni took her car and her driver and her stash and took off.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Yep.”

“What?”

“She said you should ask Fab for your old job back,” Michael said, careful to repeat it exactly.  “Does that make sense? I didn’t know you were a decorator.”

“I’m not,” Cody said.   Michael didn’t ask, so he didn’t have to lie.

They remained where they were for a moment.  Michael sitting, Cody standing, both silent in the moonlit courtyard.

“You holding?”

“Nope.”

“Gianni, huh? I thought he was on your team.”

“It’s a highest bidder kind of thing.”

“Yep,” Cody nodded, getting it.

Silence.

A door slammed above them.  Ric came thundering down the stairs at full gallop.

“Ric, come back here and talk to me,” Cat screamed down at him from their living room window.  “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Ric didn’t look back as he bolted through the gates, the motor court and out onto the street without ever breaking stride.

“See you,” Cody said to Michael after a second’s hesitation.  He ran after Ric.

“Hey, Cat,” Michael called up to her after a minute or two.

“Hi, Michael,” she said. “You want a drink?”

“I could use one,” Michael said, rising.

“Martini?”

“That’s what they call the last shot of the day,” Michael said, taking his time as he climbed the stairs.

“What is?”

“The martini.”

“This place is crazy,” she said.  “We should run away and be pirates, Huck.”

“What? And give up show business?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

~

Ric was waiting for the light at Fountain and Sweezter when Cody caught up to him.

“Where you heading?” Cody asked.

“This is your fault,” Ric said.  “What is your game?”

“My fault?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“About your movie career?”

“I didn’t tell her.”

“Did you tell her you were gay?”

“I’m not.”

“Then you deserve an Oscar.”

“Funny.”

The light changed.  Ric crossed Fountain.  Cody followed.

“Where you headed?”

“I don’t know.  A bar.”

“On Sunset?”

“A bar where I won’t be recognized.”

“Because no one in the bars on Sunset ever watches gay porn.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m buying.”

“Then you pick the place.”

“Bar Marmont makes a great martini.”

“Long as you’re buying.”

“I’ve got Milan’s black card.”

“Martinis at the Marmont.”

“That should get the evening started.”

 

. . . to be continued

 

Posted in Short Stories, Sweetzer Court | 1 Comment »

Sweetzer Court ~ 11 Cat Fight

April 12, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

Brighton’s arrival on set, like everything about Brighton, was the opposite of Milan.

Where her sister made a show of everything she did, coming and going to fanfare for lighting checks and costume fittings, Brighton parked her own car on the street, strolled past the paps and showed up on set like a crew member.

“Hi,” she said to Sans who was adding a few last minute angels and high contrast photos to the ormolu-pastel-French-baroque-expressionism that was Fab Fads’ trademark.  “Do you know where Richard is? Or Milan?”

“Oh, hi,” Sans said extending his hand in greeting.  He didn’t recognize her without a People magazine logo over her head.  “I’m Sans.  Are you here for the makeup crew?”

“Kind of,” Brighton grinned, delighted by his informality.  “I’m Brighton.”

“Oh god, don’t get me fired,” Sans said.  “I really need this job.  I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Relax,” Brighton laughed.  “I’m not my sister.  Where is everybody?”

“You’re sister is getting ready, uh, somewhere,” Sans said.  “I think the director is at some kind of lunch meeting.  My bosses are all on some other job, I’m not sure where exactly.  And I’m not much help, right?”

“No, I guess I’m early,” she suggested, checking her watch even though she knew she was on time.

“I do know where your dressing room is,” Sans suggested.  “That could help.”

“Perfect,” she said.  “I’ll just get set up and wait in there.”

“I’ll let them know you’re here,” Sans said, leading the way as he fished his cell out of his pocket.

“Thank you so much, Sans,” she said, unaware that she was the first person to say that to him since he’d started working there.

He beamed as he did not say “you’re NOTHING like your sister.”

~

“She’s here,” the voice crackled over the walkie-talkie.

“Perfect,” Milan said checking her makeup in the mirror they’d been snorting lines off of.  “I’ve got to go get a touch up.  Cody, you wait here.  Robert or whoever will call you on that thing when we’re ready for Brightie’s little surprise.”

“Gotcha babe,” he said, giving her the thumbs up.

“No more party,” Milan said.  “You’ve got to be on camera.  Gianni, you and Michael keep him honest.  Oh, what am I talking about?  Cody, come with me.”

“Do I need makeup?” Cody asked.

“You mean, do you need more?” she said leading her sex tape co-star to the door.  “We’ll be back boys.  Gianni, you might want to get some more supplies for later?”  She handed him some bills and then led Cody out the door and across the garden court to the stairs opposite Michael’s.

“You’ll be safer hanging out at Cat’s than with those two,” Milan said as he followed her up.  She pounded on Cat’s door.

“So, do I have to say anything when I get there or what?” Cody asked.  “Like maybe I should say something about how Brighton and I used to date until the whole sex tape thing with you?”

“You mean what are your lines?” Milan said, looking at him like a parent trying to be patient with a slow child she was fond of.  “Do you understand how reality television works? It’s not actually real.  It’s just unscripted.”

“Hi Milan,” Ric said, opening the door in his usual painting costume – t-shirt and boxers with paint spattered over-shirt. “Cat’s already gone over to the set.  Do want me to call her?”

Cody stared at Ric, brow furrowed.

“No, no,” Milan said.  “There’s security to walk me over, thanks to your crazy landlord.  What’s that all about?”

“No idea,” Ric shrugged.  “He can be a little formal, but he’s usually pretty easy going.”

“Maybe he’s a Nazi war criminal and doesn’t want his picture taken,” Cody suggested unexpectedly.

Ric and Milan turned and stared at him silently for a moment.

“May-be.”  Milan nodded and spoke slowly.  “Look, Ric this is Cody.  I’m wondering if he can hang out over here with you for a bit before the shoot.  We’re trying to surprise my sister.  They used to date, she doesn’t know he’s here and it would really help out with the whole surprise thing if she didn’t till we’re ready.”

“You look really familiar to me,” Cody said to Ric.

“Wow, I should have cut you off sooner,” Milan said, half under her breath.  “Maybe you could make a pot of coffee?” she suggested to Ric as she pushed Cody inside.

“I feel like we’ve met before,” Cody said, still looking at Ric under knitted brows.

Ric began avoiding the look.

“Are you an actor?” Cody suggested.  “Or maybe a commercial? I just feel like I’ve seen your face somewhere.”

“Cody, honey,” Milan said giving him a little shove.  “Knock it off.”

“I’ll go make us some coffee,” Ric said, darting out of the room.

“Here,” Milan said thrusting the walkie-talkie into Cody’s hand.  “Keep this on and come over  when we call for you.  Okay?”

“Sure babe,” Cody said, looking past her to Ric in the kitchen.

“Ric,” Milan called.  “If you could, listen out for his call on the Walkie and bring him over.  That’d be great.   I’ll get you paid for a day on the shoot, kay?”

“Thanks Milan,” Ric answered.  He looked back over his shoulder, caught Cody’s stare and looked away again.  “We’ll see you there.”

~

It was the first day of shooting.

They spent a couple of hours “seeing” the apartment for the “first time.”  Fab gave them a tour as Milan tried to pick a fight with Brighton over his work.

“Well, I know this isn’t really your cup of tea, Brightie but I love it,” Milan said hurling herself onto the lime damask Louis Quatorze sofa with the ornate, matte white woodwork and gesturing to the black crystal chandeliers.

Brighton thought it was a horror show, but knew how to get under her sister’s skin.

“Oh, I think it’s really bright and sunny,” she said, with a sweeping look at a  room better suited to Morticia Addams than a house plant.  “I’m going to love it here.”

“Really?” Milan said, playing to the cameras.  “Well, I guess you’ve changed your opinion since the last time you saw one of Fabs’ projects.”

Cameras followed as Fab stormed off the set.  He doubled back and hung out off camera at the craft services table, not wanting to miss the fireworks.

Milan tried a little bait-and-switch.  She showed Brighton her room.  Then they filmed Brighton unpacking suitcases the crew had filled with product placement clothes and cosmetics Brighton had never seen before.  Once she was settled, Milan returned and made a fuss saying Brighton’s was the room she wanted.

“Why don’t we share like when were little girls?” Brighton suggested brightly.  They had never shared a room in their lives, not even a wing. “I’m sure Fab can get us twin versions of this yummy black canopy bed.  Can’t we Fab?” she called to him off camera.

“Fab had to, um, leave,” Milan said, as though it was a secret they were keeping from Brighton.  “But his assistant is still here.  Sam,” she called gesturing to Sans to come over.

Bobbi rolled his eyes in disgust.

“This is his assistant, Sam,” Milan said, introducing a terrified Sans to her sister.

“Hey,” Sans said.  Nervous, his drawl was worse than usual and the word picked up a couple of extra syllables.  Ryan, who was beaming from off camera, gave him a thumbs up Sans couldn’t see.

“Oh yes, I met Sans earlier,” Brighton said.  “We’re old friends.  He helped pick out this outfit.  What do you think?”

Milan did a take for the camera.  “Oh, it’s, er, great.  Hot.  Mean it.  Really.”  It was the catch phrase she was trying out for the show.  “Listen.  I’ve got a date tonight.  So I’m going be going out soon.  Will you be okay here by yourself?”

“With just the film crew to keep me company?” Brighton said, putting her arm around Sans and giving Milan a look.  “It’ll be hot.  Mean it.  Really.”

And so it was with great relish that Milan staged the arrival of her date for the evening with Brighton’s ex.

At Milan’s on camera urging, they spent time picking out an outfit for Milan to wear on her date: “Just like they used to do when we were girls at home together.”  As if.

Brighton first insisted on changing into a pair of Cowboy-and-Indian-patterned footed pajamas “Since I’m just staying in tonight for a quiet evening on my own with the camera and lighting people.”  Then she tormented Milan by only picking things that either looked too small or were overly matronly.

“This suit is perfect,” she shrieked at Milan.  “You’ll look just like Jackie O in Dallas.”

Milan was closing fast on high-coke-whore-hissy-fit by the time they broke to reset for the date arrives scene.

“Is he here yet?” Milan hissed at Cat as the costumer struggled to zip her into the red rubber dress Brighton had “helped” her pick out.

“I’m not . . .” Cat said, uncertainly, picking up the walkie-talkie to check on Cody’s progress.

“Give me that,” Milan said snatching it from her and opening a channel accidentally.

“Gang Bang Detention Hall, that’s it,” Cody’s voice filled the air.

“I don’t know what you’re . . .” Ric mumbled, then gave a little cry Cat recognized.  It was the little whimper Ric couldn’t control when he was tickled.

“The preppie boy with all those bad boys.  I knew, I knew where . . .”

Milan flipped the switch and snarled into the device. “Where the hell are you two?”

Cat’s spidey senses had been tingling since their odd encounter with Sans’ date, Ryan.  She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something up with Ric lately, since the black eye.  He wasn’t telling her something.  They’d barely spoken since the shoot started and so the tension between them was worse than if they’d gone on and had the fight.  The tone of the overheard conversation had her head spinning.

“Places,” Richard called, with a certain reluctance.

Milan and Brighton sat on the lime green sofa sipping pomegranate champagne cocktails as they “awaited” the arrival of Milan’s date.

“Well, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you about my date,” Milan said, when Richard gave her the signal from off camera.

The stage manager pushed Cody through the door.  He stumbled and almost fell.

“I’ve been seeing . . .” Milan said rising triumphantly.

“Cody,” Brighton screamed.  She leapt to her feet.

Milan’s smug look of victory dissolved as Brighton ran into Cody’s arms.

Uncertain how to proceed, Cody returned Brighton passionate embrace and kisses.  The two made out on camera for an uncomfortably long period of time.  The crew squirmed as they watched Milan come to a boil and then, apoplectic with rage, run off the set and out of the building.

Ric, unable to endure Cat’s glare, ran after her.  She tried to resist for breath, but ran after him.

“And cut,” Brighton said, unceremoniously breaking the embrace.  She gave her ex-boyfriend a friendly pat on the ass.  “Nice to see you Cody.  See you boys tomorrow,” she called waving to the crew.  “Sans? Do you and Ryan want to go grab a bite?”

. . . to be continued

 

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Sweetzer Court ~ 10 Couch Casting

April 7, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

Sans was almost out of money.

The Southern California job market had collapsed along with the real estate market and just about everything else.  The kinds of jobs he’d hoped would tide him over were the only ones anyone could get.  Mortgage bankers and real estate developers were working as waiters and clerks, so the clerks and the waiters were out of luck if they couldn’t get temp, part time or an acting gig.  And Sans was worse off than the waiters and the clerks.

He’d applied at every place on the boulevard and been turned down at least once.

About the only thing he had to look forward to was a date with Ryan, the porn star he’d met at Mickey’s a few nights earlier.  They’d exchanged a few phone calls during which Sans had found out little more than that his name was really Bryan, but that now everyone called him by his nom de porn, Ryan.  Sans hadn’t bothered to point out that if he was looking for anonymity, Ryan Candler still came up when you Googled Bryan Candler.  It didn’t seem to matter to Ryan and Sans was just glad that something was going right.

Sans hadn’t seen him since that night.  He also hadn’t seen much of his neighbor Ric.  The black eye that Ryan had given Ric had faded but the questions Sans had for Ric were still in sharp focus.

He was working on cleaning up just in case Ryan wanted to come by for a late night glass of Chateau du Two Bucks after their date.  On a final trip down to the dumpster, he ran into his new friend Bobbi crossing the motor court.

“Bobbi?” Sans said, uncertain it was.

“Florence!” Bobbi said, stopping short.  “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Sans said pointing to his open door.  “What are you doing here?”

“Running off ten pounds trying to please a client,” Bobbi said, rolling his eyes.

“What?”

“Oh, my boss is a designer,” Bobbi shrugged.  “He got this gig doing some crap reality show.  Translation I’m ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes running back and forth between my boss and the “Star” with swatches, chips and snippy remarks.”

“Milan,” Sans nodded, having heard about the show and their now frequent famous visitor.  “I’ve heard she was around but I haven’t seen her.  The landlord went berserk when the paparazzi followed her.”

“Tell me about it,” Bobbi said, holding up the laminated ID hanging around his neck.  “We have to post security whenever she’s over here or he’ll shut the production down or something.”

“I’ve only ever seen this kind of stuff on TMZ,” Sans said his brows arched.  “I have to put my visitor’s names on a list.   I guess she’s really famous, hunh?”

“Well, I’m counting the bitch as cardio,” Bobbi said, with Cher-toss of his imaginary mane.  “I’m here till two every night so I can do my actual job, once she’s outta here.”

“Are they at Cat’s?” Sans asked, laughing.

“Cat lives here?” Bobbi asked.  “I talk to her more than Milan, but I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, I thought that’s why Milan . . .”

“Some writer guy, Michael?” Bobbi shrugged.  “When she’s not on set, she’s over at his place.  We haven’t really started shooting yet, just  a few pick-ups here and there for B-Roll and background.  So, she’s here a lot.”

“I don’t know him, but I haven’t lived here long,” Sans nodded, thinking better of mentioning that Bobbi’s favorite porn star lived with Cat.

“How’s the job search going?” Bobbi said, suddenly giving Sans a laser beam look.

Sans mimed taking a spear to the chest and made apropos gurgling noises.

“Not so good, hunh?” Bobbi asked, hands on hips.

Sans staggered back as he continued to go after the scenery with his hammy death scene.

“So you want a job?” Bobbi asked.  “To be fair, do you want this job?”

“It’s a miracle,” Sans said, pulling the invisible spear from his chest and finding no wound.

“No, it most definitely is not,” Bobbi said waving him off.

“So, you’re quitting?”

“Hell no,” Bobbi snorted.  “Fab is the only designer who hasn’t laid everyone off.  I don’t know where he gets the money.  Design trade is dead.  With the economy in the toilet, everyone in Beverly Hills is content to sit their fat rich asses on last year’s sofa.  But somehow we’re thriving.”

“But if I do this job . . .” Bobbi said, still not understanding.

“Then I can just do the job I actually got hired to do,” Bobbi said, putting an arm around Sans’ shoulders.  “And you can be Milan’s butt boy.  Come and meet your dominatrix.”

“Umm, there’s only one thing,” Ryan said, bringing them to a halt.  “I’ve got a date tonight I don’t want to miss.”

“Oh?’

“Ryan, from the other night,” Sans explained.

“Oh honey, I’ll do the donkey act with Milan for one more night for that,” Bobbi said.  “But you have to give me full details.  Everyone in town wants a lick of that Creamsicle.”

“My hero,” Sans said, giving Bobbi a peck on the cheek.  As he allowed himself to be lead to his doom.

The door opened only a crack when they knocked at Michael’s door, back right, garden court.

“Yes, what is?” the lanky man asked in his Eastern European patois.

He gave Sans the creeps.  He’d seen him around a couple of times and had only ever gotten the man’s wild eyed stare in answer to his pleasantries.

“Swatches,” Bobbi answered, undaunted.

“I’ll see,” he answered before closing the door in their face.

“Is that Michael?” Sans asked.

“No, I think it’s something Italian,” Bobbi said, head cocked skeptically.

“Italian?” Sans echoed Bobbi’s tone.

“Right?” Bobbi nodded.  “I just call him Lurch.  Take a seat, it’ll be a while.”

“What do you suppose they’re doing in there?” Sans considered, sitting next to his friend on the brick steps that surrounded the courtyard.

“Well, the trailer’s not rocking,” Bobbi said, turning his hands up.  “But then, it’s not a trailer.”

“What?” Sans asked, clueless.

“You are sooooo new in town,” Bobbi smiled.

“Hi Bobbi,” Cat said coming down the stairs.  “It’s Sans, right?”

“Hey Ca . . .” Bobbi began, his voice dying in his throat as Ric followed her down the stairs.

“Bobbi, this is Ric, Cat’s boyfriend,” Sans said, grabbing Bobbi’s arm.

“Who is?” Bobbi asked, incredulous.  “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah Bob,” Cat said, good naturedly.  “I bat for the other team.  I’m just tall.”

“And good at basketball,” Ric added with a twinkle in his not so blackened eyes.  He shot Sans a look of gratitude.

“That’s not exacatly . . .” Bobbi began again.

“I’m going to be working on the show,” Sans said, cutting him off and trying to kick Bobbi as he stepped between them.  “Bobbi just hired me to do shit work for his design firm.”

“That’s great, Sans,” Cat said.  “I know you’ve been looking.  With the shoot just across the street it’ll be perfect.”

“Any job will be perfect,” Sans said, laughing and trying to keep the conversation going in any direction other than Bobbi.

“Sans?” the familiar voice cut their mirth short.

“Hi, Ryan,” Sans said, wanting to run to him but afraid to leave Bobbi unattended.

“What’s up with all the security?” Ryan asked.  His expression changed and he stopped dead when he spotted Ric.  “What is he doing here?” he demanded, pointing at Ric as he advanced in Ric’s direction.

“This is Ric, my neighbor,” Sans said, stepping between them and dragging Bobbi along.  “And his girlfriend, Cat.  You’ve met Bobbi.  Say hi, Bobbi.”

“Deja, moi,” Bobbi said with a grin.

 

. . . to be continued.

 

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Sweetzer Court ~ 9 Easy Streets

April 5, 2011 by Eric Shaw Quinn

He liked the King Tut headdress best.  He thought it gave him a regal air.  The jester’s hat had bells for festive occasions.  The pith helmet connoted authority.  And the jockey’s cap was the perfect compliment for his velvet riding livery.  But the purple and gold striped pharaoh’s nemes spoke his authority best.  Tut paused to admire his reflection in the dusty plate glass window of the cleaners just as the woman folded back the iron accordion metal grating for another day of dry cleaning to the stars. They exchanged a looked filled with unspoken meaning.  Their relationship over the years was rich and storied

“Don’t come in here again or I call the police,” she said, her harsh Korean English spoken as though she was perpetually angry.

“We are not amused, bitch,” Tut said grandly.  “I could crush you with a thought if I wanted to, my child.  But I have mercy.  Forgive them father for they know not what they do,” he shouted to the heavens.

The Korean woman spit, gave him the eye and turned to go begin her day.  “Don’t come in again.”

Pulling himself up, he took up his place on the bus bench.  Tut liked to comment on the Insect People as he took in the morning sun on the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard.  He could see who they really were.  The business suits and school clothes might deceive lesser mortals like the dry cleaner bitch, but he knew.

As he waited amidst the insects, he let them know that he was not like the others.

“I see your antennae,” he told a young woman, who was communicating to her hive through one of the hand held communicators they’d flooded the world with so that they might conduct their affairs openly.  “Tell the queen that I am still here and her days are numbered.  Time and space are no barrier to the league.  It is written.”

The young woman saw his lips moving, but her ear buds protected her from his words.

“Hey King Tut.”

Tut looked away from his Insecta prey at the bus stop to see who called to him so profanely.  The man stood across the boulevard in the shadow of West Hollywood City Hall.  Tut recognized the thick Russian accent, the Salvador Dali mustache and the crazed face of the man.  It was Tut’s nemesis and, he suspected, an insect sympathizer sent by the queen to torment him.

“You got my shit?” Salvadorsky demanded, waving his fist at Tut over the heads of the west bound bus commuters milling around the impossible bench on the south side of the street.  Salvadorsky hated that bench almost as much as he hated Tut.  The bench had been designed to prevent anyone lying on it.  More and more benches were being remade to reject people, to command them, to force them to sit the way the bench wanted.  Benches had become more important than people like Salvadorsky and he knew it.

He despised the tyrannical benches, but his hate for Tut was special.  When the battle visions were upon Sal and he could do nothing to stop him, Tut had stolen his cart with all his things.  But there were no visions that morning.  Sal would have his revenge.

“I’ll kill you, Tut,” Salvadorsky said waving his fist.

The horns bloomed in the morning sun as Salvadorsky ran into slow moving rush hour traffic.

Tut decided that it would be unwise to allow his true power to be seen by the insect invaders.  So, instead of destroying the traitor Salvadorsky with his mind, he opted to leap over the back of the bench and run east down the boulevard.  The light at Sweetzer was in Tut’s favor and he was well down the next block of Santa Monica before Salvadorsky could wade through traffic and give chase.  Tut caught a glimpse of the alien collaborator over his shoulder.  The light at Sweetzer had changed to green and Sal was once again fighting against traffic.

Tut heard the horns in the distance.  Using his mind, and the cross walk button, he caused the light to change at La Jolla and made his way south across Santa Monica.  The horns caught Tut’s attention.  He looked west and saw his adversary crossing through traffic at mid-block, narrowing the distance between them.  His advantage lost, Tut fled down La Jolla past the displays of wicked mansex, leather wear, dildos and greeting cards in the show windows of the Circus of Books Adult Bookstore and Apartments.

Checking behind to be sure he wasn’t seen, Tut doubled back, heading west down Vaseline Alley.

The narrow paved alleyway separated the businesses on the boulevard from the residences just to the south.  Famed as a convenient venue for impromptu assignations, there was what you’d expect to find in an alley.  Some business parking, dumpsters, some residential parking that opened onto the alleyway and Markie kneeling in the shadows behind the still shuttered Bark/Williams pet spa.  He was blowing one last client before making his way home to the motel room off Sunset he shared with a half dozen associates.

Tut saw him squatted in the shade of a ficus tree exchanging life forces with the unsuspecting human. “I see you, little cockroach,” Tut shouted as he passed them.

“I gotta go,” the client say, pushing Markie away and zipping up.

Markie tried to catch himself on his hands but only succeeding in twisting his wrist before falling into the dirt.

“Wait,” he called after the client.  “You forgot my forty dollars.  Goddamnit it, Tut!”

Crazy PTSD Russian Guy raced by.

“Run Tut, run,” Markie shouted after them.  He rose, vainly dusting off the borrowed jeans he was going get a beating for soiling.  “Goddamn it.”  No money for rock or rent in someone else’s stolen jeans, he really couldn’t go home.  Frustrated, he joined the chase.  There might be rock or a few bucks for stampeding his trick.  He could hang out at the Los Tacos by the Laundromat and get something to eat while he waited on the jeans to run through the wash cycle.

Markie looked west and saw Tut turn back up Sweetzer behind Hamburger Mary’s and race north.  Crazy Russsian Guy followed.  Markie lit out after them.

As he followed up Sweetzer, Markie remembered the street but wasn’t sure why.

The light changed just in time to save Tut’s skinny neck for another block at least.  The two ran through.  Markie made it across on yellow, the flashing red hand waving him safe as he hit the curb.  The chase continued past the early morning sidewalk diners at Joey’s and north up Sweetzer.

“Come back here you crazy thief,” Salvadorsky shouted as they continued up the tree shrouded avenue.  The disturbance attracted the attention of the off duty West Hollywood Sherriff’s Deputies guarding the perimeter of the Sisters shoot.  Heavily armed with strong coffee in paper Starbucks containers and loaded breakfast sandwiches, they kept the shoot secure and in compliance with city film commission crowd control and traffic requirements.

With amused disinterest they watched Twitchy Twink and Ratty Rasputin pursue Pharaoh north up Sweetzer.

“Give me my shit or I’ll kill you,” Sal screamed.

“Run, Tut!” one of the Deputies shouted throwing a punch in the air.

“Five says Tut goes down,” the other Sherriff said, munching ruminatively on her pastry.

But before the bet could be made, Milan and her entourage emerged from the entry archway of Sweetzer Court.  Tut missed Cat but hit Milan.  Both went down in a haze of headdresses, hair extensions and screaming.  Cat stepped in to assist, just in time to get taken out by the charging Salvadorsky.  The two fell on the struggling Milan and Tut.   Cody stood texting, ear buds in, oblivious.

The film crew and the three obligatory paparazzo who’d been awaiting Milan’s arrival sprang to life and joined the deputies rushing onto the scene.

Badges and cameras flashed as the little group became a big deal.

“I think my arm is broken,” Milan mugged for the cameras.  “Call an ambulance.”

“Where’s my cart, you thieving little pharaoh?”

“It’s the arthropod police,” Tut screamed as one of the deputies tried to cuff him.  “Watch out for their stingers.  Don’t let them tag you.  This was not in the prophesy.”

Dolph, headed to Gelson’s with his black cloth shopping bag, emerged from the building and stumbled into the mayhem on his stoop.  At first he was stunned silent, but when he spotted the cameras he screamed in terror.

Everyone froze for an instant, uncertain.

“Shoo, shoo,” Dolph shrieked, holding his hat over his face.  “You’ve no permit to film here.  Move on.  You may not photograph here.”

Mindful of the shot and concerned about permits, the second AD tried to get everyone to restage across the street.  “Okay, everyone, let’s just take this up in front of the condo.  Try to remember what you said so we have something to edit to.”

Dolph hurried off down the street shielding his face with the shopping bag.

Markie walked up just as things in front of the court were quieting down.

“Hey Cody,” he said, pausing.  “What’s going on? You partying or working?”

 

. . . to be continued

 

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