 
### NINETY-NINE POSTS

BY

STAN LERNER

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

Published By:

Lerner Wordsmith Press On Smashwords

Ninety-Nine Posts

Copyright 2010 Stanley R. Lerner

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form without permission.

This is a collection of both fiction and non-fictional stories. With respect to the works of fiction contained herein all of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for the incidental references to public figures, institutions, agencies, products, places, services, or companies, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or disparage any company's products or services. With respect to the works of non-fiction contained herein all of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, incidental references to public figures, institutions, agencies, products, places, services, or companies, are for informational purposes only and are not intended to disparage any company's products or services.

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*****

NINETY-NINE POSTS

Introduction

I recall, as if yesterday, my early fascination with words and their power. Armies were raised, love was gained, the Lord created the world—all from the use of words, or more precisely from the word's unique ability to convey thought. And it was a relationship with this magnificent power, for which I hungered.

The world before computers, Internet and blogs—this is the world I come from. But in the reaches of imagination I conjured fantasies of the day I would write and still further I dreamed of the day that I would write and my words would be read without many of the restrictions, which are inherent to the realm of physicality. I dreamt of the day that my words would travel through the air and be on a screen anywhere, anytime, and possibly in any language. It takes a great deal of ego to think of one's self as having something worth saying to others. The ego required to describe the aspirations as aforementioned is embarrassing I am the first to admit, but there is such great power and pleasure in telling the truth—I must beg indulgence.

So I wrote a screenplay—then several more. I wrote books, short and long. The blog eluded me for sometime, even though it was the art form I had once contemplated when writing was still done with quill...I am prone to exaggeration. But the truth is not far from this fact, I did write by hand. I can't say for sure why the art of the blog was lost on me. However, my salvation came in the less than pure form of self-promotion. It was generally acknowledged by all of the young marketing experts that blogging should be part of the marketing efforts for all of my other writing. And so I began to blog.

My first blogs were in the tradition of an online journal entry, with the added twist of my own literary curiosity. The progression can best be described thus: serious, then satirical and Downtown Oliver Brown. Oliver, the serialized semi-fictional account of my alter- ego who has set out to achieve self-destruction and instead finds success at what he has no desire to be successful at, found its way into the hearts of millions and at the same time created the blogger known as I. With the success of Oliver came the need to own a blog—downtownster was born.

The value, other than that of self-promotion, which I will admit now to holding in my heart, was the desire to be the one to historically document the rebirth of a community in downtown Los Angeles—albeit through rather creative means. So strong was my need for validation, I believed that documenting the rise of the core of the largest city, in the largest state, of the most powerful country on Earth would add to the definition of Stan Lerner, a definition wanting in importance, for wanting to matter. What I did not anticipate, in anyway, to be a byproduct of this endeavor was the documenting of my own journey through this snapshot, tantamount to a grain of sand in time. But this too became part of the story.

POST 1

Standard Blog

The rooftop of the Downtown Standard is really not standard at all. In fact as I sat in the middle of the day reading "Slaughter House Five", a good book by a now dead author, so it goes, I couldn't help but let my mind wander from the young topless girls frolicking in the water bed pod to electron degeneration. Momentarily I remembered some of the many nights of drinking and the one night I made out with a nineteen-year-old from Uzbekistan on the couches by the fireplace. She was beautiful. She had jet-black hair and black eyes. She had a terrible temper. My memory was interrupted when Ingrid the waitress, who had forgotten that she had met me before, brought me and iced tea. She said that she was studying something of a cosmic nature and I told her that we were all made of stardust—literally. She liked the sound of this. I went on to say that the view was incredible and I took a picture. My mind drifted back to electron degeneration and I explained to Ingrid that when a supernova explodes the dust becomes the elements that planets and in our particular case people are made of. Well this is after supernova actually and really more the result of electron degeneration and ultimately the force of gravity. Yet, regardless of my rambling explanation of the origins of the universe Ingrid seemed satisfied. So, at night when the view is lighted up like this author on New Years Eve and the bodies are pulsating on the dance floor the Standard is a really swell place. But that particular day I just wanted to read a good book by a dead author. Let my mind wander around the universe divide. Enjoy the spectacular view of the skyline and the topless girls. But honestly I wanted to make good use of the passing time. And I wanted it to pass, so I could rise up out of my seat against the force of gravity. I wanted to leave the Standard as great as it was, is, and go dance the night away at Nocturnal Wonderland. Because no matter how hot you are there's always something hotter and that's where I wanted to be—burning like a supernova. Trying to get to the heaviest elements of my soul. And not that it really matters but in some small way—I did.

POST 2

Nokia

"Do you still have seats available?"

"Yeah. How many do you need?"

I paused and gave thought to the fact that the Times had mentioned that the grand opening of the Nokia Auditorium was sold out.

The times being wrong—imagine that. The liberally biased Bozo's actually managed to make the opening of the Nokia sound like a bad thing. Some expert of some kind was quoted as saying that the 2.5 billion dollar development might ruin the neighborhood's appeal to the homeless. Of course they also gave "Meet The Family" a bad review—assholes.

"I just need one."

He tilted a seating chart my direction. "I've got orchestra."

"I'll take it."

"It's two hundred and sixty-five dollars."

I tossed my debit card through the stainless steel depression at the bottom of the window. "It's a good seat right?" Probably should have asked this before I gave him the card.

"Really good," he assured.

I noticed that he seemed bothered that the ridiculous price for the ticket didn't bother me in the least.

He thinks you're rich. Just toss that plastic right down. Man am I financially irresponsible or what? It's history in the making! You're that greatest writer of your generation. Maybe one day, the greatest ever. Besides you can't take it with you.

"Here you go." He handed me my ticket and the annoying receipt that looks so much like a ticket you think its actually a ticket and get confused at the door.

"Thanks!"

So I walked away from window 16 of the Staples Center box office with a ticket to see the Dixie Chicks and the Eagles perform the first concert ever to be performed at the Nokia. I stopped at the curb, even though the concert was supposed to start at 8:15, which was twenty or so minutes ahead. I took out my iphone, and snapped a picture.

Damn, I take a good picture. Why did it take an iphone to get me to do this? Funny the talents you discover as life goes on. You're magical with this thing.

I finished admiring the picture, put the iphone back in the pocket of my black Zegna jacket, and began making my way back across the street, which was not as simple as it sounds because the Lakers or Clippers, I'm not too sure which one, were having a pre-season game. Just what I would have suggested to have going on at the same time that the Nokia was having its grand opening.

I stood in the plaza in front of the entrance doors—towers of lights swirled around and lighted the night sky. Huge screens surrounded the plaza and showed clips of great concerts to come. Wolfgang Puck the famous chef had a tent selling food and libations. It was crowded with nice looking people and I couldn't help but think the negative writer at the Times had a point...This was no place for homeless people. Frankly, it wasn't really rapper or gang-banger friendly either. Had the city gone to hell? I thought not and walked toward the orchestra entrance.

You're disgusting you actually feel better about yourself because you're sitting in the really expensive seats. All these years and you can't stop this heinous thought pattern. But it is nice to have a great seat and feel more important than almost everyone.

I was sure to tell the middle-aged African American gentleman at the door that I just lived two blocks away and that I only came down to look around and that I was fortunate enough to get the incredible seat in row L—that made me feel blessed and superior to most everyone else. Well, I didn't actually mention the last part of course. Instead, I said that I was excited. To which he replied, "So are we!"

I stepped toward the bar, straight ahead. The line was long, but my new friend Gary who assured me that he wasn't going to cut in front of me was a good conversationalist and this made things go faster. He had flown down with his wife from Seattle just to see the Eagles. And he had paid more for his tickets than I had...

"Jack and Coke please."

"A drinking palate after my own heart," said the bartender with the round white face.

Could he pour any less Jack into my glass?

I looked scornfully at the glass, which now contained ice and a splash of Jack. "Make that a double Jack...please."

"And a liver after my own liver." The Jack flowed and I felt much better about the bartender.

"Cheers Gary!"

You came all the way here from Seattle and you ordered a beer!

"Enjoy the show, Stan."

"You too Gary."

The room was immense yet intimate. A place suited to symphony and rock or rock symphony—I really liked it. And I really liked walking down the long, blue carpet towards my seat way up front. I looked down the row—there was a girl.

I wish my seat was a little more to the center of the stage. She's cute. I wonder what her story is.

"Hi, I'm Barb."

"Hi, Barb, I'm Stan. I think I'm sitting next to you."

"Great seat. When did you get it?"

"About five minutes ago." Then I told her the same story I had told the African American gentleman that worked at the door. There was something special in the air.

"Only in L.A. would people pay three hundred dollars to come to a concert and show up thirty minutes late." Laughter.

Did that Dixie Chick really just say that? She really should stick to singing. They're late because they don't care about seeing you guys play—they're coming to see the Eagles. These Dixie Chicks are pretty cute. I'd have sex with any one of them. Especially the one with the fiddle and they really do seem to have talent. Still, shouldn't insult my hometown.

I sat and watched the Dixie Chicks. They sounded great. Looked great too. Barb and I exchanged sentences between songs. We would lean close to each other and speak so the other could feel the warmth of our breath in and around the ear.

"I'm not ready to make nice..."

They really did deserve the Grammy for that one.

I stood with the whole crowd when the Eagles took the stage. They played a song from their new album. It was okay, but lacked the complex, rich orchestration and layers of Hotel California. A few songs later the lights went out, a red spotlight fell on a single trumpet player who played a solo, some familiar, classical Spanish rift that made you want to close your eyes and float to heaven in your lovers arms. Or in my case Barb's or one of the Dixie Chicks.

And then they played Hotel California—the concert was on. Joe Walsh gained inspiration from somewhere long ago and his fingers did things to the guitar that seemed to erase the time from the well-worn faces of the band—we were all young again.

"What's the Hotel California about?" asked Barb. Her hand touched my back.

"You're living it, sweetie." Barb had just moved to California.

When the lighting design amazed for the last time it was Don Henley sounding better than ever as he sang "Desperado". I put my arm around Barb and a chance meeting had turned into an incredible first date. My mind drifted, as it has a tendency to do, back to the last time I had seen the Eagles. I was with a girl that I was not attracted to. She was a friend and she had been nice enough to invite me to see a Don Henley concert that turned into an Eagles' reunion. But when they ended the concert with "Desperado" I stood there alone, closed my eyes, and drowned in a sea of nothingness amazed that no one had ever really loved me. When the song ended, way back then, I swore I would never feel that way again. Yet, I have, as we all have, so many more times. But not the night of the grand opening of the Nokia because my arm was around Barb's shoulders and her's had found its way across my lower back and I'll be forever thankful that my friend Ed decided to blow off going with me to check things out.

Barb gave me a ride home and kissed me good night.

I think the Times was wrong—not just about my last movie but about what the effect of the Nokia is going to be on downtown. Go see for yourself my friends. Go see for yourself.

POST 3

Hollywood Book Festival

"The Grand Prize Winner of the Hollywood Book Festival is...Stan Lerner's Criminal. The winner is here with us tonight." He pointed at me. "Besides being named the writer of the best book in Hollywood for 2008, I have a check for fifteen hundred dollars for you and a one-week writer's retreat at the Lerimar Estate in St. Croix, Virgin Islands.... Stan, come up and say a few words."

Yes! You deserved to win and you did. Everyone is really happy. Probably should have prepared something to say.

"Wow! I hate to sound clichéd, but I really didn't prepare anything to say. This is my first book festival, and to win the first time out is a bit of a surprise. Umm...You know, several years ago when I first contemplated writing Criminal, my friend Johnny, who is sitting right over there"––I pointed at my table of friends and business associates––"told me to write this book truthfully. He said if it came from that place it would be a great book. And then after that, everyone in the industry told me that if I wrote the book I wanted, it would never get published—nobody would read it. So, I wrote the book I wanted and opened my own publishing company. Now, thanks to some great independent bookstores and book festivals like this, Criminal is turning into an amazing story unto itself. You don't have to follow a formula. You don't have to write by the numbers, the page-count, the pound, or whatever else the corporate occupiers of cubical space dictate. You don't have to be mediocre. The public wants better...."

Saturday morning, the valet was not there and there was no one around to help my people set up. There were no signs at the Grove that said anything about the Hollywood Book Festival, and the head of community relations at Barnes & Noble was not even aware that I had won the festival that they were running.

The Grove is such a beautiful place; too bad they didn't invite every lit agent in Hollywood to enjoy the festival. Ironic that Barnes & Noble sells all of the books that just lost to mine in their store, but doesn't carry mine. Why wouldn't they carry the book that actually won the festival they sponsor? Mark Twain was famous and broke—don't go there.

"I'd like to introduce the Hollywood Book Festival Grand Prize Winner, Stan Lerner. He will be reading from his book, Criminal."

_The book's title is_ _Stan Lerner's Criminal_ _, moron. Why did they get this guy to MC?_

"Hi everyone. Thanks for being here, thanks for supporting this event."

There must be thirty people here. You have to do more than run a few ads to get people to come. And some signs saying that the Grand Prize Winner is reading at 12:30 might have been nice.

"The great actor Hawthorne James will be reading with me today. I'd like to thank Hawthorne for coming on such short notice. For those of you who aren't familiar, we try to bring some theatre to what we do. Hawthorne and myself will be trading off. And at the request of the festival, we're going to do our best to keep this reading PG—so this one will be a little shorter than usual."

For not really being into this, you're reading pretty well. I wonder if that's just your take on it. Maybe everyone in the audience, all thirty of them, think you suck. Look at these two assholes standing there on the grass having a conversation like there isn't a reading going on—ignore them, don't lose your place.

Hawthorne is reading pretty well today also. Go figure. And listen to all that talking over there. Nice, Rick Barone and Joyce DeWitt are holding court during our reading. You sat respectfully and listened to them do their performance about being has-beens and now they're doing this. Should I say something? This is how you got your reputation; you probably shouldn't do it. Fuck it!

"Hey we're trying to do a reading up here; we can't hear ourselves you're talking so loud." Rick Barone was talking to someone involved with the festival and gave me a "What do you want from my life?" shrug. "Could you please shut the fuck up?" I said louder than I should have.

_That's right I am going to come down and kick your fag ass_ _you fucking loser. There you go, keep walking away. I'm going to go back and finish this reading._

"...Judgment day after all..."

"Tom, what are you doing here?" I asked, delighted to see someone I actually hold in high regard.

"I was just picking something up. What are you doing here?"

"I won the Hollywood Book Festival, so I'm here doing a reading and signing. C'mon, I'll give you a copy of my book." Thomas A. Mesereau, Jr. perhaps the best trial attorney in America walked along with me to the table, where I was supposed to be signing books. "Here you go, Tom," I said handing him his very own signed copy.

"Thanks, Stan. Let me pay for this."

"Stop it. Never going to happen.... Tom, seriously, let me write a book about you. I've been wanting to for a long time. The world should know what you've done in your life. People should know that there is someone out there who actually cares about and fights for justice."

He handed me his card. "Let's talk."

Look at this. James Levy with Ray Liotta in tow. He looks the best I've ever seen him. This day is going to have an interesting scorecard.

"Hi Ray."

"Hi Stan."

"Hi James."

"Hi Stan."

"...Yeah, this is the book I was working on when we met at L'Ermitage. You were with...what's his name? The guy from ER."

"John Wells..."

I signed a book for him. We traded numbers. He was off to shoot something in Michigan.

Later that night I played some miniature golf—a glamorous celebration of my big win and under-attended reading, under-attended due to lack of promotion, lack of respect, lack of caring. I won and then drove my golf partner back to her Beverly Hills mansion, where I decided to stay and have sex. The next morning, Sunday, I would have a good breakfast, read the paper, and write a press release announcing my having won the Grand Prize at the Hollywood Book Festival, an achievement that everyone in Hollywood should certainly be made aware of.

Michael E. DeBakey died. I didn't even know he was still alive—Dr. DeBakey. President Kennedy's doctor, President Johnson's doctor, President Nixon's doctor, is dead at 99.

I folded the paper and focused on the article.

He was the son a wealthy pharmacist who invested in farming. He invented the heart lung machine. He pioneered the surgery to repair aortic aneurisms and created the Dacron patch used in the surgery. There had to be a patch because just sewing up the hole left the aorta too small, too constricted. He created the patch on his wife's sewing machine. He performed the first bypass surgery. He pioneered the surgery that prevents plaque from breaking off, traveling to the brain, and causing a stroke. When he was serving under General Patton he came up with the idea of M.A.S.H. units. He created an endowment that gives Baylor University two million dollars a year. He did...He did...He did... He lived in a modest home five minutes from the hospital where he performed more than sixty thousand surgeries. His work saved millions of lives.

I opened my computer—my fingers caressed the keys. FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: "STAN LERNER'S CRIMINAL" IS THE HOLLYWOOD BOOK FESTIVAL'S GRAND PRIZE WINNER!"

What if I had been a man like Dr. Michael E. DeBakey? What if every man was a man like that?

POST 4

Ritz Carlton Gone Wrong

"I'm going to throw up."

I looked over at my friend Richard—amused and concerned. "Let's take a rest...we're not in a rush. And if it makes you feel better, I can't feel my right foot and both my hamstrings are going to rip any second...I'm missing a disk...That's why I don't do this kind of stuff anymore. I should have stretched. If Ed had mentioned we were going to go kayaking I would have stretched."

"Where is he?" Richard asked, with more than a hint of worry in his voice. "How far is it back to his house?"

Ed had rounded the yacht club. I had met Richard on the fire engine at Camp Monticqa—when I was four. When you've been friends with someone for thirty-nine years, the term friends actually means something. Ed showed up on the scene when I was eight. It was like Ed to row way in front of us—he's the competitive type.

"He's way in front of us, but we should be able to see him when we get around the yacht club."

"And then how far?"

"I'd say about a mile...It's three miles around Naples, so I'd say we have about a mile to go...Oh look, that's nice!" I pointed at the boat full of young girls that passed us like we were standing still. They were really paddling. The fact that I had been a world- class athlete gave the moment a certain feeling that there were no precise words to describe. The girls glowed, tan and beautiful, perfect in every possible way—I was not.

"I'm serious, I feel sick," Richard reiterated for the seventh or eighth time.

"You know this might be a good start. I'm going to get back into great shape. I mean...I'm not tired or winded, but I have got to lose ten pounds."

"You look good in kayak...You look like the guy in the Viagra commercial."

"What!?"

"I mean Levitra..." Richard corrected himself. "You look like the guy in that commercial."

"Dude, that's the only part of me that's still working fine." I rowed a little harder, to make the point in some obtuse way.

"Do it Stan. Starting today, we take a vow to get back into shape."

"Done. Tomorrow I'm going to wake up work out and go down to Laguna for a couple of days. It's business, but I'm going make some time for myself."

We rounded the yacht club. "Where is he?" Richard's tone had changed from worried to distressed.

I looked through the sailboat regatta that I had every intention of paddling right through the center of—inconsiderate, but a mile less to Ed's house. "His house is just to the left of those boats on the peninsula."

Richard nodded. "I see him...Are you sure it's okay to cross in front of all these boats?"

"Just follow me!"

The Next Day

I hadn't stayed at the Ritz Carlton in Laguna in twenty years—a lot of life had transpired. I was a drug dealer in those days. I had great taste. The Ritz Carlton in Laguna was the nicest of them all. I was looking forward to staying there again after so many years.

"What did they do to this place?" I asked my business associate.

"I don't know."

The convertible Porsche came to a stop in valet parking. "It looks really plain. Something is missing."

"Hello welcome to the Ritz Carlton," said the valet. I was distracted so I don't recall my response, but I imagine I said, "thanks" or "hello" whatever.

"Checking in?"

What the f**k. There's purple chairs that look like they belong in a bordello in the lobby. What happened to classy and English? Mirrored tables? Modern chrome banisters? Italian desk? Italian chairs that look like they're form Ikea? They've updated the Ritz—and ruined it.

The bellman opened the door to my room, and although I didn't think it possible, they had managed to top the horribly decorated lobby and stark hallways with mismatched carpet. Yes, the room now sported little more than a bed, plasma, and a couple of mirrored columns. Gone was the nice warm furniture. Gone was the nice artwork. The only reminder that a nice hotel for the rich and pampered was once called the Ritz, was the marble bathroom.

This is what happens when you try too hard. This is what happens when you forget who you are and what made you successful. This is what happens when incompetent people get into positions of power and start making decisions. Most people just don't have it. The monkeys are running the zoo. This is what happens.

I stood on the balcony and stared out at the beautiful beach. The beach still had it. The coastline however had changed—every inch now sported a gigantic house or some planned community type of amenity.

The limousine whisked me away to my meeting. We drank on a rooftop in the middle of what is still a very nice little beach town.

"...The trouble is that people just want to do the minimum. They want to get that paycheck and go...They don't have passion. They don't want to build a company." I motioned for the bartender with way too many tattoo's to come my way. "Another Jack and Diet, please."

"Stan, you ought to see what I'm dealing with. These kids today with their entitled attitudes...But it sounds like your company is doing well."

"It is...everything is way too difficult. If you're honest and work hard in this country you should succeed. If you're honest, you work hard, and your product is better than everyone else's—you should be rich...You know the only reason we're succeeding, and this should be a lesson to you guys, is that we're honest. I take my case to our customers. I thought my books would sell themselves, but as it turns out people buy my books because of me. And that's how this whole video thing started. I can't meet every reader but because of You Tube and video they can meet me. Every product has a story, I tell people ours...That's what you guys should be doing...GM lost 38 billion dollars that it absolutely didn't need to...I could have kept that from happening just by telling their story—and they have a good one."

"You see some of our stories?"

"Yeah. I know you guys are doing well but you need to really get on this. You have some great products with stories to tell. And remember, big cars, big profits."

"Can you do something about are customer experience? Something interactive for our people."

I nodded and sipped my drink. "I've been thinking about that; a live event that both entertains and teaches people to treat people better—to care about customers. I have some ideas, big ideas."

More drinks, dinner at Montage, a good nights sleep, a long walk on the beach, and an idea about how to get people to care about their customers again. We'll see what happens.

POST 5

Michigan

Of course you're the only one wearing a suit and tie. Nobody dresses to fly anymore. Could they possibly get any more people on this plane? What ever happened to three feet for my two legs? Maybe Obama could add that to his nonexistent list of new ideas, which I wish he actually did have. It was a pretty smooth trip to the airport though. LAX needs a lot of work, like all of LA, islands of greatness surrounded by the landscape of the American dream no longer—perhaps forgotten.

You are actually excited! To go to Michigan? You have a free writer's retreat for a week on Saint Croix and instead you're going to Michigan. There is something wrong with you. But it's this insanity that makes you, you. And by most people's standards that's not so bad.

Okay, the seatbelt sign is off. This would be a good time to get out your laptop and work on "Blast". Wait until people read this one, a horror novel, which you spend, the first two thirds of the book developing the characters. Why did I do that? Why do you do anything? Michigan? Something just feels right about this. Besides the LA Times did a whole spread on Mackinac Island on Sunday. That had to be a sign. You will sit on the porch of the Grand Hotel and write. What should I write?

The short bus ride to the rent a car place was uneventful.

"We have a beautiful brand new Camry for you today Mr. Lerner."

I stared at the pleasant middle-aged woman for a moment before responding. "I'd like the largest American car you have."

"The Camry is a very nice car—it's never been driven."

"Thank you, but there's no way I'm driving around Detroit in anything other than an American car." I began to turn the pages of the catalogue on the counter. "I'll take the Grand Marquis. Do you have one of those?"

Rattled, she shuffled through her paperwork. "Yes, we do."

"Good." I smiled. "Now I can drive around in the day and still be able to sleep at night."

How funny. The Ritz Carlton in Dearborn actually looks like a Ritz Carlton. They should see what I wrote about the Ritz in Laguna. This place is a little tired but a simple freshen up and...

"Stan. Stan Lerner, the great writer of Los Angeles is in Dearborn Michigan!"

I turned to see the unexpected sight of my thin and very handsome, in an edgy sort of way, friend from LA.

"James, James Levy, I knew this was still a classy place. And I prefer the greatest writer of my generation, if you continue to feel disposed to address me with a surname."

James considered. " Okay, I'll give you that. What are you doing here? Some one told me you were in the South of France."

"Saint Croix, I should be in the American Virgin Islands. It was part of my prize for winning the Hollywood Book Festival, a beachfront estate and all that. But I decided to come to Michigan instead...I mean first, and then I'll go to Saint Croix—I'm just not sure when, because I have so much work to do."

"So why are you here?"

"Well there's a marketing company I'm supposed to take a meeting with. Their West coast office manager wants to sell my product documentary concept to the auto industry—so she wants me to present it to the powers that be back here—something like that. And since I've never been to Michigan it sounded like a good reason to look around."

"I saw the one you did for Criminal, it's an awesome concept. Are you excited?"

I almost laughed. "No."

"This would be great for their industry, you should be excited. You could probably save their asses."

"They won't do it. At least these marketing guys won't do it. They're part of the problem. They just want to get paid, they don't care if what they do really accomplishes anything—like selling more cars."

"So why did you come?"

"I'm searching for sanity. I'm hungry for it. I go out on the road every chance I get, to try and find things that make sense to me. Even if it's bad news I want to see it for myself and find the sanity in it...If there is any. Oh, and while I'm here I'm going to see if I can get a meeting with Borders. They're based in Ann Arbor, which is where we do a lot of our printing, so hopefully we can sit down and talk."

"Are they carrying "Criminal" yet?"

"No."

"That's amazing. What do you have to do to get it in their stores?"

"You mean besides the great reviews, awards, and people asking for it all over the country? You mean besides that?"

James laughed. "So you're here looking for sanity?"

I smiled at the absurdity of the situation. "At some point there has to be a reasonableness, James. If you can do everything you're supposed to and success is left to nothing but the realm of the random, nobody with real talent will strive to succeed...It's becoming the ruin of our country...Just out of curiosity, what are you doing here?"

"Meeting with some potential investors." James looked at me with a sly smile. "Any girls on the agenda?"

"I have a stalker or two in this neck of the woods."

"You need to settle down."

"I'm going to...With one of my stalkers...somewhere. I just don't know which one and where yet?"

James put his hand on my shoulder. "I love you man. It's inspiring to know that there is someone that's crazier than me roaming around."

"Glad to do my part." I smiled and headed for my room.

POST 6

Michigan Part II

I pulled the Mercury Grand Marquis into the parking lot of the Henry Ford in Dearborn. There had been some slight jest in my insistence on the largest American car that I could possibly rent, but after three days of driving this luxury land-yacht around Detroit and Dearborn, I was convinced that American cars are indeed the best in the world and only the incompetence of the car makers' marketing departments and the self-loathing / self-destructive nature of much of the American public has led to the industry's severe financial misfortune.

The Henry Ford in Dearborn is a large campus of everything Ford including the Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. Greenfield Village is particularly unique in that Mr. Ford picked up the homes and businesses of many of the people he admired and moved them—to a place intentionally frozen in time—a good time.

I boarded the bus that was to take me on a tour of The Rouge. The Rouge, in many ways is where the industrial revolution began. It sits on the Rouge River and it makes Fords. It is capable of making 600 Ford F150 trucks every ten hours and it can operate two ten hour shifts a day—1200 trucks a day, 50 million dollars a day, American industrial might.

And although I had my attractive blonde companion with me I did not speak, other than to myself.

This bus is nice enough but you would think they would have something futuristic. And really the bus driver should be dressed in a suit and tie.

The entrance to the plant was unassuming.

I think I would do something grander with this entrance if I was running the company, but there is a subtle message here. The power of this place is not grand buildings or green buildings that the recording on the bus talked about. No, the power here is mass production. No businessman should ever forget that fancy buildings do not create wealth; it's created by industrial output. You need to think about that, Stan.

First stop, a short movie about the history of Ford, pretty well done.

Second stop, a multimedia experience meant to take you into the world of a truck being produced, not done wall at all.

The third stop, an observation deck that shows off the grass they grow on the roof of the plant.

I can't believe they make such a big deal about grass on the roof. I'm green, I love trees, but they've idled The Rouge, a whole forest being grown on the roof won't change that—what a disgrace.

I walked onto the catwalk that allows tourists like myself to walk around the giant room where Ford F150's are supposed to be assembled.

Look at this. Fifty million dollars a day of industrial output sitting idle. They say it's only for ninety days, but this should never happen—not in America. I wonder what Henry Ford would think? Fords being made in Mexico while The Rouge is idle? And why are some of the TV's that tell me what goes on here not state of the art plasmas? It's the little things. If you want to give people a tour meant to impress—impress!

Unbelievable, the light in the bathroom is not motion sensor activated. They have grass on the roof to absorb extra rainwater but no sensor activated lights in the bathroom? Why not, Al Gore's house burns more electricity than the entire state of Tennessee, when he's home, not flying around on his private jet that burns more gas than my car will in a hundred years...And I like Al Gore but... I wish I knew Bill Ford. He seems like a good guy. I would love to talk to him.

I stood in the lobby and admired a red F150 extended cab—that was currently not being made by the plant that makes red F150 extended cabs.

I would buy one of these right now, but of course there is no dealership here at the factory to sell Fords to all the people like me who are all inspired by the tour. I'm sure there is some ridiculous reason that you can't actually buy a Ford at Ford. Wait I can hear it, "Well were not actually dealers, we have dealers, and it wouldn't be fair to allow one dealer to sell Fords at Ford over the other Ford dealers..."and so on.

And then it struck me that the Ford Dealership in Dearborn was pretty mediocre.

Well that's what's wrong. The Ford Dealership in Dearborn should be a tourist attraction. If you can't get it right in your hometown, how can you get it right anywhere else? There's no standard being set.

And then it struck me that they don't assemble Fords in California anymore.

California is the largest car market in the United States. They should make Mustangs in California—loyalty. I bet if Ford made cars in our state they could count on some loyalty. Loyalty? Does anyone even know what it is anymore?

I entered Greenfield Village, it would I expect still make Henry Ford proud. I smiled as real Model T's drove people around and kids played baseball with the staff by 1869 rules. I stood in the Wright Brothers' bicycle shop, then I ate lunch in a carriage house, the menu of which hadn't changed since 1857—I drank a mint julep and ate onion pie with some trout. I walked to the great American poet Robert Frost's house...and stood and listened to a recording, an old recording, of him reading "The Road Less Traveled". What a voice.

I will go to the Grand Hotel, sit on the porch, and write a poem, I thought to myself as I listened...

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet, knowing how way leads onto way

I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence

Two roads diverged in a wood

And I took the one less traveled by

And that has made all the difference

POST 7

Michigan Part III

The Ritz Carlton Dearborn had been more than adequate. Greenfield village had been nothing less than inspiring—Robert Frost and "The Road Less Traveled" moved me. The Rouge left me troubled and wanting to talk to Bill Ford. The attractive blonde did not pack quickly. I was used to this, but I wanted to get on the road to Mackinac Island—restless was I. So, I checked my email. I planned on meeting with Border's when I was done on Mackinac, but a letter of recommendation from Barnes & Noble was a pleasant surprise, as I was sure it would only add to the insanity of the Barnes & Noble / Stan Lerner relationship.

"What are you reading, honey?" asked the blonde.

I read the following out loud to her:

Matt Lohr

Community Relations Manager

189 The Grove Dr., L.A., CA 90036

crm2089@bn.com

323.525.0366

To Whom It May Concern:

Hello, my name is Matt Lohr, and I am the community relations manager for Barnes & Noble at the Grove in Los Angeles, CA. A short while ago, I became acquainted with the works of author Stan Lerner. Mr. Lerner is the author of _Criminal_ , both a pitch-black tale of America's drug-dealing underworld and an intense glimpse into the psyche of a singular American evil genius. This book was the Grand Prize winner at the 2008 Hollywood Book Festival, a literary event at which our store was the principal bookseller.

I have also gotten to know Stan Lerner himself, and I can honestly say that few authors I have worked with can match his enthusiasm and versatility. In addition to _Criminal_ , he has written humorous fiction, self-help satire, and even children's books (all available through his imprint, Lerner Wordsmith Press). What's more, Mr. Lerner is an energetic individual who exudes good humor and chutzpah, and his innovative marketing ideas have led to successful readings and signing events throughout southern California.

I can personally vouch for Stan Lerner as someone whose work it is worth your while to consider for a featured event at your venue, and his books would make a welcome addition to your store's inventory. If you have any further questions for me, don't hesitate to contact me via the information listed above.

Take care,

Matt Lohr

Community Relations Manager

"Wow, that's so great...Why don't you seem happier?"

I looked at the nice email—and just wanted to leave. "Are you ready yet?" I asked.

The five-plus-hour drive from Dearborn to Mackinac Island was a relaxing drive by Los Angeles standards. Lots of green not too many cars—the Grand Marquis floated along flawlessly.

"So, why aren't you happier about the letter of recommendation you got?"

I sighed, and wondered what I was doing with a blonde that had a brain and tenacity—so much for stereotypes. "Do you really want to know?"

"Well, yeah. It seems like a great thing for your books to be in Barnes & Noble."

I laughed. "Why do you think my books are going to be in Barnes & Noble? I mean other than at The Grove store—which, giving credit where credit is due is, their premier store on the West Coast. But why do you think that they are going to put my book into their stores?"

"Well, you have great reviews, you have a fanatical following, you won the contest they run, you're in their best store, and now you have a letter of recommendation that says that you should be in every store—not just Barnes & Noble...And sweetie everyone knows you're a great writer—your book is important."

"And you think that the women in the Small Press Department at Barnes & Noble care about any of those things?" I laughed again.

"Don't be so negative...you've done everything...and more. You'll see."

It was my first trip to Mackinac Island. I was looking forward to writing a poem. And maybe there was still some small place in my heart that wanted to believe that more than one lone community relations manager was capable of doing the right thing. I thought about my Tuesday meeting with Border's in Anne Arbor. I wondered if I would find some sanity there.

I looked over at the blonde. "Do you know that they make and sale ten thousand pounds of fudge every day on Mackinac Island?"

"I'm the one that told you about Mackinac fudge."

"Maybe I would have been better off making fudge, or chocolate, or something instead of becoming a writer?"

"You didn't become a writer, you were born a writer...You're the best writer in America—"

My mind began to truly ponder a life without a calling as we passed through the farmland of Northern Michigan.

POST 8

GRAND AGAIN

A Poem By Stan Lerner

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about the air, not on the island but out there.

Too often polluted by despair.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about the Rouge Plant asleep, a betrayed soul which was all of ours to keep.

Once a symbol of might, now a symbol of darkness like the night.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about hearing the old tired voice of Robert Frost speak of the road less traveled—an endeavor in which I have also dabbled.

There was indeed a fork in the road, a part of life which we have all been told.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about click, click, klop, click, klop, a horse passed by.

A sound from another time.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I asked myself, "Better off now or better off then? Will civilization need to begin again?"

I talked to myself about this a lot, click, klop, click, klop...

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about dress too casual, the few with vision, the abundance without, the profanity spoken by teenagers, how base we've become, and the beauty of an island surrounded by blue water that tolerates it all.

The Grand does make one feel small.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about what might become of the rest of my years.

A bird flew near, then off toward a lighthouse no longer in use.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about what might become of the rest of my years.

All of the hopes and a few of the fears.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about taking time to love and time to think—a slight breeze blew from a direction I did not expect.

I watched as the flags moved by the wind and hoped we could all be Grand again.

POST 9

HBO The Russians Invade And Sam Noah

"What do you mean HBO passed on turning "Stan Lerner's Criminal" into a series? You said this was a fucking no-brainer."

"They said that they're moving in a more family oriented direction."

I wasn't thrilled by my manager's news to say the least. "The people that brought us Six Feet Under, Sopranos, and Deadwood are looking for something more family oriented, than my award winning novel that I'm back in Michigan to meet with Borders about national distribution on? This is a joke, right?"

"We should talk in person," suggested Lisa.

"I'm in Michigan for a week."

"I've taken it to Showtime, hopefully things will go better there...What do you want to do about the reading at the Hollywood Library?"

"Cancel it, I'm not interested in doing a room that only holds forty people. I told you I want to do the Downtown LA Library....And Showtime has ten great shows...HBO, has nothing...This is just fucking crazy!"

"The Downtown LA Library said they can't book an event. It's done through an organization..."

"Lisa, I'm the best writer in America, I live Downtown, and they have authors that lose festivals to me from the Westside there all the time...just send me the info of whoever handles the events there and I'll take care of it."

I hung up the phone and looked at the beautiful blonde waiting for me in bed.

"Is everything okay?" she inquired.

I shrugged. "Yeah, why do you ask?"

"Well it just sounded..."

"Oh, that. It's nothing." Her arms wrapped around my waste and she kissed my stomach. I stood there naked and happy running my hands through her hair. I was anxious to make lover to her, but the fact that something that should just be done wasn't bothered me...There's a lot of trouble out there. I thought to myself.

I had been back in LA for a week—finally a moment to call HBO.

"Sue Naegle's office this is Steve."

"Hi Steve, it's Stan Lerner calling for Sue."

"Stan Lerner?"

"I'm the author of "Stan Lerner's Criminal" if you don't know who I am. And I don't mean that in a Hollywood jerk-off kind of way..."

"Sorry Stan, Sue is on vacation."

"Listen, my manager submitted my novel to you guys, and then told me HBO passed on it because it was not family oriented enough..."

"I'm on Amazon looking at it right now." Steve sounded sufficiently impressed.

"Just so you know when she told me this I almost dropped the phone. Seriously, I need to hear this from you guys. It just sounds like such bullshit to me. I'm ready to fire my people if this isn't absolutely true."

"Stan, HBO doesn't accept unsolicited material..."

"What are you talking about? You've already read it and passed."

"I know, I'm just supposed to say that...You really need to talk to Mike Garcia's office."

"If I can't get a straight answer from Mike's office I'm going to need to talk to Sue."

"I'm sure they will be able to tell you what happened."

"Thanks Steve."

"Hello, Mike Garcia's office, Susan speaking."

"It's Stan Lerner calling for Mike."

"Hi Stan, Mike's in a meeting is there something I can help you with?"

"Do you know who I am?"

"Actually, I do."

"Well let me tell you why I'm calling. I wanted to turn my novel "Stan Lerner's Criminal" into a motion picture. But my people all got together to convince me that it should be an HBO series. Everybody on my side seemed to think that this was an easy deal to get done. And then last week they tell me you guys are taking a pass because you're looking for more family oriented material. Not that I'm mad at HBO, but my characters make the Sopranos look like a bunch of pussies, it has the reviews, the awards, and the readers, so I just need to confirm that what I've been told is accurate."

"I understand," she said in the tone of a witness to what's going wrong. "Someone will get back to you."

"Thanks."

An hour later my phone rang. "Hi Stan this is Jerry from Francheska Orsi's office at HBO. I just wanted to tell you that Francheska is the one who reviewed the book and passed."

"And what exactly does Francheska do at HBO?" I asked, thinking that someone in janitorial might have made such a decision...not literally but someone not really qualified.

"She's the head of development. She works under Mike and Gina."

"And she passed on my book because you guys are looking for family shows?"

"Well, more family oriented programming."

"HBO original programming is built on sex and violence...You know I'm from LA, so I'm used to hearing some crazy bullshit...I thought my people were lying, I was going to fire them, but now that I've heard it myself...Anyway, thanks for getting back to me..." I vented for a few minutes more and then went back to my ever-growing stack of work.

I left the house early the next morning—off to Starbucks with my computer. I had only walked to the end of the block when—

I can't believe we didn't make a deal at HBO...Life is just a never ending chain of surprises these days...A black Rolls Royce Phantom with heavy armor plating—there's only one person who would have something like that.

The black Rolls blocked the crosswalk I had intended to use. The rear door opened, in the opposite direction of most cars—a suicide door. I did not need to be instructed—silently I slid into the back seat.

"Hello Stan. Long time no see."

"Hello Sam," I said to Sam Noah—sitting next to me.

"So you're a famous writer now."

"I don't know about famous," I responded, wondering if I had much longer to live—literally.

"Well, you're certainly getting there. You know the word that comes to my mind? Preposterous. It is preposterous to imagine that you have gone from who you were—to this." He turned his head to the left and looked out the window. "You wrote a book about me...You're really out of your fucking mind."

"It's been out for two months, Sam. If you wanted to do something about it?"

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you if that's what you mean..." His right hand waved off the idea. "I've had eighteen years to do that..." he said referring to the time since I had last met with him and my former friends.

"So, why are you here?"

"It's a great book by the way," said Sam ignoring my question. Sam often ignores what's being said to him, he hears, but ignores. "What a mind you have," he continued. "Ever since we were little kids—it's like you can just do anything. You're the only one who has ever retired—the only one...I let you...You said you would live a quiet life, becoming a famous writer wasn't part of the deal."

"You know what I meant when I said I would live a quiet life."

He turned his face back toward me. His eyes always penetrate through one's soul. "You're playing a fucking game Stan and I don't know if I like it...And if I decide I don't like it you're going to stop. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And don't ever fucking act like you don't know what I'm talking about. All these fucking idiots that don't get it...Amazing...You put up a billboard." He shook his head, and then composed himself. "Eighteen years you've lived this shit life of yours...I mean we all keep wondering how much longer."

"It's a challenge Sam but..."

"Its embarrassing Stan. It's hard to watch—and we watch—everything."

"Sam..."

He held up his hand cutting me off. "Please spare me you're delusional bullshit about how good you feel being part of all this—because you're not. You will never be accepted into this nonsense. Do you enjoy putting your fate in the hands of a bunch of nothings...You're one of us, not one of them, never forget that...At least you look halfway decent still."

"Thanks."

"Come back."

I looked out the window. The street played in front of me. "No. I like what I'm doing right now—I made the right decision."

"I can make you come back."

"No Sam, you can kill me—I'm sure any time you want. But you can't make me come back."

"You're that lonely, Stan?"

There are no words that one can say to Sam Noah that he does not see the deeper meaning of. "I'm alone Sam, I think we both know that."

"I could make everything you want to happen, happen. Nobody will say no. Anything you want will be yours again...and then things can get back to normal."

I shook my head. "I'm going to endure this..."

"Because you are above it all," Sam laughed. "You don't care about what we care about..." Sam looked at me with genuine disgust. "The Russians have invaded Georgia, what do you think about that?"

"I don't want to be involved Sam. I don't want to think about it."

"Stan, what do you think about the Russians invading Georgia?"

"Is this a one time deal?" I asked.

"No..."

Two words that Sam Noah says should make anyone who hears them have cause for trepidation, the first is yes and the second is no. This, no, meant that Sam would be back in my life.

"Sam, our allies the Georgians invaded a breakaway republic during the opening ceremonies of the Olympics while our President sat next to Putin...The Russians kicked the shit out of them because their weapons aren't much better than slingshots and they're a bunch of whiney pussies who don't want to die for their country—our allies."

Sam smiled. "Go on."

"Well if they're our allies, which they shouldn't be...the Russians can't be allowed to occupy them. And while I personally have nothing against the Russians—if they don't split we should get involved."

"How involved?"

I sighed. "They're all..."

"How involved would the old Stan say?" Sam insisted.

"If the Russians want to fight, fight. The old Stan would say let's see what they've got...I'm guessing they're not all that."

The Rolls pulled up to the Starbucks I had planned on walking to. "I believe this is the Starbucks you like." Sam reached over and opened the door. "It's been way too long brother—way too long...We'll be talking again soon."

I stood and watched as the car pulled away. I should have felt something but I didn't. I thought about HBO, compared to Sam—inconsequential. I thought about the Russians, and the Georgians our allies that didn't have the brains to arm themselves to the teeth against the Russians—consequential. Finally, I thought about Sam, better looking, and no doubt more powerful than ever being back in my life—

POST 10

Vegas Whiskey Pete And Sam Noah

Nick's black SLR ate up Interstate 15 as we cruised at 110 mph to Sin City. There was business at hand and possibly some sin.

"Hi this is Stan," I said into my Iphone.

"Hi Stan it's Debbie in Michael Starr's office. I spoke to Michael and he said you should stop by."

"We just left Barstow, I probably won't be there until five," I replied not happy to be running late.

"Not a problem Stan, Michael will be here. Just call when you're downstairs."

"Thanks Debbie." Debbie was always friendly. I turned to Nick. "You don't mind if we stop at State Line. I need to talk to Mike and see if we can get a deal done on Whiskey Pete's or not."

Nick shrugged. "Not a problem at all."

I looked at my phone for a moment—it was unusual for Mike to have the time or the desire to meet. I looked back to Nick. "At least you'll get to see the executive offices at Buffalo Bill's."

"I thought you were doing a deal at Whiskey Pete's?"

"The executive office for all three hotels at State Line is hidden away at Buffalo Bill's. It's actually kind of cool—I think you'll like it."

I'm sure Nick's SLR was the nicest car to pull into the valet at Buffalo Bill's in a while, well maybe with the exception of the Herbst boys. Their father, Terrible Herbst, had bought Primm Nevada from MGM who had actually bought Primm from old man Primm.

Mike sent someone down to let us in and walk us up to his office.

"Hey Stan!" Mike said in a genial tone standing in the doorway to his office.

"Hi Mike," I nodded toward Nick, "this is my friend Nick."

"Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too."

"C'mon in and sit down guys."

We sat down in Mike's large, plush office, which looked like something out of Bonanza. The place was quiet—like Buffalo Bill, business at State Line was dead. The Indian casinos, high cost of gas, MGM running the place into the ground, or management that hadn't been able to make a deal on a showroom for three months with me—hard to tell why the place was dead, but it was.

"So where are we with things?" he asked.

"Mike, you asked me to put more risk on my side of the deal, so I did. You tell me where we're at, do the numbers work for you?"

He turned to his computer and started searching through his email in an attempt to find the proposal that he had, had for weeks. "Here it is." He printed it out.

"I put all the equipment costs on my side of the deal and cut your advertising commitment in half..."

We talked for an hour and we seemed to be on the same page—finally.

"Okay, I'll have an answer for you by Tuesday," said Mike as he shook my hand. Mike and his subordinate Dave had to that point not kept their word to me once, so I left feeling, well, actions speak louder than words.

The private hotel at the Venetian, called the Venezia Tower is nicer than the Venetian, but like the Venetian it lacks the integrity of a great hotel—it has flash but no substance. If the Venezia was a politician it could run for President—and maybe win.

I stayed at the Venezia as Nick's guest—his suite was, as always, comped...but more importantly it was in his name so I could stay in Vegas and enjoy some anonymity—not from the public but from..."

"Where the fuck is our luggage?" Nick looked at his watch. "We're late for dinner."

"I looked at my watch. It's only been a half hour—this is the Venetian." Nick looked at me but I continued, "I'll call down."

"Oh, I see the VIP desk never called to tell you to bring up our luggage? That's a drag because we're a half hour late for dinner now."

"It will be right up!" the voice on the phone assured. "Five minutes."

I chuckled as I sat back down in the living room. "If you didn't catch it, we've been sitting and waiting for luggage that isn't coming."

Nick shook his head. "Why does the service here always suck?"

I shrugged. I thought about pontificating as to where the buck should stop, but once a long time ago I had spoken to Rob Goldstein the President of the Venetian on the phone and he had been nice enough. "They said our stuff will be here in five minutes."

"Great. Dave is going to have to start eating without us...he has a plane to catch."

Twenty minutes later our luggage arrived and we left for Joe's Stone Crab for a dinner that was as good as the service at the Venetian is bad.

Saturday night, Christian Audigier, the new club at TI, was going off as a club should on Saturday night. No real big boys there, other than Nick and myself, but a bottle table on the balcony was sufficient for a few drinks—and to say I had seen the new club. Carlos, my great VIP host, used to help out with the "Night Tribe" show that I used to produce at the Rio. I wondered where all the good-looking girls came from. Oh to be young and handsome like Carlos, again.

Look at all these girls. It's a little late to take one back to the room. You have to get to your table early and get them drunk if you want to do that. Funny, I don't even want to. I'm in Vegas and I don't feel like having a woman tonight...

"Are you ready to get the fuck out of here?" asked Nick interrupting my thought.

"Yes," I answered, rising to my feet—buzzed. I can drink, and Nick can drink more. I said goodbye to my friend Andy who is usually around when I am in Vegas, and made my way through the crowd of pulsating bodies. I thought back to the first incarnation of the club, when it had been called Tangerine. I met a girl from Texas there that night. She was wife material...and so it goes.

The blonde that crossed the street with us was very well dressed. She had short very nicely cut hair and the athletic body of a professional skier. I guessed her to be in her early twenties.

"So did you guys have fun tonight?" she asked.

I remember the last time a girl asked me that in almost this very same spot New Years Eve 2005. Great sex ensued shortly-thereafter.

"We had a good time, " I answered politely. "He's going to play. I'm calling it a night."

"So early?" she was genuinely surprised.

I smiled. "I've been here before. And I have some writing to do tomorrow."

"I don't know...You're in Vegas, you should be having fun all night."

"Would you like to join me for something to eat," I asked. "I'll order some room service."

She smiled back at me. "I'm not hungry, but I'll keep you company."

"You look like you need a friend." I meant this—it wasn't a line.

She nodded. "Actually I do."

Up in the suite I didn't hesitate to begin running a bath and taking off my clothes. She stood in the living room and stared at a copy of "Stan Lerner's Criminal", which she had taken from the living room table. I always travel with a copy...

"I thought you looked familiar. I've been wanting to read this."

"I'm going to take a bath...Make yourself comfortable...Enjoy the book, I hear it's really good."

The bath water was just right. At least the hot water works in this hotel, I thought to myself. And then laughed at hearing the sounds of my neighbors through the paper-thin walls.

Monica walked into the bathroom completely naked. I couldn't help but to admire her body, there is no skin, like young skin, but it really was her face that I liked. She had a nice smile—the smile of a good person.

"Are you really a bad man?" she asked as she squatted down into the water. "Wow, this is hot."

"Yes, I am." Our legs intertwined.

"But you seem really nice...And you knew that I needed a friend...And now I'm in your bathtub...How did you know I needed a friend?"

"I know people. You're a prostitute of some kind. Judging by your looks a high- priced one...And it always catches up with people...Selling one's self, I mean. Most people do it, one way or the other, that's why so many people are alone and unhappy today. We live in a world of high-priced whores."

"I've been doing it a year...I've made a lot of money...But I'm retiring...I knew the moment I saw you that you weren't a client...It's the way you stand...I was thinking to myself, this guy is way to comfortable with himself—he's accomplished some big things."

I leaned forward and we kissed innocently on the lips. I was thinking I might change my mind about wanting a woman and make love to her...The thought dissipated as I heard the sound of the door opening. I'm sure Monica stayed calm mostly because I did not bother to move as Sam Noah, and the man known as the other Stan walked into the bathroom. Sam pulled up the small bench from the makeup mirror while the other Stan stood in the doorway.

"Hello Stan...and friend," said Sam, in a tone that was, and has always been, the tone of a dangerous man.

I looked at Monica. "I'm a bad man...These are really bad men, so don't think I'm being discourteous by not introducing you...And don't speak."

I turned back to Sam Noah, the world's most powerful criminal, and the other Stan, a man that had done things to other human beings that even my book had to sanitize. "Hi Sam." I nodded toward the other Stan. "Hi Stan, longtime no see."

Sam leaned forward. "Okay, as last we spoke I told you how not thrilled I was about your book...I reminded you that you were allowed to retire because you made a deal to keep—" he was straining to keep calm, "a low profile. I asked you for an opinion about the Russians invading Georgia. No big deal. Not anywhere near the violation of our agreement that you pulled with that fucking book. And you wrote a blog about it...Do you know what that cost me?"

The Russians stopped the attack and overthrow the day I posted—pussies.

"You cost me half a billion dollars! And don't tell me that you didn't know that they read your blog."

"Can I speak, Sam?"

"You better, Stan. You better explain what the fuck you're doing. And why the fuck are you trying to make a deal at State Line? Because I know you don't really give a shit about doing a show at some piece of shit casino in the middle of the desert."

"Sam, I wrote a book that did you no harm. But you used that as a pretext to park your Rolls Royce Phantom back in my life—after eighteen years. I've taken a bullet for you twice and I've gone to jail for you...I told you I'm a writer. Your interest, don't interest me. If you insist on asking my opinions about things, I'm going to write about them. And if it makes you feel better the Russians are still occupying plenty of Georgia—dug in now like sitting ducks."

"Stan, you've got to stop this craziness." Sam lowered his voice his tone reflected his true concern for me, "I told you, you should come back."

"Writing's not crazy, Sam. And I've already taken a pass on your offer."

"There's not going to be a deal at State Line...Barnes & Noble is not going to carry your book nationally."

I stared at him—feeling some feelings I didn't care for.

He put his hand over his chest and shook his head. "No, not because of me. I would never do that. Stan, no matter how smart you are, and there is nobody smarter, no matter how good you are, they won't let it happen. You're one of us, not one of them. And they know it. They will always be afraid of you."

I was used to my phones being tapped and my mail being read but the bathtub interruption was getting old. "What do you really want, Sam? Why are you and the other Stan in my bathroom, in a suite that isn't registered to me, in this overrated hotel in Las Vegas?"

"Have you seen Felix the Cat?" he asked, referring to the drug lord not the cartoon character.

"I have no interest in Mexico, Sam," I stated plainly.

"You're sure? Because there is a lot of trouble down there, the kind of trouble you used to like."

"Nothing to do with it."

Sam looked back at the other Stan, silently they concurred that I was telling the truth. "Do you have an opinion about Mexico that won't cost me money?"

"There's going to be a lot more trouble down there, Sam. Nothing anyone can even imagine right now."

Sam stood and walked to the door then turned back to face me. "November 06 you had lunch with Prime Minister Netenyahu in a private room at a restaurant in New York called Solo. What did you two talk about, Stan?"

"Can't tell you that, Sam."

He nodded. "I'm pretty sure I know...And be careful with this blogging thing."

"You'll still make fifty to a hundred million over there, Sam."

"Which isn't five hundred million, brother...Enjoy your stay at this shit-hole of a hotel. The old you would never stay in a place like this. And I am sorry for the bad news you are about to get..."

I waited for the sound of the door closing. Monica leaned forward and kissed me innocently on the lips. I looked at my fingers. "I'm kind of water logged." She kissed me again. "I told you I'm bad...And my friends are really bad."

"Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?" she asked.

I smiled. "Not a bit."

POST 11

Bad News From Barnes & Noble

I exited Nick's black SLR and headed for the rear entrance to my building's lobby. The pleasant sound of water emanated from the fountain, as usual, and struck a chord of familiarity. But my stroll through the impressive marble lobby was not warm or comfortable as a return to one's home should be.

I opened my mailbox and took the stack of envelopes with me up to my place—best described as a pad. Sam Noah had said there would be bad news—no doubt there would be. The envelope from Barnes & Noble was of course the obvious choice. My novel "Stan Lerner's Criminal" would become an instant Best Seller if they carried it nationally—it had won the Hollywood Book Festival, which they sponsored—their own Director of Community Relations Matt Lour had recommended it to all retailers—bad news. I wondered how Sam and friends intercepted and read my mail. The envelope's seal was pristine. But really how hard is it to just print up a new envelope?

Dear Mr. Lerner,

Thank you for resubmitting "Stan Lerner's Criminal".

One of our challenges as a book retailer is to pick the best assortments of titles for our stores based on sales trends in categories, and the purchasing habits of customers (i.e. what does our history tell us they are more likely to buy in stores, versus what they buy online at barnesandnoble.com).

Our experience with other titles similar to yours tells us that the customer is more likely to expect to purchase this title online rather than in a general trade retail bookstore. As a result, we have decided not to add this title to our store assortment.

We do want to make it available to our customers through the Barnes & Noble website, barnesandnoble.com, www.bn.com. In order to make your title available to any of our customers who want it, we will be stocking your title in our distribution network, through our relationship with Baker & Taylor. As long as this title remains in stock at Baker & Taylor, we will have a ready supply, and the title will be available for 24-hour delivery to our customers who shop for it online at our website, www.bn.com and in 5 to 8 business days for customers requesting it in the stores. In the next two weeks a purchase order of two copies will be sent to Baker & Taylor.

Sincerely,

Evelyn Velazquez

Small Press Department, Barnes & Noble, Inc.

I let the letter fall from my hand to the desk.

This is not the American Dream. Work hard, be honest, make a better product than everyone else—and then have some mediocre woman in a cubicle send you one of these. What to do, what to do? Call the boss. Call Steve Riggio the chairman of Barnes & Noble and ask him to intervene. He won't. They'll think you're crazy for calling. But you'll know you did everything there was to do. Better call first thing in the morning then go to The Novel Café and finish "Blast" since it might be the last thing you ever write.

"Good morning Steve Riggio's office."

"This is Stan Lerner, whom I speaking to?"

"This is Maki, I'm Steve' assistant."

"Hi Maki, I'm having some craziness with your small press department that maybe you or Steve can help me with."

"Well Steve's on vacation, why don't you tell me what's going on? Maybe I can help."

"I've submitted a novel to small press called "Stan Lerner's Criminal" that's now been rejected twice. I'm sure they reject a lot of books but it makes no sense to reject this book. It's the most highly reviewed book of the year. It just won the Hollywood Book Festival, which Barnes & Noble sponsors. And your own Director of Communications has given it a written recommendation to all stores...Oh, and small press has a video that clearly shows the crowds and excitement that the book readings and signings generate—usually 100 to 200 people an event. So, all that being said there's just something wrong with this decision."

"Stan, I will definitely find out what's going on."

"Maki, not to sound dramatic, but business in this country is in real trouble because of this kind of stupidity. You can't ask a publisher to do everything they're supposed to do, then not come through with a reliable distribution channel. Because if a decision like this one stands, it really means that business is just a ridiculous gamble. People who actually make things would really be better off just going to Vegas and throwing the dice—it can't all just come down to the whim of some wheel in the cog."

"I understand Stan."

The Novel Café is arguably LA's best writer's writer place to write. Located on the borderline of Santa Monica Beach and Venice Beach it's artsy, bohemian and intellectual all rolled into one—tourist actually stop by on occasion to see the writers writing. It was my third day in a row sitting for six-hour stretches at the tables where much of Criminal came in to existence.

The air felt good as I stepped outside. The end of summer ocean breeze held a final embrace, before leaving. The sight of Frank sitting outside smoking a cigarette was a logical continuation of the Sam Noah and friends reunion that was apparently underway since the release of Criminal. I couldn't help but wonder if Sam had been right about it being me who had broken our agreement—I had written a book.

Frank looked up at me and said nothing—his look was sardonic. Like Sam and the other Stan he was still in great shape, but of course it's incumbent on killers like Sam, the other Stan, and Frank to stay in shape—their craft demands it.

"What the fuck Frank? Why are you here?"

"Nice to see you too, Stan."

"I'm not in the mood. I can't even take a bath..."

Frank stood up, let his cigarette drop to the sidewalk, then ground it out with his foot. "You know I'm not in management. Sam said keep an eye on you—so here I am bored out of my fucking mind."

I looked back through the window at my computer on the table. "I had to write the book, Frank."

"Stan, I don't want to know anything. Sam said to make sure nothing happens to you..."

"I can take care of myself."

Frank looked at me face to face. "Your old friends are hacking off people's heads down South. The price of white has almost doubled...And there are a lot of people who think you've actually lost your mind and maybe have something to do with all this craziness—so, again, here I am bored out of my mind."

I sighed. "I'm going back inside."

As I sat at my table I thought back to the night Frank had held Hector Ochoa's mouth open while Sam cut out his tongue. The thought was thankfully interrupted by the old school ring of my iphone. I looked down at the 212 area code and hoped that Barnes & Noble had come to a new conclusion.

"Hi this is Stan."

"Hi Stan this is Marcela Smith from Barnes & Noble. I'm the head of small press."

"Hi Marcella, I'm the writer causing all of the trouble."

Her voice was surprisingly pleasant. "Well, you're trying to get your book out there—I understand. And you've definitely spent a lot of money to make it happen. But Stan you really need to get more involved with reading groups and other writers. You need more word of mouth."

"Marcella, you've seen the video. You know that people line up by the hundreds to get a signed copy of my book. I have the fastest growing blog on the Internet. I have word of mouth..."

"Stan, we're happy to sell your book online. Putting it in stores is too much risk."

"What risk? You have ninety days to return it if it doesn't sell. The risk is all mine. And besides you are selling it at your number one store on the West Coast—right now."

"That's one store."

"Did it sell?"

"We sold five copies."

"So, why not put five copies in every store? You know they'll sell—they just did. And in a store where we didn't even do an event or advertise. You could just do this Marcela and it's a best seller."

Her tone became serious. She had decided to stop lying. "Stan, don't you think if we wanted to do that, we would have done that already?"

The word "wanted" rang in my head. They just didn't "want" to put the book on the shelf. "Thanks Marcela, at least now I understand."

"It doesn't mean we won't ever..."

I hung up and looked at Frank who had joined me at the table—uninvited. "Think about what you say right now, Frank. I'm not in such a great mood."

"It's good to see that look in your eye, Stan. I was pretty sure you hadn't become the peace loving pussy they said you had." He chuckled. "Although I can't believe you were pleading with some dumb bitch to buy your book...You should let me talk to her."

I folded my computer top down and put it in its case. "I'm leaving now. Don't follow me." Frank smiled. "I'm serious Frank, don't."

"That's what I'm talking about," Frank said, as I walked away.

POST 12

John McCain's Convention Speech

By Stan Lerner

My friends and fellow citizens I am profoundly honored and humbled to accept your nomination for the Presidency of the United States of America.

In 1789, our nation elected its first President—George Washington. A man called the purest figure in history. An extraordinary man that made it possible for ordinary men to rule. Ordinary men, meaning: all of us, a government elected by the people for the people, that follows the will of the majority, but does not betray it's responsibility to the minority, to the poor, to the old, to the sick, to the weak, and to the immigrant.

Our fist leader's pre-eminent service to our great country has a place in history that will never be equaled, but should always be studied and emulated. A man educated at home. A planter who loved the land. A leader of men into battle. The wealthiest man of a nation struggling to be born that heard the call of its people and answered it literally riding in front of his troops on a white horse—encamping with them during the freezing winters in Valley Forge.

There were many great men of this generation, one can only be humbled by hearing their names, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, Benjamin Franklyn and many more. They came together to elect a President not based on royal lineage. And not based on rhetoric or hyperbole. The people of the United States and the founding fathers came together to elect a leader that was not only qualified, but the most qualified to lead a nation at its first crossroads. A nation by its democratic nature that will always be at a crossroads—because we are free.

In our free nation, that so many have sacrificed for, for more than two hundred and thirty-two years, we are free to think as we like and we are free to speak our thoughts. Incredible freedoms that should never be taken for granted...But with these freedoms comes an incredible individual responsibility. A free mind must be responsible to itself. It must find happiness in its own internal framework—Americans, since the founding fathers, have not only embraced this responsibility they have cherished it.

So, let us not talk politics tonight, but rather speak the truth, let's talk straight...because the foundation of our freedom is, and has always been, based on our own individual intellectual honesty.

Today the United States of America stands alone as the wealthiest and most productive country in the history of mankind. Today, the United States of America stands alone as the greatest military power the world has ever known. Today, our old alliances with England, Germany, and France are not weak, they are strong...And our support of democracy around the globe has created new allies out of countries once ruled by an evil empire. Today, the Unites States of America has the strongest government on earth. This is the undeniable truth of our great country. But we can do better—

With greatness comes the challenge of greatness. Americans never settle for the status quo. Americans never say that things are good enough. Americans reach for the stars and even when we fall short—we try again.

It is however, incumbent on us to discuss the times when we fall short. These are the times when we question ourselves. These are the times that we rightfully question those who have been entrusted with the public welfare. This is how we make our country better. We should always remember that history has shown us that when we have fallen short it is not because we have failed to move forward, but rather we have drifted from the principles of our founding fathers, the very foundation of our greatness.

Today our country, as successful as it is, is falling short in some areas. But make no mistake about it, the solutions to our problems will not come from drifting further away from the core values that have brought us to such lofty heights. The solutions will not come from more government and less freedom. America's challenges will be met when the government gets out of the way of the people and let's Americans do what they do best—succeed.

For Americans to do what they do best, our country must be safe. The safety of the public is, first and foremost, the responsibility of the Commander and Chief—the President. My fellow Americans, I have personally faced the enemies of freedom...and if you see fit to elect me as your President you can be assured that the resolve to never let our enemies prevail in their quest to destroy our way of life permeates my body and my soul.

In the 1990's those entrusted with the safety of America failed to recognize and act against the gathering threat of Islamic Fundamentalism. On September 11th, 2001 the greatest attack in the history of our country took place. Many of those responsible have been brought to justice...and many have not. The blood of our brothers and sisters stains the hands of these men. They once lived and made their plans openly. Now they cower in caves and under rocks, but they still plan—their thirst for more blood unquenched. Let me say this plainly. As President, there will be no place far enough, no cave deep enough, no rock large enough, for these men to hide from the long arm of justice. These mass murderers will answer for their crimes.

Our country leads the world in creative thought and in science. But the same education system that produces the brightest minds in the world is failing many others. It is expedient to say that this problem is due to a lack of resources, but this is simply not the case. The Federal Government is spending 500 billion dollars a year on education. Can we build new schools? Yes. Can we pay those who educate our children more? Yes. But no matter how grand the buildings or how good the teachers, we will not fulfill our responsibility to educate students properly until we provide a standardized curriculum to our schools that has been created by the best minds of today for the better minds of tomorrow. As President I will do this.

With a curriculum developed that guarantees that a student in Detroit is getting the same opportunity to learn as the student in Beverly Hills I will make it the government's priority to put a laptop computer in the hands of each and every student so that they may have equal access to their lessons. Every school classroom will be networked and today's teachers will be able to work with their students, not to achieve passing grades, but true mastery of subject matter. And from this mastery of subject matter will come the next generation of creative thought, math, and science.

I support a parents' right to choose the appropriate school for their child. So, we must give parents school vouchers. This will not be the ruin of public education; it will be the catalyst for a golden age of public education. Because where there is competition there is innovation.

My friends, I believe in testing, but testing is not learning. And learning how to take a test is not education. And an education system that forces teachers to teach test taking is not an education system—it is a factory. Let us come together, to once again create a culture that values education. Let us come together to instill the students of this generation with the same thirst for knowledge that generations before them have had. And let's ask our schools to be accountable, but not at the expense of the learning experience.

The wealth of America is immense; though it has never been and never will be evenly distributed. The poor strive to be rich and the rich strive for more wealth if they so choose—this is the American way. It is not the government's role to distribute or redistribute wealth. Rather, the government should be frugal with the people's money and work diligently to ensure that all who seek to better their standard of living in this country have the opportunity to do so. To this end, as President, I will work to cut the top federal income tax rate to 20%. I will ask Congress to permanently eliminate both the death tax and capital gains. With more money in the hands of people and not the government, our economy will grow. And we will pay off our national debt.

If the tax and spending cuts I will ask Congress to approve are not enough to stimulate growth, balance our budget and pay off our debt, I will ask for a temporary national sales tax of 2.5%. It is time that the government meets its fiscal responsibilities with the same integrity that it asks its citizens to. We must balance the budget and pay off our debt. As President I will do this.

In the last eight years personal home ownership achieved an all-time high...More Americans own homes today than ever before. Homeownership is indeed one of the most important factors in the creation of personal wealth, however many homes were bought by people who could not truly afford them. This is a personal tragedy for many Americans and a great burden to our economy. The government and the American people must not allow legitimate markets to become corrupted by moneychangers and speculators. We must resolve ourselves to the fact that real wealth is not created by speculation with other people's money, but through the production of quality goods and services. As President I will seek to limit regulations on business, but I will aggressively seek to regulate out of existence the practices that allow the corruption of our markets.

America consumes a great deal of energy. To this end we must explore and drill for oil responsibly, wherever possible. Increased oil production today is a necessity but it is only a temporary measure to meet our needs while we bring the full resources of private enterprise and the government together to develop the alternative energy resources that will completely replace our dependency on oil in the next twenty years. As President I will ask Congress to approve an energy bill that includes 500 billion dollars of new spending on alternative energies. When a consensus has been reached as to whether the cars of the future will run on natural gas, electricity, hydrogen, or a fuel type not yet even conceived, the government will be prepared to support the implementation of how this energy is to be distributed—quickly and in mass.

In the period of transition we are now entering, from fossil fuel to renewable energy sources, we must all come together to double our conservation efforts. As President I will ask Congress to raise mileage standards on all new vehicles and to make energy efficient light bulbs the law. And we will rebuild the nations power grid so that it is more efficient and more reliable. With the federal government taking the lead I will ask governors to double the efforts of their states. States in the sunbelt should build new homes with solar roofs and states where there is wind must mandate wind power. As President I will not approach alternative energy and energy conservation as a business opportunity, but as a matter of national security.

As part of our energy and conservation plan we must also undertake an entirely new approach to the nations water supply. Make no mistake; America's water supply is every bit as important as our other natural resources. As President I will ask the Army Corps of Engineers to design, and we will build a national water grid. Working together, the country that put a man on the moon, will put an end to droughts and flooding.

For the safety of our country, the education of our children, a responsible and comprehensive energy program, the stewardship of our economy to still higher levels of prosperity, intelligent management of our natural resources, and real solutions for fixing social security and a health care system that offers the best care in the world, but at too high of a price. You may hold me accountable.

With much to do, I am fortunate to be joined by the next Vice President of America, Sarah Palin. Sarah is a successful wife, mother of five, and Governor of the Great State of Alaska. Sarah is a fiscal conservative and a proven reformer with an approval rating among the people of her state in excess of 80%...A well-spoken young man recently said, "Change doesn't come from Washington, it comes to Washington." Well, I agree—and I actually did something about it. Sarah Palin is coming to Washington...Sarah is young, but trust me when I tell you she has the strength of Golda Meir and the good sense and dignity of Margaret Thatcher—she has what it takes to lead America into the twenty-first century.

Soon we will leave this room and begin the final leg of a long campaign. This will not be easy. My opponent, Barack Obama, is a skilled orator. His charisma attracts crowds and his words intoxicate many listeners...But they are empty words.

Barack Obama speaks of change yet offers no real change. What he does offer in the most eloquent way, are the old failed ideas of socialism. If the automobile industry suffers because it is not making the cars that the public wants, he proposes that the government will somehow come in and show them how to make fuel-efficient vehicles. Healthcare costs too high? Barack Obama says that the government is somehow going to automate the industry. Taxes? Barack Obama wants to take the money from companies that he decides are making too much and redistribute it. More taxes? Barack Obama wants to take the money from individual Americans that he decides are making too much and redistribute it. Let me be perfectly clear, the change that Barack Obama is advocating is not real change, but a change back to a way of thinking that did not work in the Soviet Union, Cuba, or Communist China.

Barack Obama and his surrogates spent most of their convention trying to redefine, me. They did this because they cannot define their own candidate. And let me give you an example as to why:

Barack Obama, stood in front of 80,000 people and said that because Franklyn Delano Roosevelt and John F, Kennedy were democrats that the Democratic Party could be trusted to keep the people of this country safe...But the Democratic Party is not entrusted with the safety of the American public—the President is. Barack Obama equates himself, because he is a democrat, to Presidents Roosevelt and Kennedy? Friends, President Roosevelt prior to becoming the Commander and Chief had been the Assistant Secretary of the Navy. President Kennedy had received the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for his display of courage during World War II...Barack Obama is no Roosevelt and he is no Kennedy. And any attempt at comparison is not the audacity of hope but just audacity.

Tonight, America is, as it often is, at a crossroads. We are a great country, but there is much work to do. Work that I have had a lifetime of experience to prepare me for. I have had the honor of leading brave men into battle and I have suffered at the hands of our enemies. The people of the great state of Arizona sent me to Congress and I did the job I was sent to Washington to do—and because I had a job to do, I never hesitated to reach across the aisle to get the job done.

Tonight, and for the next two months I am going to ask all Americans to put aside their partisan differences. I am going to ask Republicans and Democrats alike to not vote based on party, race, gender, or likeability—there is too much at stake. Our economy is strong but it is not yet the economy it needs to be for success in the twenty-first century. We are a country at war, with enemies intent on the taking of as many innocent American lives as possible—and committed to the end our way of life. So, I ask every American to ask themselves honestly, "who is the most qualified to be President?" My fellow Americans I'm asking for your vote.

Thank you! Good night and God Bless the United States of America!

POST 13

True Blood Truly Sucks

So this is HBO's new show...A bunch of vampires now live in a small southern town—you've got to be kidding me. Wow, the main character is a mind reader. Wow is the acting bad. Wow is the writing bad—this is high school level crap. Oh no, don't tell me the place has a gay black cook—that's actually less believable than the bullshit vampire premise—and a sassy black bartender girl who is supposed to be the Jackie Brown version of Flow on Alice. This must be the WB—no it's HBO, the channel that once brought me Six Feet Under, Deadwood, Sopranos, and Rome is charging me for this embarrassingly bad excuse for a show. Anne Rice is probably rolling in her grave...Wait she's not dead—she just looks dead. Okay, here comes the gratuitous sex scene—am I just biased because they didn't replace Sopranos with a show based on my award winning book? No. This show is a piece of shit. Yes. This show is a piece of shit—and it's even more upsetting because your book would actually be a great show. Maybe I should cancel HBO...Take a walk.

POST 14

The Case For Torture

There's Frank, this is fucking too much, I can't even take a walk in peace. Maybe Sam is right I should find a nice cave to live in—wouldn't be the first time.

Frank walked along beside me. "Nice night for a walk, Stan."

"The weathers been great all summer...I don't really need an escort, unless you know something I don't. I think I'll live to see another day."

"Sam wants to see you. He said to have you come with at first sighting—that'd be now."

"Can't you forget about the impromptu walk? And we'll all visit in the morning, when you interrupt my walk to Starbucks."

Frank shook his head. "Sorry, Stan. He said the moment you came out of that high rise bunker to have you come with...My car is couple of blocks down."

Doug, large by even large black man standards, walked up along my other side. "Hey Stan, good to see you, bro." He held out his hand. "Better give me your cell phone—you don't want a gps imprint."

I looked over at Frank.

"Doug and your phone we'll stay in the neighborhood." He nodded toward Doug—meaning hand over the phone.

"This is different," I commented, handing Doug the iphone.

Frank lighted a cigarette. "I'm not going to bullshit you—it's serious...Sam wants to see you."

I got into the nondescript Dodge Durango.

"So why were you out taking a walk, more trouble with that bitch you were talking to the other day—that won't put your books in Barnes & Noble?"

"No, I was watching True Blood on HBO—it was so bad it put me into a funk."

Frank tossed what was left of his cigarette out the window. "You've gotten kind of sensitive, don't you think?"

"No, there's more to it than that."

"Well we're going to be driving for a while."

"My manager pitched Criminal to HBO..."

"And they turned it down," Frank said, finishing my sentence then laughed. "Stan, try and put yourself in their shoes—they just want to keep getting a paycheck. 'Yes' gets people fired, 'No' doesn't."

He had used my line but I had a response. "This country was built on people saying, 'Yes', Frank. It's all going to come down if things don't change."

"So, what's wrong with that?" Frank glanced from the road to me. "Seriously, you would love it if it all came down."

"I try not to think like that anymore."

Frank's brow lifted slightly. "The key word being 'try'. Normal people don't have to try—they like things structured for them. But you—you want to see it burn—you want to see the people that say 'no' burn, I know you do... So, how come you never got married and had a family?"

I had wondered this myself. "Maybe because I'm unstable...or maybe it's just not in the plan for me."

Frank chuckled. "You went off plan a long time ago...I'm not going to give you shit like I'm sure Sam does, but seriously has it been worth it?"

I had also thought about this a great deal. "I think so, Frank. I've accomplished some things. Not as much as I would have liked to, but I've done some good work and I've made a difference in a few lives...I think...You know I actually ran into a burning house and saved a little girl."

"Are you trying to make up for the things you've done?"

"No. I don't think it works like that."

"Really?"

"I think every moment is a choice. And I think God helps you down whatever path you choose. But every moment it's up to us to make the right choice."

"And do you, Stan?" asked Frank.

I shook my head—a bit sad at the fact. "No. Unless you're totally dedicated, heart, mind, and soul—and possessions, doing the right thing is hard. You know a lot of times I really think I'm doing the right thing but then it doesn't turn out."

Frank looked at me quizzically. "You are really fucked up." I looked out the window—he continued, "I'm being serious...you're a fucking tiger...people used to cower when they heard your name...you're a fucking animal, Stan. What the fuck's the matter with you?"

"I took God into my heart, Frank...Even a moment of true goodness, just a moment—you can feel heaven."

"So this good shit is making you miserable." Frank shrugged. "Sounds great."

The warehouse was nondescript. The naked man chained to the metal chair had obviously been tortured for several days. Sam and the other Stan sat on a table next to the tortured man. The table was covered with several bloody instruments—Sam Noah doesn't believe in water-boarding. No, Sam believes in the kind of pain that makes one beg for death. I glanced down at the car battery and the wires that disappeared into the man's crotch.

"Hi Stan," Sam shouted gleefully. "I didn't think we would catch you until morning but I'm glad you could make it." He pointed at the man in the chair. "He's told us everything we need to know...You do recognize him don't you?"

"Yes." Mohamed Jmael was a bomb maker. His specialty was suicide vests.

"He made the bomb that blew up your friend Dianna. And now he's here in the States..."

I was supposed to have lunch with Dianna on Ben Yehuda Street that day in Israel. Instead I left early for New York and sent one of my people to tell her I had to go. The boy wearing the vest didn't realize that it wasn't me sitting there eating lunch—he sat down next to the young man, that he thought was me, and Dianna, then blew himself up. My associate was avulsed into a never accurately determined number of pieces—Dianna had 185 surgeries and was never the same, and several other innocent people died.

I stared at Mohamed...Sam's voice was somewhere off in the distance. "I'm sure you're wondering how this piece of shit wound up getting the benefit of our hospitality." The other Stan had moved behind the chair—something that looked like an ice pick in his hand, there was a scream through the fog. Sam's tone was serious as he looked down at the wrenching body in the chair. "He used one of our supply routes to bring in a load of RDX, which makes me think he was about to whip up a batch of C-4 for U.S. consumption. But you see my brother I don't give a shit about what sand nigger here wants to blow up. I need to know where your old friend Felix the Cat is hanging these days and that's who put him on our road...He confirmed it and confirmed it and confirmed it. So, I promised this guy if he told me what I wanted to know that I wouldn't kill him and you know I never break a promise. I could just dump him somewhere—someone will call the cops they'll take him to a hospital—they'll fix him up and of course they'll have no idea who he really is. And when they release him under whatever bullshit identity he's using he'll walk out of the hospital and make up that C-4..." Sam extended a gun to me. ".45 your favorite, Stan."

A gun or a knife in certain hands offers a unique feeling—of completion.

Sam's voice continued somewhere, "What are the chances? Maybe he was here to finish you off—probably not though. He brought in enough to finish off a lot of people. Imagine how Dianna feels when she looks into a mirror. What do you think she would want you to do? All the relatives of the people he's killed? You know if I were in a different line of work I would give this piece of shit to the cops. There would be a big expensive trial—and jail time. But no, if he leaves here he's free. How much goodness are you feeling right now, brother? You kill this motherfucker or he's free...."

I sat in the Durango thinking that it was a pretty nice vehicle. All the fancy shit I liked had led me down a path...which might have been different, if it wasn't for the lust for things. I looked over at Frank, there had been no further discussion, everyone likes to see the animals at the zoo—it's a different feeling when they get out of their cage. "Take me to the beach, Frank."

"It's four in the morning."

"Frank, drop me off at the beach...Tell Doug to leave my cell phone at the front desk."

"What the fuck are you going to do at the beach?"

"I'm going to watch the sunrise...there's a moment when you can tell the difference between the blue in the sky and the ocean—it's a special moment."

POST 15

The Blind Girl

So I sat on the beach...Because night had not yet turned into day the sand was cool to the touch. I picked up a handful and let it run through my fingers—a sensation I had enjoyed since childhood. I thought about time passing like the countless grains of sand through my hand turned deconstructed hourglass. Where had it gone? Where had the time gone? And even as I wished that time would give me a chance to catch my breath and actually live for a moment the earth turned and I could begin to perceive the difference between sea and sky. This is an important moment—this is the moment that one can begin a new prayer and in a sense begin-a-new.

I pondered how to pray for my soul, a willful sinner that wanted to be righteous and failed—due to a lack of fortitude. I thought about Sam Noah, the other Stan, and Frank. They didn't see themselves as sinners. And in a world where someone is willing to kill, maybe they weren't. Is killing a killer a sin? Sam would laugh at such a question. But I could hear God ask, "You cried over the death of a tree that gave you some shade, but care not for a city of people which I created?"

"Excuse me, do you mind if I join you?"

I stared up at the improbable sight of a beautiful young girl—she was blind. "I don't mind. But may I ask what you're doing on the beach right here, right now?"

She sat down next to me her shoulder against mine. "I sit in this exact spot every morning at exactly this time. I like to feel the first rays of light when they arrive."

"Are you an angel?" I asked, thinking the Lord might have really had enough of me.

She laughed a sweet laugh. "I'm from Kansas...Can I touch your face? You have a great voice but I'm not seeing you."

"You may not want to..." Her hands brushed over my skin.

"I see," she said. Her left hand came down covering my right hand. "People who have potential for greatness also have the equal potential to do great harm."

"I want to be good...but I just can't seem to ever really..."

"Don't do that to yourself. You'd protect me with your life wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Because I'm blind and I can't protect myself."

"Yes."

"Then you're not like the people that you deal with. What's your name?"

"Stan."

"Stan, there are a lot of people who prey on the weak. I don't just mean like me, I mean the weak of heart and mind. The only thing between the weak and the jackals are the type of people who come to the moment when heaven and earth separate one from the other."

"What do you do blind girl?"

"I make incense...I sell them to the guys who sell them on the boardwalk."

"I wondered where they got it from...Do you have a name?"

"Eve. My name is Eve."

"Of course. I feel good sitting next to you, Eve."

"How would you feel about holding my hand and taking a walk, Stan?"

"I'm not worthy of that much kindness, Eve. But I will."

So we stood, Eve slipped her hand into mine, and there was that feeling of completion—as we walked.

Maybe an hour had passed, I don't know. "Why don't you come over and I'll make us some breakfast?" she asked.

I looked her up and down. She wore a simple white blouse over some jeans—she was so beautiful. "Eve, I don't know if that's such a good idea."

She laughed. "It's a great idea...I'm blind, but because of it, I can actually see good."

I asked the doorman at Shutters on the Beach to summon a cab for me. I had spent two days with Eve—it was hard to go back home and face my reality. Doug had left my iphone as requested at the security desk. The text message was unwelcome but not unexpected.

"Let's meet for coffee."

I sat upstairs in back at Groudwork on Traction. Traction is an odd street just off Alemeda—it is the heart of the art district in resurgent downtown Los Angeles. Groundwork is a real coffee house that begs the question, "Why isn't this company more successful?" The art on the brick walls told the story of a culture divided between the talented and the living dead a few block away—not on Skid Row, but in their glass towers, pushing digital files and scheming.

Felix the Cat sat across from me. "Thank you for coming," he said politely, with a heavy Mexican accent.

"People think we're in touch anyway, why not be?"

"I hear Sam Noah and you speak, again."

I nodded my head. "I don't know why, but Sam thinks I should stop writing."

Felix laughed. "Well, this talent of yours is impressive, but odd given your background...I also hear Sam Noah has some very good people working on your writing."

I shrugged. Sam hadn't mentioned it but it was no surprise.

"If they break the codes..."

"Felix, if I wrote in code...trust me...they'll never be broken."

Felix smiled. "I'm not the one doing the killing. It's Sam Noah. He told you it was me, yes?"

"He told me it was you Felix and asked if I was involved."

"He's a serpent, Stan. He's killing everyone," he bunched his hand into a fist, "he cut my brother's head off and left it on a pile of shit. He wants control of the routes—all of them."

I looked at Felix, my expression cool due to a lack of sympathy for his situation. "You brought too much white into the country. You didn't protect the market. Now Sam is going to take control of every road—and he's going to kill you and your family."

"You can talk to him. He will always listen to you."

"If I were to do that old friend, I would be considered back in the business and that's not a consideration."

"Stan, I swear I'll protect the market. Not a gram more than Sam Noah wants will move."

"Felix, I came here at risk to my own well being because I have known you for so long and genuinely like you, but you're a dead man we both know that."

Felix looked around the room. My words seemed to have brought him some peace. "It was just too much money. Isn't that ironic. I got into the business because I was so poor and now I will die because I became too rich." He laughed. "Why does Sam Noah care? Can you tell me that?"

"I can't say for sure."

"But you can say."

"Mexico, is going to run out of oil very soon. The United States is bankrupt and lives now on borrowed money—Sam wants control of major commodities. Coke has doubled in price the last few months. Ask yourself Felix, who does that benefit the most?"

He looked down at the table. "The man who owns the coke."

I stood up from the hard, wood chair. "They watch me almost all of the time...I'm sorry for you Felix."

He winked. "Maybe, I still have a few tricks."

"That's why they call you Felix the Cat." I gave him a pat on the shoulder and walked away. Sam would murder Felix the moment he no longer needed to blame him for the killings. I was sure of that. Sam's hand was tightening on the throat of Mexico.

POST 16

The Godfather

The screen went black and the lonely horn played the haunting melody. Though The Godfather had first been exhibited in theaters thirty-six years earlier—it had sold out the Cinerama Dome, Hollywood's second most famous movie venue. I sat willing to be completely absorbed into the story that I knew so well. What I wasn't prepared for was an audience that wasn't.

The rich shot over the Don's shoulder as he sits behind his desk reveals a nervous undertaker dressed in a formal tuxedo.

"These animals tried to rape my daughter. But she would not give up her virtue. So they beat her. When I went to the hospital she could not talk—her jaw was wired shut. I couldn't recognize my own child....The judge gave the boys that did this a suspended sentence. They smiled at me. The bastards stood in the courtroom and smiled at me. So I said to myself for justice you must go to Don Corleone."

The shot cuts to the Don who kindly pets the cat that sits on his lap. "What have I done to deserve such disrespect? In all the years we've known each other you've never invited me to your house even once for coffee. Let us be honest, you didn't want my friendship."

The undertaker's tone is strained. "I didn't want to get into trouble."

"You came to a new country and it's been good to you and your family. You believed in its laws. You believed that they would protect you. But if you had come to me in friendship the boys that hurt your daughter would already be suffering."

"Be my friend Godfather."

The uncomfortable laughter was spread equally throughout the audience.

Why are people laughing? This is one of the greatest scenes in the history of motion pictures. They can't deal with it. When this movie was made the paradigm was just beginning to shift. There was still a sense of honor thirty-six year ago. There was loyalty. And friends weren't just friends when they need something from you. The Don is pointing out to the undertaker the error of his acceptance of the dishonorable life of friendship based on need rather than respect.

"...I will not murder these boys as you ask me to, this is not justice—your daughter is still alive..."

Today people are fickle. Their hearts are filled with deceit and treachery. To what end? An empty sense of accomplishment. Look at the woman over there. Liberal bitch on her Blackberry reading a text message. And over there. And over there. All of these people that can't even turn of their phones in a movie theater because they are so empty that even true art can't fill them up.

"Tom, can you get me off the hook...for old time sake?" asked Tessio the traitor, his part in Don Barzinni's scheme long foretold to Michael by his father.

"Sorry, Sal."

"Tell Michael it was just business. I always liked him."

And the men escorted Tessio away to his well-deserved execution.

Nobody's laughing now. It took three hours but true art has prevailed. All these schemers have had a look in the mirror. It was an uncomfortable laugh at first—then self- realization. I wonder if any of them will change. Or will they just walk out of this dome and go back to their user world.

The horn cried out the lonely melody and the screen went to black.

I said goodbye to a young couple that I knew from Downtown. I missed Sam Noah and my old friends. And as often happens when you think of someone I turned to see Sam approaching.

"C'mon take a walk with me," he said in that commanding voice I had for many years convinced myself that I did not want to here.

"I take it you just didn't happen to be in the movie."

Sam shook his head. "No, but I remember when we used to watch it as kids."

"It stands the test of time. I had never seen it on the big screen—I don't think." I noticed lots of Sam's very bad people following us on both sides of the street.

"How's the blind girl?"

I shrugged. "I haven't seen her for a while."

"How are you, Stan?"

"I don't know, Sam. And you showing back up hasn't helped."

"I'm not going to bust your balls today."

"Good, but you want something."

"No. That's the world you live in. I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I mean you did just take a whole day off from you obsessive writing schedule to watch movies...not like you."

I laughed. "I needed a break. Not that I had a plan but things just aren't what I thought they would be."

"I know you saw Felix the Cat," Sam said looking down at the dirty sidewalk of Sunset Blvd.

I nodded. "He wanted me to try and work something out with you," Sam looked at me, "I told him I wouldn't get involved and that you would kill him probably sooner than later."

Sam pointed across the street. "Let's walk up to Hollywood Blvd. I'll buy you a drink...You know twelve of Felix's own people came to me to tell me that he had spoken with you."

I sighed. "As Bob Dylan would say, 'times they are a changing'."

Sam smiled. "I cut out all of their tongues and dumped them in a lot across from a school..."

"Or not...You know Sam, the scene that moved me in the Godfather tonight more than anything else?"

"No."

"When Michael shows up at the hospital and there is nobody there protecting the Don. Those old hallways, they're so cold and lonely. I remember that feeling from when I was a kid. I remember those old hallways. Those old heaters the way they smelled. Those old light fixtures..."

"You know Border's is going to pass on your book, right?" Sam's expression was unusually sympathetic.

"Well, I figured as much. I met with them face to face and it still didn't make a difference."

"People don't want to get involved with this, Stan."

"Well, I'll just have to rely on the people that are willing to buy online."

Sam put his arm around my shoulders. "You know I'm proud of you. I don't agree with you but you're really something."

"I wish I was more successful, Sam."

"You're successful. Maybe not in some of the ways you'd like to be but you are." Sam pointed at the entrance to some dive bar the name of which was not evident. "Stan, you need to start getting rid of the users in your life and start remembering how real friends behave...That young man that comes to the hospital to visit the Don when Michael discovers that the bodyguards have all been sent home. 'No, if there is going to be trouble I stay.' That's what he said. Better to be friends with the assistant to a baker that has honor than a Fortune Five Hundred CEO that doesn't."

I looked at Sam through the darkness in the bar. "Times they are a changing, Sam. Times they are a changing."

We drank whiskey and talked for more than an hour but the cold feeling of those hallways refused to leave.

POST 17

Erin Brockovich's Daughter

Eve, the blind girl, kneeled down on the futon she called a bed in her very simple, Venice Beach, studio apartment. I pulled her sweatshirt up over her head and almost in the same motion brought my lips to her beautiful breasts. I would have been content to have this part of Eve's body in my mouth for a considerable amount of time, but her weight came down on my abdomen and chest with the intention of a much more horizontal encounter.

On top of me Eve felt like few girls, so pure was her passion. I swear a smile crossed my face when I felt her hand tug at the button meant to keep my jeans on. Again, I could have been content to just feel her skin against my own. But her tongue's deep probing into my mouth caused me to push her off to my left side and roll over on top of her—some strange autonomic response to Eve's tongue. Making love to Eve is never a primitive, lust filled, experience. She's too beautiful to get one's thoughts involved in conquest or degradation. No, the joy of Eve is not that she is dirty or crass like most young girls today; the joy of Eve is that she is clean and pure.

Eve's hands slid down my lower back and under the beltline of my pants. It's strange to imagine that a delicate creature like Eve can with a simple grasp of her hands and an upward motion bring me into her in the most intimate way, but she does. Being inside of Eve is a soft experience in an otherwise very hard world. On every forward motion of my body into hers my only thought was that I could not penetrate far enough—cosmically speaking. In the final moments I wished I could have crushed our bodies together into one being—I can feel and smell her hair against my face as I write these words.

"When will I, not, see you again," Eve asked, with a laugh as she walked me to the door.

I pulled her close to me. "I don't know... I'm so wrong for you, Eve."

She pulled my face down to hers and kissed me gently on the lips. "Let me worry about what's right and wrong for me. Besides, you make a good project."

"I do?"

"Go do the right thing out there. And then come back and make love to me again."

I don't know why I pulled into the parking lot of the Coffee Bean on Sunset, because my intention was to go to the Four Seasons and do some writing. But there was space and in a city like LA a parking space is a sign that you should stop—so I did. I didn't bother to take my computer out of the trunk; rather I walked to the entrance—scoping things. Ramsees the most unusual of hair stylists was sitting next to the door with an attractive young blonde sporting some of the whitest skin that I had ever seen.

"How are you my friend?" he asked motioning for me to sit with them.

"I'm good," I said sitting down. "I was on my way to the Four Seasons but I had the strangest feeling that I should stop here..."

"Stan, this is Katie." I nodded. "Katie this is Stan." She smiled.

Soon Katie was talking and I understood why Ramsees had wanted me to join them. Fifteen minutes or so into her monologue a friend of his walked up, and with a pat on my shoulder Ramsees departed for a game backgammon—it was just Katie and I. Now I realize this may sound like the least ideal of circumstances, but I did like something about Katie. I thought to myself this kid has some unusual genes in her pool.

"I'm Erin Brockovich's daughter," she told me two hours or so into our conversation.

Well that explains it. And I did like the movie. If I sleep with this girl it will calm her way down. But maybe I should just try and be her friend. Which one is the good deed? What's the right thing to do? I don't know. Can't call Eve and ask her.

"I'm starving. Do you want join me for dinner?" I asked.

Katie's eyes lighted up. "Yeah sure!"

POST 18

Kelsey In The House

It was late for the home phone to be ringing. The cell phone ringing at 3:30 in the morning—just another night, but the home phone at 10:00 p.m., very interesting.

"Hi Mr. Lerner, this is Fred at the front desk. I have a young lady named Kelsey who says she's here to see you."

"Who?"

"I'm going to put her on the phone."

_I hate when people just show up_.

"Hi Stan 'the worlds greatest writer' it's Kelsey from myspace I decided to come to LA and hang out for a while...and you're the only person I know."

"Kelsey, from Oregon, that used to hate me but now likes me on myspace? That Kelsey?"

"In your lobby," she said, completely self-assured as only a member of the entitlement generation could be.

"Give the phone back to Fred."

"Sir?"

"Send her up."

I walked back into my extra bedroom turned office and saved the first Downtown Oliver Brown adventure for blogdowntown.com. Two girls in bed at the same time, that has to be good for Downtown, I thought to myself. I thought about Kelsey on myspace. She had checked out my profile and sent me a message saying that I seemed like a cocky asshole. I of course wrote back suggesting that someone so judgmental should look in the mirror if they were truly interested in stamping out the cocky assholes of the world. And I made a crack about her parent's being proud of her and her nice language. She responded. I demanded an apology. She apologized. And our strange myspace love affair began. No. Nothing dirty going on—tragic.

The doorbell rang. Upon opening the door Kelsey thrust two suitcases into each of my hands and gave me a rousing kiss on the cheek. "Nice place you got here Mr. World's Greatest Writer." She looked around zooming in on my prized Picasso. "You're better looking in person. You don't mind if I stay for a while to see if I like it here?"

I left her suitcases by the door where she handed them to me and joined her in front of the Picasso. "What about school? What about your apartment? What about your father that I think might actually be younger than me?"

"Don't go crazy handsome, I just need a place to stay, we don't have to have kids or anything."

"Kids?"

"I mean I'm not going to have sex with you," she said, plopping down on my couch.

"Everyone has sex with me," I responded truly distressed at the thought of not having sex even though I didn't want to if that makes any sense. "I only have one bed."

"Just don't give me the 'I sleep naked line'."

I shrugged. "I haven't used that one in years. Does that still work in Oregon?" She nodded. "You know I've been thinking about moving...But seriously we're not going to have sex?"

She contemplated. "Maybe. Let's see how thing go. I'm hungry do you have anything to eat?"

"I live a block from the Pantry."

"The what?"

"You just have to eat there to understand, but it's never closed and I mean never." We sat at the counter of the Pantry eating pancakes as so many people had done for more than eighty years.

"So like you were here at the Grand Opening or what?"

I choked, then took a swig of maple syrup because I was out of water. "Oh, that didn't help. No, I wasn't here for the opening. That would make me old enough to be your grandfather instead of your father."

"Too bad, because I've been having a fantasy about having a passionate romance with a man sixty years older than myself."

"You do realize that you could get yourself in trouble flirting around with me like this."

She reached her hand around my neck, pulled me forward, and planted a real kiss on me with her mouth still filled with a fresh bight of pancake—which I have to admit I found a new and erotic experience. "You mean like that kind of trouble?"

I wiped the syrup she had purposely smeared all over my face on a napkin. "That's pretty much what I'm talking about."

Jose the old waiter who, has, been working at the counter since the Grand Opening walked up. "Senior Stan, 15 will get you twenty—I know."

"Thanks Jose, she's eighteen."

"Nineteen," Kelsey corrected.

"Well that takes away some of the thrill." It sounded sarcastic but I meant it.

"Pay the bill, daddy."

I walked up to the cashier's booth completely turned on that she called me daddy, which of course makes me hate myself—kind of.

We held hands as we walked back to my place.

"You know I'm a feminist?"

"Yes, you've told me several times."

"You think it's just some silly thing."

"Not if you're a lesbian—then it makes sense."

"I'm not a lesbian....Stan I think I want to transfer to USC can you pull some strings and get me in?"

"I went to UCLA."

She smiled that cute little smile of hers, hardly a feminist thing to do. "I know. But I want to go to USC."

I sighed. "I'll get you in."

Later That Night

"You're not really wearing that to bed?" I asked, stunned by the audacity of this young, cute girl.

She ignored me. "Want to see my famous handstand?"

Before I could answer she was standing on her hands at the side of my bed. The formerly offensive USC football jersey slipped all the way up to her lower chest revealing the superb body of a gymnast. "Where did you get USC panties from?"

She contorted back to a normal standing position and pulled down the awful red jersey.

"You were staring at my panties? Your such a dirty old man." She climbed on the bed and straddled me. "Thanks for feeding me and letting me stay...And getting me into USC tomorrow. You're okay for a lech." She dismounted and lied flat with a thud. "I'm so tired. Talk to you in the morning."

I turned off the light genuinely intent on going to sleep.

"Are you asleep," she asked.

"No. It usually takes me at least thirty seconds until I hit REM," I answered.

She turned on her side to face me. "You're not actually going to be gentleman and behave are you?"

"Of course not. I just wanted to gain your trust," I answered.

"Will you write a blog about me?"

"Sure."

"Not your usual sex and gangster stuff...Something funny that makes me laugh."

"You mean like us being involved in an unlikely romance that could never possibly work out."

She laughed. "Yes, that would be perfect and hilarious." She wrapped her arm around my waist and pulled me close. "I mean seriously...you and me together." She laughed again then whispered in my ear. "Don't write about this part."

POST 19

Kelsey Still In My House

I woke up with the now familiar feeling of Kelsey lying on top of me. Not on the side of me. Not with her head on my shoulder. But flat, horizontal, on top. I should mention here that this nocturnal state is always reached after exactly one hour of passionate lovemaking. Not fifty-nine minutes. Not sixty-one minutes—an hour. This apparently has something to do with her years of gymnastics and the fact that some routines have time limits. So, I looked at the rather cute eighteen-year-old stretched across me as if I were a Tempur-Pedic mattress and hoped she would wake up soon—I had some writing to do.

Two hours later Kelsey woke up and without saying a word inserted my body back into her own. Not as rigorous as the night she moved on top of me with a slow, relaxing motion that caused me to just stare at her face and then into her eyes. Strange to have a connection like this with someone so young and from the completely wrong end of the political spectrum, I thought to myself. We just stared at each other as she moved and made us both feel incredible.

"You have to move out," I finally said to her.

She kept moving. "I like it here."

"Kelsey, I got you into USC and I got you an apartment. That was the deal. You're not supposed to actually like your sugar daddy."

She kept moving. "Can't help it."

"I'm serious."

She kept moving. "I don't even have a car." She kept moving but started doing something a little different that felt even more incredible. "I can't live in LA by myself without a car."

Most people think they have a problem, when in actuality they really just have an expense. "I'll get you a car but you have to drive the car to your place and stay there—a lot."

She lowered her face to mine and started kissing me with the same rhythm that she was moving her hips to. "All right I'll stay there sometimes."

Soon After

"Martin Scorsese, is waiting. Leo, is waiting. Everyone is waiting."

I pressed my iphone to my ear. "Lisa, tell everyone that I'm killing myself to get this script done. And remind them it was me who told you to call them in the first place. Do you know how much work goes into adapting a six hundred and twenty-two page novel into a script—it's probably going to have to be two movies not one. That means I need another eighty million dollars from Brian. Listen, I can't do this now. I'll call you back."

I turned to the car salesman. "I'll take that one."

With Kelsey's new wheels safely delivered to my place I snuck over to Starbucks to do some much needed writing. It was always the plan to turn "Criminal" into a movie, but Brian's offer to put up the money was unexpected. I had just stopped by his new fifty million dollar, three-house compound in Beverly Hills to welcome him to the neighborhood. We were sitting in the kitchen having some home cooked pasta...

"So Stan when are you going to turn the book into a movie?"

"I was going to start writing the script next year."

"Why not do it now?"

"The financial markets are such a mess I don't think I can raise the money."

"How much do you need?"

"I can make the movie for a hundred and twenty-five million."

"I'll give you the money to make it—standard deal. But find a part for my wife in it. She's really been wanting to do some acting."

"No problem."

"How long will it take you to get a script done?"

"Well, now that I have funding I'll get right on it. I should have something ready by mid November."

With over a hundred pages of script done I dragged Kelsey off of the couch, down to the front of the building I call home. Because she was completely naked and waiting for me to come home and make love to her, I insisted that she get dressed first.

"What do you think of your new car?" I asked, proud of my choice.

"You bought me a Porsche?"

"A convertible 911. Every young girl's dream car." I noticed that she did not seem overjoyed with me. "What's wrong?"

"Stan, it was every girl's dream car in the 1980's. I want a VW—an old vintage one."

"Like Herbie?"

"Exactly," she gave me a big hug and then planted a crazy kiss on my lips.

"Kelsey, you can't be doing that in public. I've told everyone that you're my long lost daughter."

"You are my daddy," she said trying to kiss me again.

I turned my head in time. "No. Promise me that you'll lie for me. Or no more USC, apartment, and Herbie The Love Bug."

She relented.

The phone rang as I got dressed for gay David's fortieth birthday party.

"Okay, I'll be down on the 22nd," said Joe, my former business associate that I was miraculously reunited with recently through his girlfriend Kevin.

"Good. I really need some help with this whole blogging, publishing, movie business."

"Hey, what type of car is cool these days down there?" asked Joe.

Joe's from Sun Valley Idaho. "Don't worry about a car I have an extra Porsche you can drive."

"Why do you have an extra Porsche?"

"My daughter didn't want it."

"You don't have a daughter."

"I know, but it doesn't matter that's what I tell everyone or I'll appear to be an old guy that likes hot, young girls."

"You are."

"Do you want the fucking Porsche or not?"

"Touchy—I'll take it."

"I've got to go. I'll see you in a couple of weeks."

So Kelsey and I headed back down to the front of my building to go to gay David's fortieth birthday party.

"What, you can't be serious?" she gasped staring at the second car I had bought for her in the last six hours.

"You said you wanted Herbie the Love Bug," I pointed proudly at the car in front of the building I call home, "that's it, the real one from the movie. You better like it—it cost more than the Porsche, which I am now giving to Joe to drive because of you."

Kelsey through her arms around me and before I knew it she was on top of me again—this time on the hood of Herbie The Love Bug.

"Kelsey, you've got to stop. This car is from a family movie. And my neighbors..."

She bit my ear. "Wait until we get back from gay David's party."

Gay David's party was the usual affair. He lives in 1100 Wilshire and has a great view. Brett Easton Ellis would have a fabulous time there. Why I let Kelsey talk me into making out in gay David's walk-in-closet I'll never know.

"Oh I love you so much," she said sliding down my body taking my expensive Gucci Jeans with her to the floor.

Not to worry I won't be writing an oral sex scene.

"And this is our closet," gay David said, as he opened the door to show several of his guests, my neighbors, his closet, that would be the one he was out of, but Kelsey and myself were not. And then with a grand gesture of his hand he said, "My suits, my shoes, and Stan who is apparently making up for all that time he spent away from his daughter."

"I can explain," I said, as Kelsey laughed and wrapped her arms around my waist.

David turned to the gathering crowd. "They're from the South." He shot me a parting glare as he closed the door and the closet was dark again.

I rested my hands on Kelsey's head. "Stop laughing this isn't funny."

"Oh come on who cares what they think? Besides what do you need friends for when you've got a daughter like me?"

"Great, now everyone thinks I'm from the South."

POST 20

Kelsey Out Of My House

I suspected that there might be something wrong—Kelsey knew better than to leave my front door unlocked. My mind drifted to Sam Noah and friends. Not like them to be in my house, I thought to myself. The last couple of weeks had been light and fun. No drug wars. No terrorist; just a very sexually active eighteen-year-old that I had met on myspace that had shown up on my doorstep unannounced—pretty tame for my life. And frankly playing the role of adored sugar daddy suits me well.

I heard Kelsey speaking to an older male voice in my living room. So, I walked in to see what new twist my precocious teenager had brought to my life.

Kelsey ran to me and through her arms around my neck. A squeeze and the usual passionate kiss. She pulled me to the center of the room by my hand. "Stan, this is my Grandpa. Gramps this is Stan, the love of my life."

"How old are you?" asked the well-dressed older man, in an authoritative tone.

"Forty-three."

"You're the same age as my granddaughter's father."

"She said I was younger," I responded in my own defense. I looked at Kelsey.

"Well he is a couple of months older than you. And besides you're my sugar daddy, you're supposed to be old."

I looked at Kelsey's grandfather then back at Kelsey. "Sweetheart, since apparently your grandfather is Warren Buffet, the richest man in America, why exactly do you need a sugar daddy?"

She shrugged. "I thought it would be fun. The whole trust fund thing is boring. And I like that everyone hates that we're together. This whole taboo sex with an older guy—is like the best thing ever."

And that's when Katie walked in with a suitcase of her own. Of course I forgot to lock the door and my two fulltime security guards just let her in without calling up from downstairs.

Katie let out that really loud laugh of hers. I mean the kind of laugh that can get every head in a loud restaurant to turn. "I can't stay with my aunt anymore and my mom won't even let me in the house. It's okay if I stay here, right?"

Warren Buffet looked at Katie. "You're Erin Brockovich's kid."

Katie laughed. "I'm out on my ass."

Warren Buffet turned and stared at me for a moment. "What the hell type of operation are you running here, a sugar daddy home for wayward little rich girls?"

"I had no idea Kelsey was rich. I bought her a Porsche."

"My granddaughter would never drive a Porsche."

"I wish I had know that before I bought it." I glared at her. "And I bought her Herbie The Love Bug—the real one from the movie."

Now it was Warren Buffets turn to be shocked. "That must have cost a fortune!"

I sighed. "More than the Porsche that the dealer wouldn't take back, so I gave it to my friend Joe."

"So can I stay or what?" asked Katie, who rarely grasps the bigger picture, that would be the one beyond her own self.

"Three days, you can stay for the weekend and then figure it out." Kelsey looked at me seemingly upset. "What? I'm not going to have sex with her."

Kelsey hugged me—happy again.

"Of course you're not going to have sex with her," grumbled Warren Buffet, "She must be twenty-four-years-old...Practically a senior citizen by your standards."

Katie was horrified. "I'm twenty-three. I only look older right now because I can't afford my facial scrub."

Warren Buffet turned to Kelsey—his granddaughter. "I've had enough of this nonsense, this, whatever it is, is over right now." Kelsey hesitated. "Or you're out of my will forever! Now let's go."

Kelsey paused as they walked out of the room. "I couldn't have asked for a better sugar daddy—I'll send you a check for Herbie."

I waved my hand. "No, it was a gift—even though I had no idea you were rich."

"Kelsey!" yelled Warren Buffet.

She mouthed the words, "I'll call you later," and winked.

I watched as they left and felt a sense of sadness. Things would never be the same. There had been something so delightfully co-dependant about our relationship.

I looked at Katie who was now out on my balcony smoking a cigarette. So cute, but not a chance of any romantic adventure, drama—yes, adventure—no.

Then I thought about the intrigue of dating an heiress. Since that night with Princess Stephanie I had sworn them off, for the most part, but Kelsey and the fact I had originally thought her to be poor now seemed to hold a new promise—like those box inside a box things we play with as kids.

My phone rang. "Stan, it's Victor Kubachek."

"Hey Vic, how's it going?"

"Great...How's that script coming?"

Kelsey had been a bit of a distraction, which was something I surely wasn't going to mention to the guy who introduced me to Brian who was putting up a hundred and twenty million dollars for me to turn "Stan Lerner's Criminal" into a movie.

"Funny you should ask, I was just about to get back to work on it..."

POST 21

Post Election

I sat in the back of Sam Noah's Rolls Royce Phantom, a now familiar ritual.

"So you've turned your blog into a romantic comedy these days?"

I smiled. "My friend Kelsey on myspace wanted her own story, so I wrote one."

"For a drug dealing killer you're very funny." He laughed. "I don't know what's funnier, what you write, or the fact that you write it and nobody cares."

"I'm retired; you're the only drug dealing killer in the back of this Rolls Royce, but thanks for the compliment—I think."

"So what's your opinion of the election?" Sam asked, almost back to his serious-self.

"'Yes we can!'" I shouted with reserved enthusiasm.

Sam's eyes flickered with amusement. "Be serious, would you."

"I'm an anarchist, how can I be serious about an election."

Sam sighed. "I could insist but you've been so amicable lately I'd hate to see our relationship take a step backwards."

"I don't do politics for a reason. But in general we no longer live in the same country."

"Do you see that effecting my business?"

"I think it will be a new golden age of drug dealing," I answered honestly.

Sam smiled. I wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, the three most powerful elected officials in the country are now radical liberals. Every policy in their DNA is good for you. The only problem for you will be if they step over the line and push legalization through."

"How do you think they'll do on the economy in general?"

"What do you care? The worse the economy, the more drugs you'll sell."

"I have major interests in legitimate business, so elaborate."

"Well we've seen the end of liberal democracy for a while. The forces of entitlement have taken over this country. They'll make government bigger with the people's mandate and they'll raise taxes or print money to pay for it. Higher taxes will cause rich people to lose their motivation to produce and make money. Printing money will cause inflation. And we'll most likely see the end of the Reagan era of prosperity."

Sam offered me a cigar, which I took and he lighted before lighting his own. He took a long drag then asked. "How do you think we got to this point, Stan?"

"When you infect a democracy with emotion and ignorance it gets sick and it dies."

"They have no clue what they're doing, do they?" asked Sam, almost giddy at the prospect.

I shook my head. "None. Have you seen the big change so far? It's the 1990's meets 1976. But even back then nobody would have ever gone for a 700 billion dollar bailout that was really a purchase of the American banking system. Not one mortgage backed security was purchased as promised—just stock in the banks."

"Do you think they'll move on the car companies next?"

"If they can. I mean if you were taking over a country wouldn't you go for manufacturing as soon as you had banking in hand?"

"Of course I would..."

I watched Sam for a moment. He was profoundly satisfied with himself, which lead me to ask, "So how much did you spend to make this all happened?"

He exhaled a large plume of smoke. "A pittance compared to what I'll make...As long as some crazy anarchist doesn't come along and fuck things up, Stan. If you know what I mean."

I let the smoke from the cigar sit in my mouth for an extra few moments. "That's the problem with anarchists, Sam. You just never know when they're going to come along and fuck things up—because they don't know themselves."

We both laughed...

POST 22

Blog Fleming's Is Now Open (As it appeared on blogdonwntown.)

December 10th 2008

Phase two of the LA Live rollout continues to roll with the Grand Opening of Fleming's Prime Steakhouse & Wine Bar today. The seven thousand foot restaurant at the South / West corner of Olympic and Figueroa has seating for 300 guests in its richly appointed dining room and room for another fifty on the outdoor patio that stretches along Olympic. The restaurant also features four private dining rooms one of which can be seen from the street as a glass enclosed wine cellar.

A national chain of 61 restaurants, Fleming's is best known for steaks. Having attended the pre-opening tasting this writer can attest to being at a table of happy filet mignon eaters. I can personally vouch for the Cesar and the Potato's Fleming. It should be pointed out that Fleming's steaks are wet aged and cut on premise giving them a freshness that most prime steakhouses cannot equal.

Operating partner, Jennifer Adams, is a native Angelino and in this spirit has said, "We'll be doing some events just for the community." This writer couldn't get the cost of construction out of management, but inside sources have put the number at more than six million dollars. Having personally seen the space and tasted the food—it seems to be money well spent. Downtown can feel good about celebrating this addition to the neighborhood.

Stan Lerner

POST 23

Downtown Oliver Brown

Good thing I put on a jacket, it's got to be only ninety degrees out, wouldn't want to catch a cold. What is with this weather? Hmm Joe looks the same.

Joe pulled his SUV of some kind into the driveway of my building Downtown—I hadn't seen him in twenty years. "I'm going to have you park this in one of my spaces and I'll drive...Hope you don't mind but I have a meeting to do before we hang out."

"Not a problem," Joe answered, sounding the same as he had all those years ago.

I drove the black Mercedes loan-a-car to Groundwork on 2nd and Main. Groundwork is probably the best coffee in LA but the owner, Richard, well let's just say I offered to write a business plan for him and he passed. And now I have to describe Groundwork whenever I mention it because it's not exactly a household name—if I have to explain the lesson...

We walked up the stairs. "Hi Eric."

"Hi Stan."

"This is my friend Joe." They shook hands. "I've known Joe since college, but we haven't seen each other in twenty years, so he's visiting today."

Eric nodded. "Cool...Ed isn't hear yet but he's on his way."

Eric and Ed started the blogdowntown website for which I wanted to create an adventure-at-night-kind-of-blog for.

"What did you think of The Standard blog?" I asked, since it was about the The Standard downtown.

"I liked it, but for this blog it would be good if there were more specifics."

I handed him a copy of my novella "In Development". "The descriptive narrative I used in this is what I have in mind for the new Downtown blog. I wouldn't make it as irreverent but certainly as descriptive. And I would throw in a touch of the whimsical feel in The Standard."

Ed walked up the stairs and we went through the whole introduction process again.

"So when do you start?" asked Ed.

"I'd like to be writing for you guys by Halloween, but I have some questions I wanted to throw out to you guys about the creative direction before I start." I nodded toward Eric. "I've already discussed with Eric that I need to include an informative element, which I'll make sure to do...sometimes in excess. The major question I have is do we want this to be in the first person or a third person narrative?"

Eric did not hesitate. "I think first person for sure. I mean that's why people like reading blogs—they like that personal connection to the information."

"I agree. What do we call this? Ed and I had discussed blog café, but I was thinking about calling it Adventures At Night. Or how about something like Downtown Oliver Brown? I want to create a factitious character that hangs out in the Downtown scene with a group of other local characters."

"I like Downtown Oliver Brown, but I think we should call it The Adventures At Night Of Downtown Oliver Brown," suggested Ed. "It's kind of funny if the name is too long."

"I think the character's story will be something like this:

"Oliver Brown is a talented writer who's had some success writing screenplays and books in Hollywood. Sound familiar? Anyway, he's burnt out on the scene—and he's chronically short on money. But, see downtown is loaded with people that have money who like to have a successful writer around—and they constantly foot the bill for Oliver and friends."

Ed held up his hand. "A little close to home." He laughed.

I nodded. "Tell me about it. So you see by having Oliver and company always looking for a good free time I can move him around Downtown and blog from his perspective—and it works with the idea of blog sponsors...in a way that makes fun of sponsorship while acknowledging it all at the same time."

"I like it, Stan," said Eric.

"Good...I think that one of the things that would be hilarious about the character is if he lives in a cool hotel, which of course he can't ever come up with the money to pay for."

"Maybe The Standard," suggested Ed.

I thought about it. "The Standard could work easily, but how about the Orchid? There's nothing going on there, so if this works the place will be hopping and it can show off what Downtown Oliver Brown can do for business."

Eric nodded. "The Orchid would be perfect. They're getting a liquor permit for their basement—they could use something that brings people in."

I was getting into it. "I think I'm going to make one of Oliver's friends a great DJ that roles with him and plays at random places. Remember that U2 video where they just start playing on top of a roof?"

Ed pointed. "You know that was shot just a couple blocks form here."

"I didn't know that...I love that video."

Ed smiled—he had an idea. "You know the hotel could be factitious and then you could make the stories as crazy as you want."

It was my turn to smile. "Yeah, well that would be a blast. I can picture all these people coming Downtown looking for a place that doesn't exist." I laughed. "No, better not do that unless we have to."

"Let's try and use a real hotel," said Eric weighing in.

The meeting went on and a new blog was born.

As I walked back to the car with Joe I felt really good about bringing The Adventures At Night Of Downtown Oliver Brown to the blogdowntown.com.

"You haven't changed a bit," said Joe.

"That's not what I was thinking this morning when I looked into the mirror."

"I mean the way your mind works—putting a bunch of different elements together so that everyone benefits."

"It doesn't go right all of the time, but I've made a lot of people rich."

"Speaking of?"

"I hadn't spoken to Sam in years, but he thinks the book nullifies our agreement." Joe looked at me askance. "I swear I'm not working with him."

We got into the lone-a-car.

"You put me in the book didn't you?" asked Joe.

I nodded. "Don't get mad about the scene with your girlfriend."

"Oh, Stan..."

POST 24

Introducing Downtown Oliver Brown

"I just dropped Kevin off at the airport, so I can come hang out," Joe's voice rang out through my iPhone. "Where are you?"

"I'm at Starbucks on 11th and Grand—come pick me up," I answered back, wondering how I was going to get my hair cut at Salon Eleven and meet Joe in the same one hour time frame—oh well.

Some background: Joe, like most of my friends, has become rich over the years. And yes he's good looking too—whatever. So, now that he's sold his luxury mansion rental business in Sun Valley for zillions he's decided to come back to LA, specifically Downtown to get serious about business.

Who better to call than Oliver Brown? I've lived Downtown for fourteen years—that would be before it was cool and the Lakers were still playing in Minnesota or Inglewood or somewhere. Anyway, when my rich friends decide it's time to get richer or cooler Downtown they usually call.

How did I come to live Downtown? I left the mansion I could no longer afford in Doheny Estates and moved Downtown. Somehow my failure to make enough money as a writer to live in twenty times more space than I needed has made me an artistic / business visionary. If I could have thought that one up and sold it to NBC I probably wouldn't have moved.

Starbucks on 11th and Grand is as good a neighborhood hangout as one can ask for. I spend most of the day writing there. And when not writing I chat with my friends who, like me, now all seem to not go to an office. Don't let this fool you, unlike our Downtown brothers and sisters ten blocks east the only drug we're hooked on is caffeine, which thankfully I don't have to pay for very often....I sent Howard Schultz a signed copy of one of my books and his office sent me a Starbucks card with a couple grand on it. And on occasion a suit friend of mine will come through and buy me a round of the black magic.

As I sat and chatted with Kaitlin, so cute and so young that I forgot about my haircut and Joe, I suggested an evening of drinks and my corrupting influence, perhaps at The Standard.

"You've never been to the rooftop bar at The Standard," I asked, trying to sound incredulous.

"No. I've heard about it but I haven't been. I've only been here three weeks."

This is turning into a great day, I thought to myself. My phone rang.

"Oliver, Jessica's ready for you."

I looked at my watch, a Piaget that I bought when Hollywood actually paid for talent. "Damn, I'm just next door at Starbucks, I'll be right there." It might have been a little on the forward side but I gave Kaitlin a hug and a kiss and walked off.

Joe managed to find me as Jessica snipped and pulled and measured—she's very precise. I don't have much hair, but what I do have she makes look better than most can. And Salon Eleven in general is nicer than most and I'm not just saying that because they have parties with free drinks, which makes me feel better that I actually pay to get my hair cut there.

"Did I mention that they throw a good party here?" I said to Joe as he sat next to me. "In fact they're having one Saturday night. We'll have to stop by after we stop at Lucky's get together at Hard 8 Lounge."

"What ever you want to do, Oliver. I'm just here to see what's going on."

"Are you hungry?"

Joe put his hand on his stomach. "I could eat."

"We're going to the Nickel for lunch."

"The what?"

"The Nickel. Trust me you're going to love this place. If I had the money I would buy it..."

"I've heard that it's really good," chimed in Jessica putting the finishing touches on my hairdo.

Lunch at the Nickel had convinced Joe to move Downtown, as I was sure that it would, and it made me feel better about dragging him to the Writer's Guild on Fairfax—about eight miles too far west for my comfort. However, there was no point of going all the way to the WGA and not going across the street to The Grove to have a drink, it was after all around five on a Friday.

"Listen, if Marty will direct, Leo will come on board, but get the book to Leo and tell him I'm working on the script just in case." I hit end on my iphone.

"Does your manager actually do anything?" asked Joe.

"If she did, would you be buying drinks?"

He laughed. "So why don't you get a new one?"

"And risk success..." I noticed a couple of eavesdropping girls at the bar. "How are you guys doing today?" I asked.

The thin blonde turned to face me. "We're in financial services..."

I held up my glass. "Sorry to hear that. But as the great Ronald Reagan once said, 'markets go up and markets go down'." She looked at me with some curiosity. Her friend was clearly intrigued. So we kept on talking.

"So many people in this town are full of it. What would happen if I Cha Cha'd you?"

"Is it painful? Because I'm not into that."

"No, Cha Cha—you send a text message question about anything and they send you an answer." She Cha Cha'd me. "Wow, it says you're a really good writer that left Hollywood to explore new artistic endeavors."

I knocked back drink number three. "I left Hollywood because the system can't stand me. I moved to Downtown a long time ago because it was cheap and void of people, with lots of dive bars."

She smiled. "Things don't really work out for you do they?"

"Only when I don't want them to," a reference to the million people who read the blogs, which I don't get paid to write.

"Do you boys want to have dinner with us?"

She mentioned some place on Melrose that I was sure would be overpriced and I definitely did not have an in at.

"No. We're going to Plum Tree."

"Where?" she asked.

"Plum Tree on Broadway, it's some of the best Chinese food Downtown. Come with us if you want."

"We can't. We're meeting a friend. But we're going to The Standard later."

"In Hollywood or Downtown?" I asked, assuming they would be going to Hollywood.

"Downtown," she said, in a tone that made it clear she understood the difference between the two. That would be that The Standard Downtown is on a completely different level—literally.

"I'll call you when we're done with dinner," I said as Joe and myself parted for the drive back to the shiny city where all the congested freeways meet—I took Olympic.

The girls were waiting in line to pay twenty dollars to get the coveted wristband needed to go to the roof. I walked to the front, motioning for them to follow.

"Why do you look familiar?" the blond guy asked.

"Tee's friend the writer," I answered plainly.

He nodded. "That's right. How's it going man, does Tee know that you're coming?"

I shrugged. "No."

He started putting the bands on the girls and Joe. Tee walked up. We're about the same age, but he stays in shape. "What's up daddy?"

Tee gave me a half-hug. "Downtown Oliver Brown, good to see you too daddy. You going up?"

"Yeah, the gang here hasn't been, I promised them a goodtime."

"Tell the bar to put it on my tab," Tee whispered in my ear.

I walked through the hotel lobby, which had its own DJ spinning. Joe and the girls looked around wide-eyed at the crazy magenta couches. Up the escalator I went with them in tow and into the service elevator to the rooftop. The service elevator really is the service elevator and is covered with some hip red padding.

The doors opened, thankfully, revealing a view of Downtown that must be seen because words do not do it justice. Joe gave the plant shaped like a unicorn a second look as we walked straight to the dance floor.

"Hi Oliver," Ingrid my favorite waitress said, stopping to give me a hug.

I really like Ingrid. "Hi love. How you doing?"

"I'm good. What are you writing these days, Oliver?"

"Bad checks," I answered.

She laughed. "Go sit in my section when you guys are done dancing."

The dance floor takes up the northeast corner of the rooftop. The DJ was playing a good techno remix of Back in Black and I was thinking that the thin blonde, Michelle, and myself were going to be more than friends. For some reason my mind drifted to Kaitlin whom I had been planning to ask out. Kaitlin has such a great smile. Anyway, they started to play some Snoop Dog, my cue to leave the dance floor—because I hate rap, hip hop, nonsense to drum machine music.

"C'mon I'll show you guys the infinity pool." They followed me up a few stairs to the pool area. I pointed out the red, waterbed pods, but Michelle was having nothing of it—we settled in the couch area looking out over the pool and the videos projected on the Pegasus apartments across the street.

"This is such a great building. What was it before they turned it into a hotel?" asked Michelle's friend April.

"Originally, it was the headquarters for Superior Oil. That's why the door handles are S shaped. They're original to the building." I have no idea why I know these things.

"Where do you live?" asked Michelle.

"Right now I'm staying at a friends place who's out of town. But usually I just stay in one of the hotels around here, including this one."

"Where's your friend's place?"

"The Skyline, on 9th and Flower—it's really nice and his place is off the hook. I'm going to miss it."

"How long have you been staying there?"

"A few months. It has a great gym and a huge pool if you guys are up for a swim—clothing optional?" Michelle nuzzled me with delight.

Four rounds on Tee's tab later, they pour a strong drink at The Standard, we were on our way. The girls were going to get into a cab and go home, but instead they walked back to my place, well my friend's place who is not there, for a nightcap.

"Well this is cute," said Joe, clearly referring to the three of us in bed.

I looked up at Joe. "Is it morning?"

"Yes. The sun being out should be your first tip."

I turned on my side and put my arm out over Michelle whose body felt very good against my own. April put her arm over my side from the back and there we were, one big happy sandwich. "When the girls wake up we'll go downstairs and have breakfast at Panini...Hey, how do you like Downtown so far?"

Joe smiled. "I can see moving here."

I watched Joe walk out of the room. I had been planning to date the too young for me Kaitlin, but in a few short hours Michelle had made a serious impression. I dozed for a while. When I woke Michelle was resting her head on my shoulder.

"I have a boyfriend," she said, instead of the customary, "Good morning."

"You failed to mention that last night."

"Yeah, I know. He's married. I don't know what I'm doing."

I noticed April was no longer in bed. "There's a word for what you're doing, but who am I to judge."

"You don't have a wife or a girlfriend somewhere?"

"No. Call me old fashioned but I try not to sleep with people other than the person I'm actually in a relationship with."

"Do you hate me?"

I pulled her close to me. "No. I don't hate you. Besides it'll make a great blog. My mind drifted back to Kaitlin. And then I felt hungry for an egg white omelet with cheese and avocado.

POST 25

Downtown Oliver Brown – Hanging With Stretch

"Hey Oliver, slow down a second."

I stopped half a block short of 7th on Flower so my homeless buddy Stretch could put a torch lighter to the pipe in his hand. I call him Stretch because he's almost seven- feet-tall and looks like he weighs one-sixty or less. "Stretch, you know I don't approve of you smoking crack."

"Oliver, I'm a homeless black man with HIV—give me a break. Smoking crack is the least of my problems."

"Well maybe you wouldn't be homeless if you didn't spend all the money you panhandle on drugs."

Stretch laughed. "Oliver, you spend more money on coffee than I do on crack."

"Not anymore, Howard Schultz sent me a Starbucks' card with a couple of grand on it, for a signed copy of my last book."

"Does that mean you're going to pay me back the money you owe me?" asked Stretch.

It was my turn to laugh. "I knew there was a reason I hadn't told you about my Starbucks' card." I stopped at the corner and stared up at the Wokcano sign."

Stretch looked at the sign as well, although thinking a completely different thought than my own. "I did some good business here when this was Burger King—it's all about foot traffic for me," said Stretch.

I had a plan. "You really shouldn't smoke crack on an empty stomach...Wait here I'm going to get you some sushi."

I walked into the restaurant. "Hi Oliver, hi Oliver, hi Oliver..." I had said hello to something like five people until I found Marcus. "Marcus!"

"Oliver! How are you?"

Marcus and his older brother Michael own Wokcano, it's an All-American-Success-Story that I'll tell you about later, but for now suffice it to say I needed to speak with Marcus.

"I'm great Marcus, but I need your help."

"Sure Oliver what you need?"

"I need some sushi for my homeless buddy Stretch and I'm short on cash."

"Oliver, since you wrote that blog "No Virgins In This Wokcano" business has doubled...you can have anything you want. You want I put you on salary."

Marcus has a pretty heavy Chinese accent so the last time he offered to put me on salary I thought he said celery, so I declined thinking it was some kind of new diet. Anyway, I couldn't really take money from a friend for writing unless it was a lot of money.

"No salary just sushi."

"I have them make special Downtown Oliver Brown roll for your friend."

"Good idea he'll like that."

A few minutes later I walked out of the restaurant and handed Stretch a to go from Wokcano.

"Three Downtown Oliver Brown Rolls, how am I going to eat all of this?" Stretch said happy at the sight of such good food. And believe me Wokcano makes some good food.

"Eat what you can."

Stretch took a bite of the delicious roll named after me. "Oh, that's good. You know Oliver you're all right for a Reagan Republican...Forget about the twenty you owe me."

"What twenty?" I said, thinking about the interesting role I had just played in trickle down economics.

Stretch smiled. "Thanks for not judging me Oliver, you're a good friend."

"Man's got to eat. And besides I'm not exactly in a position to be judgmental."

"You know Oliver, you'd make some girl a nice husband. Whatever happened to that girl Mona?"

"She married the guy after me."

"I liked that one."

Mona was a Victoria Secret Model that could cook. "I liked her too Stretch. Listen, I have to run or I'm going to be late to David's party."

"Take care of yourself, Oliver."

"You too Stretch."

Sometimes non-downtowners have trouble understanding my relationship with the less fortunate in the neighborhood, but they're my neighbors same as my friends in shiny glass towers and I make it work. Am I an enabler? I don't think so.

Soon I would be at 1100 Wilshire celebrating David Kean's fortieth birthday party. A corner unit with a nice view and plenty of food—David's a good cook. David was a big time decorator that became a realtor extraordinaire. It's attending this type of swanky Downtown party that some people say makes me not gritty enough, but hey in the morning I have the same hangover as everyone else...And I take some comfort in that.

POST 26

Downtown Oliver Brown – An Intersection Of Locals

1100 Wilshire had been an office building with no tenants before the most recent housing boom came along and made it a place that people who enjoy a sky-pool call home. Frankly, the pool at the Skyline, where I am currently borrowing a rich friend's place, is probably the nicest in Downtown—I've used it once. Anyway, it was David Kean's fortieth birthday so there I was.

"Happy birthday, old boy," I said handing David a bottle of wine that I had just picked up from Mike Berger at Ralph's.

About a year ago I signed a copy of my last book for a very nice woman who approached me at the Water Grill while I was having dinner. It turned out that her husband is the CEO of Kroger and much like Starbucks I got one of those plastic cards in the mail—I haven't had a grocery bill in a year.

"Forty, welcome to my world," I said to Dave.

"I know. I woke up feeling older," David mourned.

"Not to worry old boy, it only gets worse." I laughed. "Is that an olive spread?" I asked gesturing toward the red, lacquer, Chinioserie tea table.

"It is, help yourself," said David, happy to not have to listen to anymore of my getting old jokes.

I plopped down on the modern, tan, mohair sofa next to Eric Everhard the porn star. I don't think Everhard is his real last name, but if it is, I hear that it suits him.

"Hi Eric."

"Hey Oliver!"

I reached for a cracker and some olive spread. "So what's up...I mean working hard...I mean how's life treating you?"

Eric smiled; he's a very cool guy. "Oliver I'm a porn star, how bad can life be? Other than my back is just killing me—job hazard."

I had never thought of the strain that his particular line of work puts on the back and hips, but suddenly it made sense. "Sorry to hear about your back. You know if you want to come over I can show you some exercises that will really help you feel better."

"You guys have a gym in your building?"

"We have a great gym. Seriously, the gym is so nice I actually feel guilty that I don't work out. Come by tomorrow, I'll show you how to use the back ball and we'll grab lunch."

"You're the best Oliver, I'll bring you my new three DVD set."

I was about to say, "that's not necessary" but a piece of olive from the olive spread got caught in my throat, I coughed, and that's when Stan Peters walked in.

"Stan, Stan, Stan..." all through the room. Eric put his hand on my shoulder. "I think that's Stan Peters."

"It is," I assured. "That's the great Stan Peters in the flesh...Not like when you're in the flesh, but you know what I mean."

Eric was excited just to be in the room with Hollywood's biggest producer. "Do you know him?"

"Downtown Oliver Brown! The best writer to not make it in Hollywood come here and give me a hug!" yelled Stan, thinking that he had just given me a compliment.

I turned to Eric. "I know him." I stood and got the life squeezed out of me. Stan works out two hours a day.

"Hi Stan, this is my friend Eric..."

Stan shook Eric's hand. "The porn guy. I've seen your work. You have a pretty decent package. Nothing close to mine, but then again who has anything like mine?" The three unbelievably hot girls that had rolled in with Stan all giggled.

I had for the fist time noticed that David's place did not have a balcony for me to jump off of."

"Oliver, what are you working on these days? I had heard you moved Downtown...I told everybody that Oliver's not a loser, he's a visionary. I've decided to buy every available Penthouse I can get my hands on down here because of you. Downtown is the next big thing. What'd you say you were working on?"

"I'm working on a script about a writer that moves Downtown to get away from the pretentious idiots in Hollywood..."

"I like it."

"He starts blogging and drinking himself to death."

"Very leaving Las Vegas. I made a lot of money on that one. In fact Nick Cage is renting one of the places I just bought down here."

My phone rang. "Hey Oliver it's Josh, I'm at the Hard Eight Lounge with Lucky and the gang we're heading over to the grand opening of Versus you have to come with us."

"You're a lifesaver Josh Johnson, I'm on my way." I put my iphone back in my pocket. "Sorry Stan, something's come up I have to roll."

"What about this script, I'm into it?" He lowered his voice. "I've got an extra girl or two if you want one—stick around."

"I'd love to Stan, but seriously I have to run. I'll call you when I have something that's worth your greatness."

He put his arm around my shoulder and walked me down the hallway, "Oliver I want to show you something," he said, stopping in front of a Salvador Dali.

"Great painting," I said, thinking just ten more steps to the door.

"It's the painting of a pained soul, Oliver." He squeezed me a little tighter. "I know you don't like what I stand for, but trust me you don't want to become that." He nodded toward the painting. "I make sure everyone knows that I'm on top because the moment I don't someone gets the idea that they can take my place...and that's only going to happen on the day I take my last breath. I like you. So, cool it with the booze and the girls and write something I can produce. Okay?"

I stared out the glass elevator as it descended to the lobby. "The next phase of LA Live is almost done," I thought to myself. I wondered why I hadn't written something Stan Peters could make. Then it occurred to me that every career is about getting a break or two. Maybe I had just gotten one.

Soon I would be at Versus. I had been at the Grand Opening of the Stock Exchange in the 1980's, which would be the former incarnation of the building where Versus was opening. I had a good feeling about the rest of the night. Oliver Brown loves a good Grand Opening.

POST 27

The Genie Is Finally Out Of The Bottle Rock

I've been sitting for five hours straight—unbelievable.

I looked at the screen of my laptop and contemplated just how much work adapting "Stan Lerner's Criminal" into a movie was turning out to be. My new blog The Adventures Of Downtown Oliver Brown, which I post on blogdowntown.com had turned out to be a pleasant distraction, but a distraction none-the-less. I'm addicted to writing, so something else to write for me is like giving a coke addict some heroin to try out.

I looked down at my iphone. The text from Eric the founding editor of blogdowntown read "Any chance you want to deviate from Oliver Brown and attend a wine bar preview for me at 2? It's Bottle Rock, at 11th /Hope.

I thought about it. Wine, cheese, and maybe some food?

I texted back, "Sure!"

The following blog is what happens when you send a fiction writer to cover a wine bar preview that's being run by a very attractive blond publicist name Sarah and the food is provided by a top chef that is nothing less than a smoldering, brunette beauty. And an accommodating general manager that at a glance surmised that I was not the average journalist, but rather the author some of the most explicit sex scenes ever written.

The highly anticipated Bottle Rock wine bar is finally close to opening at 11th and Hope at the base of the Met Lofts Building. Today, press was given a tour by the Bottle Rock team, which included a very nice sampling of what promises to be great things to come in late January 2009.

Concept Chef Sherie Farah, graduate of the prestigious Johnson and Wales University Culinary Arts Program, fed the intimate gathering an assortment of finger sandwiches and artisan cheeses that were more than worth skipping lunch for. General Manager George Skorka, formerly of the Hotel Bel-Air, was sure to make sure no glass was dry. The sparkling wine from New Mexico was a pleasant surprise and the red from Malibu was still better.

Bottle Rock Downtown is a larger version of the first Bottle Rock, which opened in Culver City in 2006. Like it's Culver City predecessor Bottle Rock Downtown will offer more than 700 wines by both the bottle and glass. Founder Fred Hakim, has spent the last thirty years succeeding in the wine business and seems to be just two months away from adding what he calls, "an egalitarian approach to wine" to his admirable list of accomplishments.

Now of course wine, food, and pretty girls will always get a good write up from this reporter, who's not really a reporter, but I just wish I could have added a real touch of Stan to this blog. That would have involved inviting Sarah and Sherie back to my place and completely compromising my journalistic integrity. Well, back to fiction for me. I mean seriously me a journalist?

After I filed my blog I dealt with my creative conflict at Wokcano's Happy Hour. Luckily I ran into Lee, Marcus, and Michael. Marcus and Michael are the brothers that own Wokcano and Lee is the managing partner of the Out Back in Burbank.

"Stan, you're coming to the Kings' game with us!" said Lee a few drinks ahead of me.

"Yes I am!" I answered, never one to turn down hanging with my friends.

"I've got all thirteen King Girls lined up for later..." Lee said, his arm now tugging at my neck.

I smiled. I felt like a fiction writer again.

POST 28

Downtown Oliver Brown – A Day Full Of Writing

There is a part of me that misses those days in the hills above Sunset...

This is as far as my script about an author who moves Downtown to escape the pretentious idiots in Hollywood had progressed. See, I write at Starbucks and most of my friends don't understand that a writer's office is pretty much wherever he opens his laptop—in this case 11th and Grand.

"Hey Oliver," said my buddy Rick, who's been overseeing the remodel over at the AT&T building for the last year and a half.

"Hey Rick." I would have invited him to sit, but he sat before I could get the words out.

"What's new?"

"Well, since yesterday...I've started on the script for Stan Peters."

"How's it going?"

"I should be done by this afternoon."

"That fast? I thought they take longer to write."

"I was being facetious."

"Oh. Hey, what do you think about this whole auto industry bailout thing?"

I closed my computer to save battery life. "I think its socialism. I'd hate to see any of the car companies go under, but I think there is a much bigger issue to consider."

Rick looked at me thoughtfully. "Like tax payer dollars? Why should we bail them out?"

"No, bigger than that. An argument can be made about taxpayer dollars and getting paid back with interest, and job loss, and broader impact, and on, and on. The bigger issue is a society that doesn't want to accept that there's such a thing as consequences for our actions. This country was built on failure and adversity. I'm worried that removing these as part of the equation will not lead to success."

We talked about this for another half hour.

Rick looked at his watch. "Damn, I have to get back to work. I'll catch you tomorrow."

I opened my computer. "Maybe this economic downturn will cause business to rethink the notion of relying on formula," I thought to myself. "Maybe the mediocre people who run the show will be in the unemployment line where they belong."

I would have typed something but...

"Hey Downtown Oliver Brown," Kenta said, sitting down with coffee in hand.

"Hey Kenta."

"How's the writing going?"

"Great, the new script is practically writing itself," I said with a sigh.

"Oliver, you know the idea I told you about, Wild Moguls, I need your advice."

I closed my computer. "Shoot..."

"Well I talked to a guy that financed Google and he said that he was doing something along the same lines. I wanted to hit him up for financing but now I'm not too sure what to do. I'm supposed to talk to him again tomorrow, what should I say?"

"Ask him for a job. He's not going to finance a company that's going to compete with his own but you're young and on the same page as he is—he'll give you job."

"A job..."

"Kenta, that's the problem with your generation. You can't just go from nothing to CEO. Learning the business from someone who actually knows what they're doing may go against your entitlement DNA, but trust me you'll be better off."

"My entitlement DNA!" He laughed and held out his fist so we could do the high-five replacement. "Oliver, you're so right. Why does my whole generation feel so entitled?"

We talked about this for thirty minutes.

Kenta jumped up. "Oh, the ticket guy...Gotta jump. Thanks Oliver."

Three more people stopped by my table before I could get my computer open. Then there was a moment, which of course is when the attractive blonde at the table in front of my own stood up, walked three feet over to where I sat and sat down.

She put a nickel on the table. "Can I ask your advice about something?"

I looked down at the nickel. "It's probably not worth that much."

She smiled. "It is to me."

"You have to tell me your name first."

She extended her hand. "My name is Misha."

"Nice to meet you Misha, I'm Downtown Oliver Brown but my friends call me Downtown Oliver Brown. What type of advice do you need?"

"I usually sit in the back corner."

"I know. I've noticed you, but you don't usually look like you want to talk to anybody."

"Because I don't. Or I didn't. Why does everyone talk to you? I want to feel like I'm part of something the way you are."

"People talk to me because they can tell that I like them...And that I've failed so badly in life that there's no chance of my being judgmental."

She laughed. "I bet I've messed up more than you have Downtown Oliver Brown."

"How old are you?" I asked.

"I'm nineteen."

"Trust me, at nineteen you just haven't had enough time to make it to my level of debauchery. Besides how much trouble can you get into at FIDM?"

"How do you know I go to FIDM?"

"A cute, blonde, nineteen-year-old that does homework at Starbucks on 11th and Grand?"

"That's true," she conceded, "but I'm not the typical FIDM girl. I don't hang with any of them."

"I figured that."

"Really, how?"

I looked down at her feet. "You don't wear Ugg's when it's eighty degrees out. That wasn't even cool in 2003."

"So you can tell I'm a misfit because I don't wear Ugg's?"

"Something like that."

"Can you tell I just got out of rehab a few months ago?"

"It doesn't surprise me." I was really starting to like this girl. "What were you in for?"

"Coke," she said, clearly wanting to test my nonjudgmental limits. She wasn't even close.

"I did a lot of coke in the eighties." I tried to look serious but I actually have fond memories of those days, so I smiled.

"You're smiling," she said, more amused than shocked. "You are a bad boy..." She thought for a moment. "You know they put me in a psychiatric facility for two weeks before rehab."

"Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?" I asked.

"Of course I do. Why do you think I came over and sat at your table? Did I mention my last boyfriend was a rock star?"

"Can't scare me away, Misha."

She bit her lower lip, as cute girls will do. "Good." She stood up. "I want to stay, but I have to go to class." She picked my iphone up and dialed her number. "Call me tomorrow around 6:30...give me a hug."

I stood with my arms around Misha for a second. They feel so small when they're in your arms. There's something strange about dating a girl young enough to be your daughter. But like so many things these days, aging just isn't what it used to be.

I opened my computer and my phone rang it was Todd from GrooveTickets. "Hey, I thought you were writing a blog about the Grand Opening of Versus? I can't find it anywhere."

"I haven't written it yet, but I'm going to."

"Well, how was it?"

"The place has potential."

"But?"

"I think they envisioned a Hollywood style club Downtown."

"I see."

"I'm going to talk to them."

"When?"

"After I'm done writing this script."

"What script?"

"Todd!!!"

"Okay, call me later if you want to meet up for dinner."

I looked at the first line of the script and decided to change it to: My days living above the Sunset Strip seem like a lifetime ago.

POST 29

Downtown Oliver Brown Gets Lucky—Striked

I was just minding my business dancing away at three in the afternoon inside of the always cool, on a Saturday, Hard Eight Lounge.

"Downtown Oliver Brown," said the beautiful DJ Eden, dancing up to me.

"Eden, you're so beautiful it hurts my soul."

She twisted and turned around me. "So, what did you think of Lucky Strike?"

"It doesn't open until Monday," I answered, not all that concerned with a concept that, at least in my mind, bordered on Hollywood meets corporate America—my least favorite things next to ingesting broken glass.

"I heard they had a party last night," her hair whipped across my face as she said this.

I stopped dancing and inserted my now very dirty feet into my flip-flops. "No one told me they were having a party." I began text-messaging Eric. "Is there something going on at Lucky Strike?"

"I don't know." Appeared back on my iphone.

"Where are you going Oliver? C'mon stay and dance..."

I walked directly over to LA Live and proceeded up the escalator to Lucky Strike.

"Hi," said the cute hostess.

"Is the manager here?" I demanded more than asked.

"Yeah..."

"Could you tell him that Oliver Brown from Blogdowntown is here and would like to speak with him."

I looked around. The entrance / club area rivaled any Vegas ultra lounge. I walked down the length of the beautiful bar into the VIP lounge area. The white was a perfect contrast to the dark entrance. The red pool tables were the perfect accent. Now I've been called pretentious for my appreciation of the finer things in life, but seriously Downtown Oliver Brown felt right at home in this place. Feeling much happier than I had just minutes before I took in the space-age looking lanes. I couldn't help but think back to the good-old-days when I used to go bowling with my father.

"Hi I'm Joe. I'm one of the managers."

Joe was a nice looking young guy. In fact the whole staff was very attractive. "Hi Joe, I'm Downtown Oliver Brown. I heard you had a party last night."

"Yeah, it was a private event, but we're having the official Grand Opening on Monday."

I glared at him. "But you had party and didn't invite me and the locals."

"It was our marketing company..."

"They're not from Downtown are they?"

He shook his head. "I mean we want you guys to come...Monday?"

My glare turned to a pout. "So I can hang out with the guys at the LA Times that think LA Live has unfairly displaced the homeless. I'm a blogger mate I need a scoop."

"Well we were going to do some trials tonight."

I smiled. "I'll be here around eight with some friends." I gave Joe a pat on the shoulder. "I think this place looks amazing, by the way."

I'm not too sure why I went to Ralph's for a wine tasting when I was going bowling / drinking an hour later, it might have had something to do with the fact that Mike was serving up four incredible bottles of Champagne.

Alec was there and literally no one else. "It's just us tonight?" I asked.

Mike nodded. "And I have to throw out whatever is left over. It's a crime."

Alec and I exchanged the knowing glance of men who hate this very type of crime. "Mike, I would never allow such a tragedy, start pouring we have to be at Lucky Strike in an hour." Mike and Alec looked at me inquisitively. "We're going bowling, so cancel your plans."

Mike shrugged knowing that there was no hope of talking me out of this adventure.

Four bottles of Champagne and an hour later myself and a couple hundred of my Downtownster friends were having the time of our lives.

"I can't bowl to hip hop," I said to the DJ. "I need some house music."

"No problem Oliver." And the set turned into something that would have made Tiesto proud.

Gino got us set up on the VIP lanes. Not because I'm a VIP, but for the safety of the other bowlers who were not bowling by Downtown Oliver Brown rules. What are Downtown Oliver Brown Rules? One drink must be consumed before every frame. The winner isn't the bowler with the highest score, but rather the bowler that can bowl the most frames—I've never lost at my own game.

I looked across the cool, lounge table at my four buddies, out of two hundred, that I was actually able to talk into this. "We need one more real man to balance out the rotation. I can't believe nobody else wants to play...I should have left them all home."

"Downtown Oliver Brown! I'm here to save the day!"

I looked up in disbelief at Stan Peters. "No disrespect Stan, but its Saturday night shouldn't you be at whatever Sam Nazarian's new hot spot of the week is?"

Stan sat down next to me and started to put on his bowling shoes. "I'm burnt on that scene, bunch of wanna be's. I mean if I'm going to hang with the peasants I might as well hang with the cool ones." Stan looked from Mike, to Alec, to Neal, to Chris, to me. "No offense guys."

I sighed. "Well your majesty would you like to go before the peasants or after?"

Stan shrugged. "It doesn't matter you'll all be passed out by the time I get a buzz going."

I downed my Jack and Diet. "We'll see about that."

By the twentieth frame both Joe and the General Manager John had joined us. Erica our waitress was family.

John put his arm around me. "You know Oliver you're not exactly what I pictured a writer to be like." Stan rolled a strike and we high-fived. Twenty drinks, great music, hot waitresses, and bowling had bridged a gap between us.

I turned to John as I stood to take my turn. "Hemmingway was a drinker."

Alec succumbed and lay on the couch. "And look how that turned out," he commented adroitly.

I laughed and rolled a strike. Then danced on the table. John volunteered to get the next round, but Neal and Chris were long gone, Alec was down for the count, and Mike had to be at work early the next morning.

"How about it, Stan?"

Stan shook his head. "I should have known the only person that can drink more than a scummy Hollywood producer is a crazy writer... How's that script you're writing for me coming along?"

I laughed and walked with John to the bar to get my story and twenty-first Jack and Diet of the night.

"So how long have you been with the company?"

"Only about six months."

I quickly came to the conclusion that John was going to make a good Downtownster and forgot about getting my story. He showed me a very funny baby picture of his son with his own face superimposed. This is something that proud Italian fathers have a tendency to do.

"I have to take care of something Oliver, I'll be right back."

I was just standing there enjoying the vibe when the attractive blonde that had been bowling in the lanes next to us walked up. She was a friend of a friend of a friend who worked on the design of the building.

"Oliver, you're so adorable, you need to settle down."

"Okay let's do it."

"Not with me, Oliver. But I have some great friends."

"Every one says that..."

"It's not that I don't want you, I could totally rock your world. I totally want to rock your world...But you'll cheat on me I know it."

"I won't. I promise. I just want to get married and have kids. If you really want me I'm yours right now."

The next thing I know we were making out on the sidewalk in front of LA Live. I don't remember this girl's name but I was thinking she might be the one as our bodies came together so perfectly. That's when the silver Rolls Royce Phantom pulled up and Stan Peter's got out of the back.

"Oliver, get in the car." He pointed at Mrs. Right. "You, your fiancé is looking all over for you."

"Fiance?" I had noticed that she was with a guy, but for some reason hadn't put it all together.

"Yeah, but I want you Oliver."

"So let's go." I pulled on her hand and we began our walk to a new life together.

Stan pulled our hands apart. "Listen love birds, better to make this decision a few days from now when we're all sober."

So there I sat in the back of Stan's Rolls Royce. "I like her Stan."

"I thought you were dating a nineteen-year-old named Misha?"

"Her AA sponsor told her that I was a substitute for her drug addiction or something, so we aren't hanging anymore."

"You know what I love about you Oliver?"

"What?"

"You're actually more screwed up than me."

"Yeah, you've kind of grown on me too." I laughed out loud as I got out of the car. I had actually found the perfect place to strike out.

POST 30

Downtown Oliver Brown Thanksgiving Story

"Hi, Oliver Brown speaking," I said into my iphone.

"Oliver, Stan wants to see you in his office with something on paper," said Iren Shmeklestein, the powerful and scummy producer, Stan Peter's longtime sidekick.

"Iren, it's not that I'm avoiding Stan. And I am truly grateful that he kept me from running off with someone else's bride-to-be at Lucky Strike the other night, but I don't have a car."

"You better be writing, Oliver..."

"Iren, I promise I'll get down to business on the script...As soon as I get done with the project I'm working on right now."

"Don't be a shmuck..."

I hung up the phone and savored the feeling of Misha wrapping herself around me. "Did you just call me a project?"

I kissed the soft skin of her cheek. "I'm glad you decided to ignore your sponsor's advice and hang out with me again."

"Me too, but if my dad finds out he's going to cut me out of his will."

"So I guess we won't be doing the family thing for Thanksgiving?"

She whispered in my ear. "I was thinking we could do the Oliver Brown and Misha family thing right now."

I pulled the covers up over us...

The next morning I was at my Starbucks 11th and Grand office working away on an essay that I planned on forwarding on to the President Elect's new economic team. The premise being that the 21st century economy is completely reliant on social network monetization, when the old phone ringtone of my iphone interrupted my thought.

"Hi Oliver, it's Rahm Emanuel, Ari's brother."

"Hi Rahm, I was just writing something for you guys right now."

"The President Elect would like to chat with you if you have a moment."

That's when I looked up and noticed Iren Shmeklestein staring down at me.

"Hi Oliver," said the deep voice now on the line.

"Hi..."

"What type of script is this?" cried Iren looking at my computer screen.

"This isn't a good time," I said, to Iren.

"I'm sorry," said the President Elect, thinking that I was speaking to him.

"No, not a bad time for you, I was talking to someone else," I said feeling that this was not a good start.

"Oliver, we as a people and a country are facing challenging times..."

"I don't even know the name of this project," said Iren, loudly.

I mouthed the words, "I'm talking to the President Elect."

"I thought you were writing something about a writer who hates the pretentious idiots in Hollywood? But I like this idea, very timely."

"You see Oliver we need new ideas," the President went on, "and do to political expedience I've had to bring on the same old retreads to pay off my political debts..."

"Do you really not own a car?" asked Iren.

"No!" I said to Iren, irritated that he thought I would lie about something other than getting my work done.

"Yes, unfortunately that's the way it is," said the President Elect, thinking I was shocked that he'd hired the Clinton administration with a Bush Secretary of Defense as a cherry on top of the great banana split of change.

So, that's when Iren grabbed the iphone out of my hand. "Listen, I need to talk to Oliver without you distracting him, so chill out for a minute." Iren pointed out the window at a brand new Mercedes Benz SL 500. "It's yours," he said handing me the key. "Stan wants you to have wheels and to be indebted to him."

"Can you please hand me my phone back?"

He held it away like a kid in grade school. "You'll be at the studio tomorrow?"

"Okay, but don't expect too much." He handed me back the iphone, walked out of Starbucks and hopped in the back of one of Stan's Rolls Royces.

"Hello..."

"Sorry Olver, I know you're a busy guy, but I want you to fly back and meet with me and the team. I'm going to create a department of blogging and I think you can play an important role."

"You've gotta be kidding."

"No Oliver I'm not kidding, your piece on feeding homeless, crack heads food from Wokcano has really opened a lot of eyes back here. And the way you redefine the rules of bowling in your piece on Lucky Strike quite frankly should be taken into consideration by the BCS, as an impetus of change. Well, what do you say should I send Air Force Two for you?"

I looked out the window at my new Mercedes. "Is it okay if I drive?"

"Good idea. Get a look at the country before we sit down and hash things out. Imagine if the numbskulls at the big three automakers had just driven, it'd be a lot easier for me to give them all the money they need. When do you plan on hitting the road?"

"Soon."

"Good, I'll have Rahm coordinate with you. Have a great Thanksgiving Oliver."

"You too..."

"The Department of Blogging?" I said out loud. "I just want to be a screen writer."

But there was no time to blog or write a screenplay because my sister was calling on the iphone.

"Oliver, did you get the turkey yet?" she asked.

"Yeah, its in the guest bathroom. And it's making a terrible racket—the neighbors are complaining."

"Well why didn't you buy a dead one like a normal person?"

"Dead ones cost money I got this one for free."

"Oliver I have people coming over you better not screw this up."

"I just have to wait until Misha's not around to get dinner ready tomorrow if you know what I mean? She's an animal lover."

"I'm an Oliver lover—also," said Misha, sitting down at my table.

"I have to go sis." I hung up. "Are you ditching class again?"

She leaned across the table and kissed me on the lips. "I'm tired. I feel like taking a nap at your place."

I looked at the unfinished essay and the just started screenplay on my computer screen and suddenly felt very sleepy.

POST 31

Blog Misha's Mom

I spotted Tim Leiweke, the president of AEG, out of the corner of my eye. I had just sat down at Starbucks 11th and Grand to finally focus on the script about a writer who moves Downtown to get away from the pretentious idiots in Hollywood. The irony of course being that I'm writing the script for Stan Peters, the subject of the cult classic book "In Development", the story of Hollywood's most powerful and scummiest producer. If you haven't read "In Development" go over to Metropolis Books on Main Street and get a copy. Anyway, there's Tim putting some sweetener in his coffee. Sensing an opportunity for a blog I shut down the laptop and approached.

"Hey Tim."

"Hey Oliver, starting early today..."

"Oh it's just a little script thing I'm behind on."

"Actually, Stan Peters mentioned that you were writing a script for him..."

"He did?"

"Yeah, when he dropped off the check for one of the Penthouses at the new Ritz Carlton." My head swooned at the news that Stan would be living so close to Lucky Strike, he'd definitely want to join the league I've been working on. "Apparently there's no recession in the movie business," Tim continued. But I was having a hard time concentrating. "What if he winds up on my team?" I thought to myself—bowling with the guys would never be the same.

"Tim, not to change the subject, but I really think that there's a unique opportunity to cover LA Live. I know everyone is going to write about the architecture and the money and on and on. I want to write about the humanity, the impact on the community from the perspective of a writer who actually lives here...I want to hang with you during opening week."

Tim tried his best not to laugh. "Oliver after that incident at Lucky Strike..."

"I swear I didn't know she was engaged."

"Not that incident..."

"Oh, well how could I know that, that was there entire allotment of Cristal for the year. And Stan was paying so I didn't really think anything of it when I ordered all those bottles."

"Not that incident either..."

At this point of the story I should explain what exactly Tim was referring to. I do so with considerable consternation that Tim was aware of such and unfortunate incident. No doubt Stan Peter's had something to do with it.

It all started at the Hard Eight Lounge, where so many of my misadventures begin. I was dancing with Eden (see previous blog for description of hot she is) when the legendary Lucky Luke walked up.

"Oliver you're going to the Conga Room with us tonight—it'll be a good adventure."

"The Conga Room closed in 06, daddy. Went broke or something."

"No, the new one Oliver."

"There's a new Conga Room? Why?"

"C'mon Oliver it'll be fun."

"Same CELEBRITY OWNERS?"

"Oliver you're writing a script for the most powerful and scummiest producer in Hollywood, what's wrong with some celebs owning a club."

"First of all I haven't actually written that script yet although I did accept an SL 500 so now I feel partially obligated. But I just don't want to see Downtown turn into Hollywood. With celebrities comes the Hollywood attitude. And I just don't think Downtownsters like yours truly want that around."

"Listen, come with us tonight and give them a chance—for me."

I agreed, but only because Eden finally said, "I'll go home with you afterwards and teach you the meaning of pleasurable transcendence."

Later that night I meant to go to the Conga Room, but I ran into John the General Manager of Lucky Strike.

"You've got time to roll a couple of lines."

So the next thing I know it's two in the morning and John (the GM) has joined Joe, Stan, David and myself for our final game—winner take all.

Now mind you I had a couple of dozen drinks at this point so I can't really be blamed for accidentally taking John's turn in the tenth frame..."

"No, Oliver it's not your turn," shouted Stan in a panic.

"I don't believe it," was all Joe could say.

I didn't understand all the commotion over my tenth frame seven ten split. But then looking at the scoreboard it hit me like a giant Conga drum. I turned to John who was, well, shocked.

"I think I just messed up your perfect three hundred game," I offered with considerable remorse.

John held up his hand, "I'll just do a reset. It'll be okay."

Relieved I sat down on what I thought to be a couch, but turned out to be the control panel, which erased all of our scores and caused the main computer to crash. John was a sport about me ruining his perfect three-hundred-game, but I have to admit I walked out feeling a little down. Fortunately, Eden was walking out of the Conga Room at the same time.

"Oliver, I've been looking for you all night."

"Am I late?" I asked.

"Yes," she said scornfully.

"I could use some pleasurable transcendence...I ruined John's perfect game."

"Oh Oliver," her arms were around me and her breath was hot in my ear, "I'm sorry. I'll make you feel better."

Hopefully it all makes more sense now.

I sighed trying to think of something to say to Tim before his coffee got cold. "Well if you're talking about the whole three-hundred-game thing and breaking the computer and all—I can only promise that nothing like that will happen again. And, I'm friend's with Steve Jobs so I can hook them up with some new computers if they need them."

Tim's a nice guy, so while it was clear he probably wouldn't go bowling with me anytime soon he did hand me his card. "Oliver, send me a proposal and I'll make sure Lisa gets it. Lisa's in charge of LA Live so it's really her you should be hanging out with...And Oliver no more shenanigans, if anything goes wrong at the tree lighting because of you...

"I promise Tim. I've turned over a new leaf..."

"Murderer!" shouted Misha, my nineteen-year-old off and on again girlfriend.

I turned from Tim to Misha.

"Where's Mr. Gobbles?" she demanded to know. "You said he was a rescue." (read Oliver Brown's Thanksgiving story for more info on the turkey Misha is referring to)

"He was. I rescued him from the freeway next to the arboretum," I said turning back to Tim. "I promised my sister I would cook something and I couldn't keep the thing in the extra bathroom any longer, my neighbors were complaining about the noise."

Tim shook his head. "You just better not do anything to mess up our tree lighting." And with that Tim walked away leaving me to face Misha alone.

"Oliver after what you did to Mr. Gobbles how can I trust you to keep an eye on my mom?"

"What mom?"

"My mom's boyfriend broke up with her last night and with the whole manic depression thing she's got I can't leave her at my grandparents they're too old to deal with it."

"I don't know..." And then she was hugging and kissing me. She has the softest lips. "Okay, I'll keep an eye on her for a few days."

She kissed me on the cheek. "Then I forgive you for Mr. Gobbles...I'm going to go get her."

I sat down and began writing a proposal for Tim to give to Lisa, rather than the script I was supposed to be writing for Stan Peters about a writer who moves Downtown to get away from all of the pretentious idiots in Hollywood.

POST 32

Downtown Oliver Brown LA Live And The Stupid Architectural Critic

I stopped by Starbuck 11th and Grand with every intention of walking over to the new Starbucks at LA Live. But as a member of the Downtown community I did feel obligated to at least say hi to my all my friends—wouldn't want my absence to be a cause for concern. Well, I'm sitting with David Kean, the realtor, and Victor the owner of Hard Eight clothing, sharing a paper.

"Oh look the literary giants at the LA Times managed to find something bad to say about LA Live." I looked in disgust at an article that questioned how LA Live would do, given that it was opening in a bad economy.

"Oh the Times can always find something bad to say," said David. "You look a little tired today Oliver..."

"I was up late talking to Misha's mom, she's staying with me."

FLASH BACK

Misha and her mom stood at my door.

"Oliver this is my mom. Mom this is my boyfriend, Oliver."

Misha's mom gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Come in," I managed to utter. Then lowering my voice to a whisper I said to Misha, "You never mentioned that your mom is Paulina Portzakova the former super model?"

"Yeah she's hot isn't she? And don't get any ideas...she's very vulnerable right now. And she's my mom."

"Thank you so much for letting me stay," said the hot mom of my hot girlfriend.

"Mi casa su casa..." I replied.

END OF FLASH BACK

"What's she like?" asked Victor.

I chose my words carefully. "I want her. I've been fantasizing about her since high school..." But my thought was interrupted by something I noticed in the Times. "Why does the Times seem to not get that people seek out entertainment in tough economic times? And how have they missed the point that the greatest entertainment facility ever built has just been built in Downtown LA—home to forty thousand people and five hundred and fifty thousand workers, all looking for something to do. Oh, and did I leave out that LA Live is at the center of a county with fourteen million people who like to be entertained. How did these geniuses manage to put a question mark on that?"

David handed me the section he was looking at. "You're really going to like this article, Oliver," he said dryly.

The architectural review said something to the effect that...

"You've got to be kidding me. How can you review a project phase by phase? A kindergartner would know to at least wait until the whole project is done." I read a little more. "Doesn't integrate into the community? Cretans! It's a shining light in the middle of the city. And the outdoor plaza is like a room outside? Yeah maybe they should have put the plaza on the corner of Olympic and Fig, so all the free community events could have completely stopped traffic, been exposed to endless security issues, and been impossible to hear anything in because of the bus stop. I'd like to meet the moron who wrote this oxymoron."

"I'm sitting right next to you."

I turned to face somebody I had actually never seen in the neighborhood before. "You wrote this, garbage?"

"Yes, I did."

"They fired hundred and fifty good writers and kept you?" I asked.

"I'm sure you're more qualified than I am to..."

"I've lived here for fourteen years Bozo, of course I'm more qualified than you are. I'm sure you've never taken the time to read "The Fountain Head", but if you had you would have taken into account the functionality of the building. See, that's what the community cares about."

He was not smiling at this point. "Not at the exclusion of the project's weave into the fabric of the overall environment," he snorted.

"Dude, I know that sounded good in the free classes you got with that box of Cracker Jacks, but..." Dave burst out laughing. "this is Los Angeles the fabric is a serape. You know all different colors and cultures. But I guess if it were up to you they would have tried to capture a little more of the car wash theme across the street with a touch of the non descript Holiday Inn on the opposite corner."

And in the tradition of the great writer Norman Mailer I found myself in a brawl in the middle of Starbucks. Unfortunately for the architecture critic, who took the first swing I might add, he had about the same knowledge of amateur boxing as he did of architecture—that would be none. Because apparently he missed the three Golden Gloves' titles I had won as a youth, here in the city I was born and raised in. However, unfortunately for me there were four LAPD officers sitting ten feet away.

"Oliver, what's gotten into you?" asked Dean, as they pulled me off the pummeled critic. "You could be arrested for this."

"Me arrested?" I protested incredulously. "You should arrest him for impersonating an architecture critic."

"The architecture critic impersonator did take the first swing," said David.

"He insulted me...And if anyone should be arrested it should be him for all of those great movies he's written that have lost money...I've seen them all."

I would have punched him again for this crack, but Dean and the other cops dragged me out to the sidewalk and told me I should get on with my plan to check out the new Starbucks at LA Live.

A few minutes later I approached what looked to be the nicest Starbucks ever. Lisa who I was planning on following around happened to be outside.

"Hi Lisa," I said, putting my hands in the pocket of my Zegna pee coat to hide the teeth marks.

"Hi Oliver. Are you behaving yourself, like you promised Tim?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. I'm really looking forward to hanging out with you. I'll just be a fly on the wall. No trouble at all...I'm completely mellow these days. I hardly have an opinion about anything. I mean if I were an animal, it's like I'd be a sheep or something. I mean that calm..."

"Okay, you can come to the Grammy pre-concert tonight and the after party." She handed me the highly coveted tickets.

Happy that the day seemed to be going better I leaned over to give her a quick hug...

"Downtown Oliver Brown!" It was Kyle, the LAPD officer, who happened to be Dean's cousin.

"Hey Kyle, this is Lisa..."

"Nice to meet you," he said before I could say the words "who is in charge of LA Live," which hopefully would have played on his LAPD predilection for discretion in matters where charges weren't actually filed. He continued, "Dean gave me a 411 on the radio that you worked over that reporter pretty good. The boys said your right hook still packs some power."

Lisa looked at me justifiable skeptical about my new pacifist attitude. "Oliver tell me you didn't..."

"He started it. And its not like we broke any furniture or anything...Listen I should probably get home and check on my girlfriend's mom..."

"Check on your girlfriend's mom?"

"See you guys," I said, walking off before I could be questioned about my unusual houseguest.

As I walked through LA Live I couldn't help, but feel satisfied that I had done the right thing. Free speech is good, it's a fundamental of our democracy, but stupid speech should be challenged. And saying that LA Live is just another island in a city full of islands is stupid. We build islands in LA because LA culture is a culture of individual identity. Angelino's live to discover; sometimes block to block.

POST 33

Downtown Oliver Brown The Tree Lighting Ceremony

When you're Downtown Oliver Brown, not much fazes you. But waking up with my hot nineteen-year-old girlfriend's MOTHER naked in my bed did actually give me what felt like a flutter in my chest followed by considerable shortness of breath. I would have been completely distraught but for the fact that my girlfriend Misha's mother is the former Super Model Paullina Portzakova, who I have already admitted to fantasizing about in my previous blog entry. I knew somewhere in my consciousness that I shouldn't have accepted the pill she offered me as an Aspirin substitute. However, like so many thoughts of this nature it struck me after the little white pill was already down the hatch with a pretty hefty escort of Johnny Walker Blue Label.

"I didn't!"

She nuzzled my neck. "You did, and you did, and you did..."

"Ahhhh," I moaned, as I covered my forehead with the palm of my hand. "You said it was Aspirin."

"No I told you it would make you feel better."

"Well I don't feel better right now. And it takes a lot for me to be disgusted with myself."

She got on top of me and kissed me on the lips. "Too bad because I like making love in the morning."

"Really?" I asked, just before the indescribable began to happen again.

I know I shouldn't have, but I figured Misha was already going to be upset especially given this was only a few days after I cooked up Mr. Gobbles for Thanksgiving dinner. I realize at this point the reader might be thinking that there's no way I could talk my way out of such a colossal lack of judgment. But remember this was all Misha's idea in the first place. Some of the blame is on her and I had already resolved to get her to see this more balanced point of view.

Later that day: I was writing my previous blog about punching out the Times' architecture critic at the new and nicest Starbucks ever at LA Live when Lisa sat down at the twenty foot long community table I have now renamed the boardroom.

"Everyone at AEG is very proud of you – not one incident last night, Oliver."

I sighed. "That you know about."

"Oliver?"

"No, don't worry nothing to do with LA Live, just a little problem with my girlfriend's mom."

Lisa's tone was sympathetic. "It can be hard to get along with our significant other's parents."

"Yep," I answered, thinking that getting along too well with them was actually worse.

"So what did you think of the event last night?"

"It was really fun. I think the Nokia is the best concert venue I've ever been in. You know when the Foo Fighters did that cover of "You're So Vain" it showed what the acoustics in that room can really do. And I think the whole pre-concert idea is good for the Grammy's in general." I lowered my voice. "John Mayer playing with BB King is kind of like me doing math with Albert Einstein—not the same league if you know what I mean. And I like John Mayer."

"And how did you like Club Nokia?" Lisa asked, totally cheery and upbeat, because she completely had no idea of the giant cross I was bearing from what happened after the after party at Club Nokia.

"Great! It has a similar vibe to the room in Vegas that housed my last live show."

"Have you ever thought about doing live entertainment again?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I made a lot of money doing live entertainment, but it was so easy for me..."

"You know Oliver, it's okay to be successful."

At this point I should probably point out that Lisa started her career as a receptionist for a modeling school in Denver and living the American Dream – now runs LA Live.

"It's been so long I've kind of gotten used to the way thing go for me."

Lisa smiled. "After Grand Opening week, I want to talk to you. Maybe it's time to bring back Downtown Oliver Brown Presents."

The thought cheered me a bit. "Hey, a little money to go along with all my talent might be nice."

"We'll talk." She stood up from the boardroom table in the middle of Starbucks. "And we have a seat for you at the tree lighting. So be on time."

Now had someone mentioned to me that Brittney Spears would be flicking the switch designed to look like a candy cane that turned on the fifty-six foot all LED tree I wouldn't have shown up at all. Not because I don't like Brittney but...

I was sitting in front of the red carpet minding my own business. There was a buzz of excitement in the air. Not so much because of anything that was going on, no the buzz was simply due to a feeling of community being gathered to watch something happen. Misha sat next to me—not holding my hand but allowing me to put my arm around her.

"I still can't believe you slept with my mother."

"I told you I don't even remember the first three times."

"I'm so mad at you right now. And don't try to say it's my fault because I was dumb enough to trust you."

Funny because that was going to be my argument. "You said you wanted us to get along."

"Oliver."

"Well at least she's over the boyfriend that dumped her. You have to at least acknowledge that I helped out in that department."

Tim, the mayor, and a bunch of other important people walked by. Tim mouthed the words, "Behave yourself, Oliver." Adam Corolla started to do his hosting, which frankly lowered the bar to a point that I thought even I couldn't make things worse.

"You!" said Brittney stunned at the sight of me sitting in the front row—worse yet with my arm around Misha.

This caused Tim to miss pronounce the mayor's last name.

Downtown Oliver Brown doesn't get involved in politics accept for giving a little advice to world leaders every now and then, and there is the whole Barack Obama appointment pending, but otherwise I'm not political. However, even a casual observer will notice that the mayor of Los Angeles has a bit of an ego, so getting his name wrong will probably be forgotten by him sometime around the beginning of the next Ice Age.

"You ruined my life," Brittney continued.

"Really, did he sleep with your mother too," said Misha, adding fuel to the fire.

Adam managed to chime in something about Brittney's comeback being as unexpected as Downtown's.

"You better be in my limo when I leave—in about five minutes from now. I have some things I want to say to you, Downtown Oliver Brown."

I grabbed Misha by the hand thinking it was time to leave before I caused an incident.

"Oh no, you bring her too. She has to hear this story."

She gave a big disingenuous smile to the fans, distracted and not capable of answering Adam's question about her new album.

"Well Britney just flip the candy cane switch here," said Adam, in that suave Pavarotti voice of his.

Now why they plugged the switch into the planter box that I was trying to climb through with Misha in tow, I have no idea, so again it wasn't completely my fault that the tree didn't light up when Brittney through the switch.

"Oliver, you stepped on the chord." Misha pointed at the unplugged plug.

"This is bad," I said to her quickly reaching down to try and plug the tree back in. Thankfully it worked, the tree lit up and only a few thousand people and the live audience watching KTLA noticed the little glitch.

The getaway ended when Brittney's limo cut us off at Olympic and Flower. The back door opened and Brittney, who was looking pretty hot by the way, got out.

"No you don't. You two, in the back." She pointed at the luxurious back seat and I noticed what appeared to be a well stocked bar.

I decided to get in pulling Misha along with me. I mean the circumstances weren't ideal, but I had the sense that once all the yelling was done it might turn into an interesting night. A limo with alcohol, two girls fresh out of rehab, and Downtown Oliver Brown—very interesting indeed.

POST 34

Downtown Oliver Brown And The Final Beam

"Oliver, the NSA tells me that you're not writing at your usual Starbucks. Is everything okay?" asked President Elect Obama.

"I'm fine. I've just been writing a lot about LA Live so I've been working out of the Starbucks over there. I like to totally immerse myself in my subject matter."

"Yeah, I thought that might be the case. The piece about the architecture critic was brilliant. Your understanding of the juxtaposition of the current micro and macro economic situation is unique. Oliver, you are still going to be the head of our new Blogging Communications Agency?"

"I said I would come back and help out. I don't think I have the time to head a government agency. To be honest I think I might bring back "Downtown Oliver Brown Presents" to LA Live, it's an incredible opportunity. It's one big party down here."

"Wait until you see the parties we're going to be throwing at The White House. Don't let my public image fool you...I know how to have a good time."

"Well I haven't signed a deal yet. I promise I'll come back for the inauguration and hear you out."

"Good...What do you think of this whole Auto Industry mess?"

"Don't appoint an Auto Czar. But definitely talk to Lee Iacocca, he's the only guy who's done anything like this before."

"You're right I should give Lee a call. What about the money? Is it the right thing to do?"

"In principle—no. But now that money has been given to the financial institutions, it's a little late to start worrying about principle. Now it's just a matter of what's going to cost the taxpayers less. Which, seems to be giving them the money."

"Do you think they can be viable?"

"Absolutely, if they're willing to learn how to communicate in the 21st century. Any company without a blog and social network monetization strategy is pretty much doomed to failure in the new economy. Not to say that communication is the end all, but if you have a great product you're not selling it using 20th century marketing concepts. Let's be frank, what I'm talking about embracing is what got you elected."

"Why do you think they stumbled over this? You and I get it."

"Fat, rich, lazy, and worst of all, arrogant. And I'm not just talking about CEO's, I'm talking about a lot of people. Too many mediocre people have been promoted over the last twenty years to positions of power and now we're all paying the price. You know how many people have been promoted based on seniority rather than merit? Just give the companies that are failing a close look and start counting. We need to get back to the Sam Walton School of management. Leading a business has to be about building a company first and foremost. And it has to be done with a sense of responsibility to the community—that isn't mandated by the government, but by civic conscience...Are you there Mr. President Elect?"

"Sorry Oliver, you just get me thinking about so many things."

"Oops, I'm late. I have to get over to the Ritz Carlton topping off ceremony."

"I hear that's quite a project. I have to hand it to you folks in downtown LA, good economy or bad economy you just keep on going. I'll look forward to reading the blog..."

I stood on the event deck and listened to several union officials and construction executives thank the thousand workers seated in the audience for their exemplary safety record—one incident during the entire project. Although this had no direct effect on my wellbeing I felt a sense of pride that our workers here in LA had achieved such an accomplishment. We've all heard about the terrible accidents that have happened at City Center in Las Vegas. And again, I had no plan to join the barbeque that was being given for the construction workers yet it struck me as an exceptional gesture by ownership.

Laura Diaz, who hosted the event, went over big with the construction workers. I like the fact that she actually lives Downtown. Tim, Jan, the mayor, and Jimmy Smits all spoke to the crowd, and while all four are very used to public speaking there was something special in the slightly warm breeze that was blowing, which gave all of their words something a little extra.

"Five, four, three, two, one," Jimmy counted down. The music began to play and the last beam needed to complete the Marriott / Ritz Carlton Hotel and Residence was hoisted by crane into the air for all to see. The American flag hung from this last beam and it flapped proudly in the wind as it ascended to where it truly belongs—above all of us as a reminder of what a great country this is and the levels of greatness that we can achieve when we all work together.

I stood for a moment, looking at the flag, surrounded by the men and women who built the incredible structure with their hands, the men and women who conceived the incredible structure with their minds, and even a couple of the people who were willing to write the checks. I stood there and then left without saying a word. The accomplishment in front of me was too big even for Downtown Oliver Brown to turn into a story.

POST 35

Downtown Oliver Brown And A Whiskey Bar

I don't really vibe with Seven Grand, too many people, too many guys, and a college hipster feel around the pool tables that I didn't even like in my college years. Those would be the three years at UCLA before I dropped out for no reason.

I sat in the front booth, the only spot that frankly doesn't feel like a sausage factory to me, drinking a triple Blue Label. Now, let me make it perfectly clear, when it comes to Whiskey Seven Grand knows what it's doing. So while I'm not into the crowd, it doesn't really matter because I was there to hang out with my old friend Johnny Walker and possibly his cousin Jack Daniels.

"I thought I might find you here," said Stan Peters sitting down at my table. Stan is Hollywood's most powerful and scummiest producer. He is also the subject of the novella "In Development". I mention this often out of concern for new readers who may not know this very relevant information.

"Why would you think that? I came here on purpose because I never come here."

Stan waved at the waitress. "Whatever he's having—two rounds." He turned to me. "I figured you'd be somewhere where you didn't want to run into anyone you know." Stan looked around the room. "And I know you don't know anyone in this place."

I downed my drink in anticipation of the next two rounds that were on the way. "What do you want Stan? I gave Iren the first thirty pages of the script."

The waitress put four triple Johnny Walker Blue Labels on the table. Stan handed her his AMEX black titanium card. "Keep it open, love." We clacked our glasses together. And I have to give it to Stan he can chug with the best of us. Our empty glasses hit the table at the same exact moment. "So, what's bothering you?"

"Besides you being here?" I responded to the invasion of my self-loathing. "Nothing, I'm great."

"No you're not. When Iren told me you actually gave him thirty pages of the script you're supposed to be writing for me—I knew something was wrong."

"I can stop writing it if you want..."

Stan almost spit out the swig he had just taken. "No, don't do that. Although I hate to say it, the first thirty pages are some of the best writing I've ever seen. I almost forgot how talented you are when you do your thing. If the rest of the script is on the same level—you'll get nominated for an Academy Award for sure."

I shrugged. "Great, now that swag is taxable."

"I'm guessing that since you've been doing the work I gave you an SL 500 as an incentive to do, something has got you down. Everything okay with your nineteen-year-old?"

It dawned on me that I hadn't talked to Misha in almost a week—and that I had leant her the SL 500 that Stan had given me. I figured it was the least I could do given what a great boyfriend I am.

"I love her."

"So, you haven't talked to her in weeks?" Stan asked insightfully.

"A week. But I do love her. I just wish I wasn't so old." I took a gulp of my drink. "She won't get it until it's too late—they never do. I could be a better man for her, but I'm sure it would just end in disappointment, when she cheats on me with some valet guy who parks my car somewhere."

Stan sighed. "You know just when I was feeling zero holiday spirit, you've helped me reach a whole new low."

"Sorry, Merry f*ck'n Christmas. Feel good enough to finish your drink and go now?"

"Oliver, you know what I've always admired about you?"

"Please don't tell me, Stan. I don't really care."

"That's what I admire about you. You don't care. You can chitchat with the President, have dinner with a billionaire, sleep with your girlfriend's mother, write a movie better than anyone in Hollywood and still be totally disconnected. I get so tired of all the kiss asses that want something from me. Or pretend to like me because I can do something for them. I'm a schemer and you hate me for it. You are your own man Oliver. Why can't you be happy with that?"

"I didn't get the insider's look at LA Live that I wanted. Two weeks I hung out and got nothing but some satire." I held up my glass. "Cheers." And down the hatch went another hundred and fifty dollars worth of Whiskey.

Stan waved at the waitress who was on the ball enough to already have two more rounds on the tray as she walked over. She set the drinks down. "Can we just get a bottle?" asked Stan sensing that I wasn't going to be easily consoled.

"Sorry we're not allowed to do that."

I shook my head. "You know I have problems with authority in general, but I think I speak for all of mankind when I say that..."

Stan cut me off. "Just pour a bottle into four highballs and bring them to the table. We'll take it from there." He turned to me. "You didn't really think they would make you part of the family?"

"I hoped...It was a historical event. I was the guy to write it—the real story, that's what people wanted. You know when I see potential that isn't realized it hurts me. I mean it's like a knife in my heart."

Stan nodded. "That's why you're so good at what you do—when you do it. But you're too sensitive, Oliver. You can't let yourself care about things so much. They're not even your things."

I drank and l laughed. "You realize you just contradicted yourself?"

"No, that's the irony. You don't care about you, you care about the world."

"I'm not asking the world to change, Stan." My mind drifted to the Coca Cola parade that ended at LA Live, a terrible high school band, a double-decker bus with screaming kids, and a Coca Cola truck—I drained the glass in my hand to make the vision go away. "I just want to be able to use my talent. Otherwise it's all a waste, I don't play golf, I don't ski, I don't even have a desire to collect action figures or baseball cards or whatever normal people do to keep busy. I just want to write. But I don't want to write the same old formula crap that the people running the show seem to think the American public wants—until their Fortune Five Hundred Company goes bankrupt due to their incompetence."

"Well, at least you have a script for me to write."

"Now who's bringing the holiday spirit to a new low? Why don't you just tell me that GM is bankrupt and state taxes are going up?"

We laughed and clinked our glasses. "I can have my private jet take us anywhere in the world right now." Stan nodded toward the exit.

"Why go anywhere in the world when we could go to Vegas?" My mind drifted to a number of vices. "After we finish our drinks."

Ten minutes later Johnny Walker had left the building and so had we. I really couldn't think of a more depressing thought than spending the holiday with Stan, given he stands for everything I don't believe in, but I suppose if I wanted to have a happy holiday I would have made myself a better man when I had the chance all those years ago.

POST 36

No Encore For Oliver

"Whooooo Shiiiiiiit!!! Look what the cat done dragged into Vegas!!!!" screamed the large, handsome, cowboy looking fellow that had come to greet us at the airport.

I staggered off of Stan Peters' Gulfstream V and watched as the cowboy fellow lifted Stan off of the floor in a hug that would have crushed a hearty grizzly, no doubt. Hopefully you've read the last blog where the drinking binge that resulted in the flight to Las Vegas with Stan on his private jet began. Because Stan's Gulfsream is well stocked with fine Scotch the drinking had continued unabated until the moment where our story continues:

"James Whiskey Peet the third, I'd like you to meet the best and possibly most dysfunctional writer in Hollywood, Downtown Oliver Brown."

James Whiskey Peet the third, crushed my hand with a vice like grip. "Well any friend of Stan Peters the scummiest and most powerful producer in Hollywood is a friend of mine."

I pried my hand loose. "Are those real six shooters you've got strapped on there, James Whiskey Peet the third?"

He pulled the pearl handled, diamond studded, beautiful instruments of death with the skill of true shootest and fired off a couple shots each into the air. "Damn right they're real—writer boy. And call me Whiskey Peet! Now enough of this shiiiiiit hop in the car and let's go play some cards!" Then wrapping his arm around my shoulder. "Bet you don't have any cars like this in that faggot, liberal city you just flew in from."

I took in Whiskey Peet's Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine. It actually made Stan's normal Rolls Royce Phantom look small. My eyes had some trouble focusing but eventually made their way down to the front of the car where they came to rest on an enormous set of what appeared to be solid silver steer horns.

"This is a fine automobile Whiskey Peet. I take it that it's equipped with a bar?"

He slapped me on the back. "My boy! My boy! Get your ass in there and see for yourself."

Whiskey Peet shoved Stan and myself through the back door where we were greeted by a bunch of girls wearing nothing but chaps and cowgirl vests...And a guy named Dave.

"Girls these are my boys from the coast!" The girls all said, "hi" on cue and made various comments about how cute we were. "And boys that's my buddy Dave The Jew!"

We shook hands with Dave The Jew and the car whisked us off to Seamless, which is apparently Dave The Jew's favorite strip club. Now while I do not profess to be an expert on Vegas strip clubs I would usually have gone to Treasure for this type of harmless by Vegas standards fun. Seamless however, proved to be quite nice. I'm not exactly sure why with a car full of almost completely naked girls we went to a strip club, but then again I wasn't exactly sure why I had agreed to fly to Vegas with Stan Peters only to find myself with a wild gun toting cowboy named Whiskey Peet.

"I'm April. Who are you?" asked the beautiful girl that cuddled up to me at the bar at Seamless. It took a minute for me to realize that she didn't have chaps on and thus wasn't one of our posse.

"I'm Downtown Oliver Brown, failed writer extraordinaire."

"I've read your blogs, they made me want to go to LA. Are you really Downtown Oliver Brown?"

"It's really me. I'm sure people come in here all of the time pretending to be a broke, single, childless, critically acclaimed writer, but this time I'm here in the flesh."

She pressed her body into mine. "I'm here in the flesh too and I love guys with brains. Do you mind if I join you for a drink?"

I rested my right hand on her derrière, which was nothing less than spectacular; I was particularly struck by the softness of her skin. "If you want to lap dance me you don't have to go through the whole having a drink thing, I'm totally into you. I'll give you all the money I can possibly borrow off of Stan The Scummy Producer and Whiskey Peet."

She kissed me on the cheek. "I want to have a drink with you...And you don't have to pay me for dances...I've got money I'll pay you."

"How much?" I asked.

"Well I get twenty a dance, so I'll pay you what everyone else pays me...It's only fair."

As I sat there drinking with April I found myself not feeling so upset about not getting the inside look at LA Live that I had wanted. By the time she was pulling me back to the couches for the dancing part of the evening I couldn't even remember why I lived in LA. Because this story is not written for an adult website I'll skip the description of the dance April laid on me, but suffice it to say I was convinced by its conclusion that I could be happy the rest of my life with her.

"No I can't accept that," I said pushing back the money April tried to hand me as I followed the Whiskey Peet express out the front doors into the giant Rolls Royce with silver steer horns.

"A deals, a deal," she said continuing to extend several hundred dollars in twenties my way.

"My boy! My boy! A girl that wants to give you money is a keeper." Then picking up April, who was still only dressed in a g-string and tiny bra, Whiskey Peet carried her off to the car. I'm guessing nobody bothered to question this unusual behavior because he still had his six shooters strapped to his thighs.

Whiskey Peet's house, all 50,000 feet of it, could best be described as western opulent. On the walls hung the handy work of three generations of Peet's who had apparently never come across an animal that they didn't want to shoot.

"I call this Whiskey Peet's at Whiskey Peet's," said Whiskey Peet to April and myself. I stared at the nicest casino I'd ever seen—that just happened to be in a private home that was larger than most hotels.

"Very impressive," I said to Whiskey Peet.

"Let's find a bedroom," whispered April into my ear.

"I don't always feel like going to the strip, too many foreigners and last time they complained about my guns—liberal fagoooots! I said I play a million dollars a hand boy and you don't want me to have my guns...I'll play in my own damn casino. I ain't no public company, asset leveraged, new fangled casino owner. I own gold mines, silver mines, the largest cattle ranch in the country, and a million acres of land. I'm keeping my guns...Let's play some poker boys!"

I cleared my throat. "I think a million dollar a hand poker sounds a little rich for my blood, Whiskey Peet."

"Don't give me that horse shiiiiiiit!!! I'll stake you, my boy."

"I also kind of wanted to a..." I nodded toward April.

"You can break that Equus caballus in later my boy...Hell I'll stake her too...You know how to play poker little girl?"

April, having taken four years of Latin in college, was not thrilled about being referred to as a horse, and apparently had done pretty well in the World Series of Poker. "Well, I'll give it a try Haus," she said with a smile to Whiskey Peet.

Four hours later, the sun rising, Dave The Jew and I were bust, which meant I owed Whiskey Peet, Stan Peters, and April the stripper ten million dollars each. April on the other hand seemed to be up my ten million and another five.

I decided a trip to the spa would be a good idea, and after a great deal of convincing, Dave The Jew agreed to come with.

I called the Wynn, which is my spa of preference when I'm in Vegas.

"Hi this is the Spa at Encore. How can I help you?"

"Well I've been up all night drinking and gambling, I'm down thirty million that I don't have and it looks like sex with April is out, at least until she's done taking Whiskey Peet and Stan Peters to the cleaners. So, I was thinking a spa treatment might be called for...Oh, and I'm trying to call the Wynn."

"Well Encore, is the new hotel at the Wynn and I highly recommend our new spa."

"I usually go to the Wynn, but hey I'm always up to try something new. You're sure it's nice."

"You're going to love it...I'm sorry I didn't ask your name?"

"Well there goes one of your diamond ratings," I teased.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, please don't take away one of our diamonds—I'll lose my job."

"I was just kidding—relax. Besides my few million readers, no one cares what I think. Anyway, my name is Oliver Brown, but my friends all call me Downtown Oliver Brown."

"Will you be coming by yourself Mr. Brown?"

"No, I talked Dave The Jew into coming with me. Make it a reservation for two."

Where Dave The Jew got his hands on peyote, Lophophora williamsii if April is reading this, I don't know, but I assure you it is much stronger than the shrooms I used to take in college, before I got kicked out.

The next thing I know I was being waved over by security at Encore. I was thinking that driving Whiskey Peets' Palomino painted, convertible Lamborghini wasn't such a good idea—as it attracted too much attention.

"Can I help you?" asked the Asian security guard in a decently fitted gray suit.

"We're here for the spa," I answered, ignoring the giant, fire breathing dragon that had appeared from nowhere in the driveway blowing flames out of its' nostrils just missing the Lambo by a few feet.

"Do you have your employee I.D. with you?"

"No, but that's because we're not employees. I'm a writer—" And then there was a whole family of bunny rabbits frolicking on the hood of the car, which along with the fire breathing dragon I ignored. "And Dave here is a Jew—like your boss."

"Well, Encore doesn't open until Monday." Twenty cars drove past us into the valet. "It's just friends, family, and employees today."

"Well, then why did the spa tell us to come on down?"

"You have an appointment?"

"Of course we do."

"Can I see your license?" I gave him my license and he started dialing someone on his cell phone.

I turned to Dave. "Can you believe this guy? No wonder Whiskey Peet built his own casino."

The Asian security guy came back. "Sorry, you don't have an appointment."

I called the spa. "Hi Marie, it's Downtown Oliver Brown, they won't let us in. The guy here is saying that we don't have an appointment." I hit the speaker phone button.

"You have an appointment Mr. Brown. And I cleared it with my supervisor."

To which security responded. "I don't know who that is. You could have called anybody."

"Have him call extension 4008."

The security guard dialed on his cell phone and walked away. As I feared might happen the dragon began to snatch the bunny rabbits off of the hood of the car, and one by one he tossed them in the air, roasted them with fire, and ate them. What seemed like and eternity later the security guy came back.

"I'm sorry Mr. Brown, but the supervisor at the spa did not have proper authorization to give you two an appointment and even with a license we cannot verify who you are right now."

"Do you know who Kevyn Wynn is?" I asked.

"Yes, I know who Mr. Wynn's daughter is."

"Well, she knows me."

"There's no way to get a hold of Kevyn."

"I'll call her." I hit Kevyn's number on my iphone. "Hi Kevyn."

"Hi Oliver dear."

"What are you up to?" I asked forgetting I was about to be arrested by security for a moment.

"I'm skiing with Joey. And in a little bit we're going over some friend's of his for dinner. What are you up to?"

The Asian security guard glared at me. "Hey Kevyn, I was on my way to the spa at Encore..."

"Oliver, don't call me about problems at the hotel. I don't work there. I've had three calls already from friends..."

"But..."

"Dude, I'm on vacation with my boyfriend. I'm trying to relax. Do you understand? Don't bother me for favors, Oliver!"

"Whatever Kevyn," I said hanging up, thinking about the ten days her boyfriend Joey had just spent on my couch...funny how favors go.

The Asian security guard seemed pretty satisfied that I had just been told off by the owner of the hotel's daughter. "Why don't you come back on Monday Mr. Brown...The doors open at 8:00 p.m."

"I think I'll have to miss that. But I'll figure out something to say about you guys."

"Sorry you feel that way, Mr. Brown."

I drove off. The dragon roared, upset that the last bunny rabbit was escaping on the hood of Whiskey Peets' Lamborghini.

"That sucked," I said to Dave The Jew.

"Yeah, I was enjoying the unicorn chasing the elf's. But you know they shouldn't have made an appointment if the place wasn't open."

"What about Kevyn going off on me like that? I just wanted to write something nice about her dad's hotel."

"Rich people can be sensitive about being asked for favors. She probably gets hit up by people all the time."

I turned to Dave The Jew. "With great wealth comes, great responsibility, Dave. That's the moral of the story. We all have to help each other. It doesn't matter, rich or poor. We all have to be there for each other, otherwise the world it'll just keep going the way it's going."

POST 37

Finally An Encore For Oliver

After being turned away at Encore by an Asian security guard, even though we had a perfectly legitimate appointment at the spa, (and because I was hallucinating as was Dave The Jew I must insist you read my previous blog "No Encore For Oliver" as even now it is too painful to delve back into that part of my seriously damaged gray matter) at Dave The Jew's urging we went for an Oriental Foot Massage. This forty-dollar experience, which in fact was a full body massage, put every high priced spa I've ever been to, to shame. With knots, I did not even know that I had, purged from my body we headed back to Whiskey Peet's fifty thousand square foot mansion.

"Well shiiiiiiiit! You guys back already?" asked the rich, handsome, crazy, gun toting cowboy named Whiskey Peet I had come to know through Stan Peters—Hollywood's scummiest and most powerful producer. "C'mon and play some poker I'll stake you some more money if you need it."

"They wouldn't let us in," I said plainly, still hallucinating from the peyote Dave The Jew had talked me into taking. Whiskey Peet's cowboy hat had stretched all the way to the top of the ceiling. I should add that the ceiling height of Whiskey Peet's at Whiskey Peet's as the private casino in Whiskey Peet's home is called is about thirty feet high. "I really just want to take April upstairs and have sex in an attempt to get over the disgust and rejection I am feeling with respect to the events of earlier this morning."

"My boy, my boy! Your little philly is still up six million dollars. I think she's played before. But if it's okay with Stan it's okay with me."

I turned to Stan. "Do you want me to finish that script?"

He sighed. "It's mostly yours' and Dave's money...so if it'll help get that script done go fornicate away."

"Well boys it's been a pleasure." She stood looking hotter than ever in the same g-string and tiny bra she had been wearing when Whiskey Peet carried her out of the strip club Seamless for me. "I have to go take care of my man now."

The soft horsehair of the bedspread wasn't even close to the tender skin of April's inner thighs, which pressed against my oblique muscles in a manner that caused my loins to fill with all but the last pint of blood in my body. My head swooned with this awakening of my manhood. But as great as the sensation of her skin on my body or my being inside of her may have been, it was the smoldering look on her face that has been burnt indelibly into my oh so corrupt soul. Did I just say smoldering look? I'm a disgrace of a writer to use such a banal description. Tolstoy would take the time to describe every inch, every movement, and every nuance of her expression that was indeed the power that so completely penetrated my blood cells one by one until they reached the unbearable boiling point of ecstasy that I am trying to describe. Finally, a tremor of immeasurable magnitude rolled through my body into hers and then there was an embrace of each other so violent and so desperate that not one single molecule of the material world seemed relevant to our state.

Three days later our bodies finally separated and we spoke our first words in all of those days.

"I don't want you ever to leave Las Vegas, Downtown Oliver Brown."

"Where am I?" I asked, feeling like I was awakening from the greatest dream ever.

And then her body and that look and the dream continued.

A day later we spoke again. "Promise me you won't ever leave Las Vegas, Downtown Oliver Brown."

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

Amazingly Whiskey Peet, Stan Peters, and Dave The Jew were all still playing poker in the same exact way that we had left them. They, unlike us, had been having food delivered, but agreed that it was a good idea to go out and have a bite to eat. Whiskey Peet was very impressed that April trusted him enough to leave her six million in winnings in his safe until we got back. He was so happy he gave her an extra full-length sable he had laying around.

The driver of Whiskey Peet's Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine with the sterling silver steer horns pulled into the side entrance of the new Encore hotel without incident. Our posse strolled into Encore and pretty much simultaneously arrived at the same conclusion—Encore was a really nice hotel. Now given my earlier experience I was inclined to want to find fault, but not being one to let my dysfunctional character interfere with my sense of integrity and honor I gave credit where credit was do.

"I like it. Steve Wynn really knows how to build a hotel," I proclaimed.

"Shiiiiiit, it's no Whiskey Peet's but it ain't half bad."

I turned to Stan. "What do you think?"

"I like the way they used all the red glass." He looked around for a moment. "And let me tell you there isn't a girl working here that I wouldn't bang. Whoever is running HR for this joint should be working for me."

I looked at April but didn't need to ask. She whispered in my ear, "Why don't you take the boys over there to the Eastside Lounge and I'll get us a room."

Her lips crossed mine oh so lightly. "Okay, just text me the room number."

Seated in the Eastside Lounge I decided that I had found my favorite spot to sit in Las Vegas. The fact that Steve had the courage to build a lounge that looked out over the pool, meaning that you can actually see the outdoors from the casino, says it all. We sat and drank and smoked really good cigars. Then a huge windstorm came and began to blow the pool furniture into the pool. I wondered why the furniture hadn't been secured.

"Would you look at that," said Dave The Jew.

A crowd had begun to gather. The possibility of something blowing through the windows added a real thrill to our afternoon.

Whiskey Peet pointed his cigar at the spectacle. "You see my boys! We can all build fancy buildings. But the trick is how you run them. The devil is always in the details."

Stan Peters gestured my way. "Drives you crazy, doesn't it Oliver?"

"What's that, Stan?"

"That people don't care enough to do their jobs to absolute perfection."

I thought about it for a minute. "Yeah, but let's face it Stan nobody is laying awake at night worried about what I think."

Stan laughed. "Oh Oliver, for being so smart you're so stupid. Trust me plenty of people worry about what you think."

POST 38

Downtown Oliver Brown The First Reading Of The Year

When April first suggested the blindfold I simply thought she had something kinky in mind, but little did I know that she really meant that she had a surprise for me.

At this sooner point of our story I should clarify that my spontaneous trip to Sin City on Stan Peters' Gulfstream V private jet was totaling fourteen days. Stan and myself remained captives of James Whiskey Peet III the handsome, wild, gun-toting cowboy who is apparently one of the richest men on the face of the earth. Dave The Jew, Whiskey Peet's best friend, seemed to be suffering the same fate, at one point confiding in me that he hadn't been to his own home in almost a year. Now considering Whiskey Peet's domicile totals more than fifty thousand square feet we were hardly cramped for space but April the stripper that I had met at Seamless (our very first stop in Vegas) was after all a woman, all-be-it an incredibly sensual g-string clad creature that had stirred my libido to a boiling point which the surface of the sun itself could not equal, but a woman.

"Surprise!" said my April, pulling off my blindfold with her teeth, and then licking my face with her long, soft tongue from chin to forehead.

And there I stood in the living room of a very large and elegant home, by any standard other than Whiskey Peet's. At the end of the living room were three twenty-foot panes of glass—floor to ceiling just on the other side of which was a waterfall that cascaded gently from the lip of an infinity pool. I turned to the right and saw Stan Peters, Dave The Jew, and Whiskey Peet staring at me. I wondered if the PCP laced joint Dave The Jew had convinced me to smoke with him earlier hadn't worn off yet. "Why are they all smiling like jack o' lanterns?" I asked myself. "And why is a jack o' lantern symbolized by a pumpkin when sinful Jack carved a turnip into a lantern to be filled with an ember from hell—anyway?"

"What do you think?" April actually bounced on her toes like a young nymphet when she asked this.

"Nice," I said thinking that any moment it would all become clear.

"I bought it for us with the money I won playing poker at Whiskey Peet's!" she exclaimed continuing to bounce up and down as I envisioned her in one of those little plaid skirts that I find so enthralling to this day. "You promised to stay in Las Vegas with me—so I bought us a place!"

"Well shiiiiiit!!! Aren't you glad I lassoed that little calf for you now? I told you she was a good one." If any of my beloved readers needs a refresher, Whiskey Peet carried the g-stringed clad April out of Seamless under his arm like a hog into his Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine with sterling silver steer horns for me when she offered to pay for the lap dances I had been the extremely grateful recipient of.

Stan, never missing an opportunity to upset me when sober added, "And it has a great study—so you can get away from the kids and keep writing scripts for me."

Lucky for this writer April had jumped into my arms just as I fainted so nobody even noticed that I was unconscious as we hit the ground, and she disrobed me on the living room floor not able to control her tsunami of lust for my most lucky appendage. A few moments later I came to with April on top of me and the strange backdrop of Stan, Whiskey Peet, and Dave The Jew looking on.

"Dang gone it, this is better than the rodeo coming to town!" shouted Whiskey Peet apparently mistaking me for a very different kind of stallion.

"Just like that," said Stan taking a picture with his iphone.

"So how much did you say you paid for this place?" asked Dave The Jew.

And like always, April's dripping with sweat, that tastes like sweet honey, body collapsed into me...her breath and heartbeat in perfect synchronicity with my own.

"What's the date today?" I asked, winded.

"Why?" panted the smoldering hot creature that had just bought us a multi-million- dollar house on my promise in the throws of ecstasy to never leave Las Vegas.

"Because if it's the 8th of January I'm supposed to be doing a reading at Metropolis Books on Main Street—in Downtown Los Angeles. I'm kicking off the first Art Walk of the year!"

"Shiiiiiiiiit, we better gidiup on out of here." Then smacking Stan with his cowboy hat. "Would you stop taking pictures of them like some kind of big city fagooooot and have your boys fire up the jet, we're going to Los Angeleeees."

"You promised!" sobbed April.

Putting on my clothes as quickly as possible. "I will be back—you have to believe me. Stay here and decorate the house. You still have some money left over, right?"

"Yeah. But why can't I just come with you?" she asked causing me to for the first time in two weeks remember that I had a nineteen-year-old girlfriend named Misha who had once been kind enough to forgive me for sleeping with her supermodel mother. "I'm just going to tell you this straight out. As soon as I'm done with my reading I have to break up with my girlfriend and I just think it would be better if you weren't there."

"My boy, my boy! No wonder you suck at poker! You can't be honest like that with a girl that just rode you like a brahma bull in front of all your friends."

"I'm single," quipped Dave The Jew.

"I met you, I forgot all about her, it was going nowhere, that's probably why I was getting hammered at 7 Grand with Stan in the first place..."

"Okay! But you promise to give her the news and come back," stated April not as a question.

"Absolutely," I assured, looking at her pouty face that made me want to hit the living room floor and put on a late show for the guys.

Back in Los Angeles with Stan, Whiskey Peet, and Dave The Jew in tow I arrived just in time to the nice little bookstore on Main Street and the friendly crowd of bibliophiles that awaited a dramatic reading from my award-winning novel "Criminal". At this point I should probably mention that Whiskey Peet was absolutely disgusted with the size, or lack there of, of Stan's Rolls Royce Phantom. "What type of little fagooooot car is this? I shiiiiiiiit bigger than this!" And then there were his thoughts about the people attending Art Walk. "Would you look at all these freaks and fagooooots! And Negro's everywhere!" Then there was the roach coach selling Korean Barbeque. "Hell, they're not really going to eat that craaaaap! Shiiiiiiit, for good grilled dog you got shoot um fresh on the range." And then the strangest thing happened. One of the "Negro's" turned to Whiskey Peet and offered to share his food. "Yo Tex, try a stick of this." The next thing you know they gave each other a half hug and we were all passing Whiskey Peet's flask of the good stuff around. An artist chick took a liking to the six shooters. "Dude, the blood diamonds imbedded into the ivory handles of those instruments of death—that's so deep. Man you really move me. You've definitely made the biggest statement of the Walk." I of course was worried he might fire them off into the air as he is inclined to do. Finally, I was most impressed by the LAPD who paid no attention to Whiskey Peet being armed in a throng of twenty thousand people at all. That's the kind of change we need.

"Hi everybody," I said facing my audience. "Sorry I'm a little late, but I got into something in Vegas that took more time and energy than I thought it would."

"What was her name?" someone in the crowd yelled out. "Probably Bert Green," I thought to myself before it dawned on me that he was busy with a show at his own gallery.

"Clearly the room is filled with people that know my work." Laughter. "Shall we begin?"

And with that I read:

"So begins the story of one man's evil journey through life. A journey that gave birth to a crime organization that has never been truly understood by anyone until now. Some is fact. Some is fiction. It will be up to you to decide which is which—but even in lies there is truth.

"Sam Noah is not famous like Al Capone, John Gotti or Pablo Escobar. But for reasons known only to Sam Noah and his closest associates, the government of the United States of America gave him the only sentence of its kind in the history of the American judicial system. Convinced he was no longer a menace to society, the judge presiding over his case ordered Sam Noah and law enforcement to part ways for good. And so it has been ever since. Or so it seems.

"Sam Noah's influence and ideas are everywhere. He lives a quiet and peaceful life now, his past seemingly forgotten by most. Yet the events of today are the result of his deeds long ago. Perhaps he feels some regret and sadness for what he has brought to the world. But isn't evil just the opposite side of good? Sam Noah tossed the coin of fate, and let the world decide on which side it would land. Indeed, without the choice between good and evil, the world as we know it would not exist. It is important to understand that Sam Noah is not simply a criminal, but rather an artist. He creates within the realm of thought, seeing the potential in every moment and manipulating it in his own unique way.

"There is great pain in the perpetration of evil, pain that is not felt until the time of reflection. In every life comes a time to reflect, a time to face the truth about one's self. Make no mistake about it, Sam Noah knows of right and wrong, but when he looks into people's hearts, he sees darkness. And darkness is indeed evil's magnet. In the darkness is where you'll find him."

Applause, a slight bow, and a walk down to the Nickel Diner, which I am happy to say, Whiskey Peet thought quite highly of because they served meat and he had been under the impression that, as he put it, "I thought liberal fagoooots only ate grass and leaves and shiiiiit!"

POST 39

Downtown Oliver Brown Rivera Versus Yard House

Life seemed momentarily back to normal as I sat at Starbucks surrounded by Gay David, not to be confused with Dave The Jew from Vegas, Eric Everhard, my friend the porn star, Eric the blogger, whom to the best of my knowledge doesn't even watch porn, and Andy The Printer, otherwise known as Andy from Colombia—one of my favorite countries due to its agricultural output if you know what I mean.

Whiskey Peet, Dave The Jew, and Stan Peters had all left that very morning for the Sundance Film Festival, which is not actually at the Sundance Resort, but rather in Park City almost an hour away. Not satisfied with Stan's fifty million dollar Gulfstream Whiskey Peet had his private 747 pick them up for a flight I'm sure the FAA would not approve of. Whiskey Peet had grown on me and before he left I agreed to become his personal blogger—to work off my poker debt, which by the time of the boys departure had reached nine million dollars. Ugh!

"Well what do you know," said the familiar voice.

I looked up to see DP, substitute for a name I do not feel disposed to mention. "Wow, it's good to see you." I stood and gave the girl, whom I had not seen for more than year a hug. "I thought you were in Europe studying to be a chef?"

"No that's my sister. I've been here, but just lying low."

I invited her to sit at my table. I accepted her offer to fetch me a coffee. My thoughts drifted to the night I talked her into letting me give her a backrub on my couch. My couch, if only it could talk, what stories it would tell. We chatted. There had been much drama in her life. Fight with her sister, run over by a car, and a year off school.

"I was just thinking about you the other day." I did not go into the detail that I was thinking about the aforementioned night. But apparently the memory was ricocheting around her cortex as well.

"I was thinking about you too," she responded lowering her voice.

"Really, what were you thinking about?" I asked wondering why she had come back into my orbit after more than a year.

"I was thinking you might be up for a three way with me and my boyfriend. I mean he wants to and I was trying to think of someone that might be up for it and thought, 'Oliver would probably do it.'"

"Sure," I said, not feeling my usual elation over such an offer. Things with Misha and April were already complicated.

Later that night, after my first non-impaired day of writing in weeks, I strolled down to the Grand Opening of Rivera. I was feeling relaxed, optimistic; the warm air of So Cal winter was gently caressing my body. And then my blood ran cold. Mr. Lee my accountant was on the phone.

"Oliver, we have to talk."

I gulped like a nervous twelve-year-old moving in on his first hot teacher. "About what?"

"Do you want the good news or bad news first?"

I did not hesitate to ask for the good news first, given the fact I have AT&T and the bad news might be mercifully prevented from reaching the hairs of my cochlea.

"The good news is that your book and movie royalties this year were almost three hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Please drop my call. Please drop my call," I prayed.

"The bad new is that your expenses this year are six hundred and fifty-seven-thousand dollars and five cents. You continue to spend more than you make."

I didn't have the heart to tell him about the millions I had lost playing poker the last two weeks.

"Any suggestions, Charles?"

"Sure Oliver. Spend less and work more. Stop buying things you don't need...."

Charles went on for a while. I would have just shot myself but Rivera looked like a nice restaurant and my friends were waiting.

I spoke to the manager for a few moments. The restaurant was designed to incorporate four different environments offering a range of dining experiences. I sat with my friends all of whom were very happy with their food. I could write a whole blog on Rivera, but my intention for now is just to draw a contrast between two nice additions to the neighborhood. Rivera has a private Tequila club and special ice cubes that don't melt in your drink. The lounge has custom designed Tequila lounge chairs, made here in Los Angeles, that cost about eleven thousand each—the equivalent of flying first class back when you could still light up on a plane.

Billy The Trainer and Drew the FIDM Student suggested I walk with them over to Yard House—and leaving a perfectly nice group of girls we headed for still greener pastures. I should mention here that Billy had been trying to get me to train with him for months, but I was sure from the beginning that it would be my lifestyle that would prevail. We were at three drinks when we left Rivera. Tequila infused with vanilla from Madagascar mixed especially for us is what I think did the trick.

At Yard House we ran into Andy The Printer From Colombia and his ex-girlfriend. An attractive young lady that caused me to remind myself every two minutes that she was with my friend and that I had two girlfriends, which were already more than I could handle. And my friend DP wanted to involve me in her venture into polyamory. Andy secured a large corner booth for our rapidly growing party. Billy wrangled five very attractive young ladies, three from FIDM and two that were visiting the three—they had just arrived from Austin.

The food at Yard House is fine and about ninety percent less than Rivera, although no special ice cubes. However, it's the vibe at Yard House that makes it worth going to. Yard House is the only venue at LA Live that has struck a chord with locals thus far. Good music and two happy hours. The happy hour from ten to midnight is all about locals—thank you Yard House for getting it. The cute blonde from FIDM that so clearly had a crush on Drew warmed me.

Usually, I would have been seducing one or more of these girls, not this night. Maybe my rapidly approaching birthday, meaning my advancing years, gave me pause. Everyone wound up back at my place where my glory as a writer finally bubbled up into the flow of conversation. We all sat on the couch. Drew commented as I already have about the what if furniture could speak. I broke out the Chivas and the Patron, the house music blared and I introduced the youngsters to life Downtown Oliver Brown style.

But I digress. The point was, I met up with friends at Rivera and then made new friends at Yard House, which is the kind of neighborhood place, you can make new friends at—and have over and drink to the point nobody can manage to walk for and hour or two. If I may indulge for a moment I would like to add that around three in the morning the population of Downtown Oliver Brown's Bar and Grill demanded a reading of "Criminal", since all had missed my presentation at Art Walk the week prior. I felt like Capote, all be it a heterosexual version with a far more imposing physical stature. I donned my reading glasses and began. Having done some two hundred readings the last year, I have to say this was the best.

I smiled when I woke up. The ax seemingly buried in my skull a nice memento of the night before. It was strange to be alone. I thought about all of those cute young girls that had been floating around my place like so many precious butterflies. And my net harmlessly left in the closet of time past. I mused that one would have been nice to keep, not for my sake, for her sake, so as to be protected from the world I know all too much about. Too late. I decided to go with Ed The Energy Management Guy to visit his elderly parents down in Long Beach. They've known me since I was seven and for some reason, which I cannot fathom, like when I come to visit.

POST 40

DOWNTOWN OLIVER BROWN – SOUTH PARK STORY

I strolled to Starbucks at 11th and Grand contemplating for some reason how much the world had changed since my youth, which this day, two days subsequent to my forty-fourth birthday seemed like a lifetime ago. My phone rang just as I eyed the girls sitting around the park next to FIDM. So young—

"Oliver, it's Lee." That would be Mr. Lee my accountant who, if you recall in my last blog, had called to inform me that I was managing to spend twice what I was earning. I then proceeded to enjoy my Friday night at not one, but two restaurants, Rivera and Yard House, then had a pack of friends over and drank and did readings til sunrise.

"Hi Mr. Lee," I responded cheerfully. I'm always cheerful on my way to do some writing.

"Oliver, I just got a bill for fifty thousand dollars to repair the damage your SL 500 apparently did when it landed in a swimming pool at a very expensive home in Malibu."

Misha (age 19) hadn't taken the news about me thinking she was too young for me well. And my offer to let her keep the car that Stan Peter's, Hollywood's scummiest and most powerful producer, had given me for the script about a writer who moves Downtown to get away from all of the pretentious idiots in Hollywood did not appease her what-so-ever. I didn't even bother to bring up my relationship with April The Stripper in Vegas.

"Sorry Lee, I meant to call you and give you a heads up on that one. I let Misha borrow the car and the news of our break incited her to let it roll off of the cliff where her dad's house is situated—she was so mad at me that she forgot all about the neighbors house below. Women..."

"Oliver, I had a meeting with Lisa." Lisa would be my manager that pitched Showtime a series about me, a dysfunctional forty-something-year-old writer, with no concept that it might just be redundant given that they already have a show called Californication about a dysfunctional forty-something-year-old writer. Lee continued, "She has an offer for you to write a cookbook, and before you say no I want to stress the dire circumstances."

"Lee, I'll get a job making coffee before I write a cookbook."

"Because, of your popularity with young adults they'll pay you five hundred thousand dollars. That will wipe out your deficit for the year, Oliver."

"Lee, tell Lisa to tell them I won't do it for five million—I'm not writing a cookbook...I'll think of something I promise, just stall everyone for now."

"Maybe I should give everyone IOU's," quipped Lee, being unusually witty for a Korean accountant.

"Hey, if it's good enough for the state of California it's good for me."

As I neared Starbucks front door—another call, "Oliver you missed the inauguration. My inauguration."

"Sorry Mr. President." Some mornings get off to this type of start. A hangover usually helps to relegate them to a dull fog—I had done zero drinking the night before.

"Oliver, these are dire times, I need the bright people of this country to support what I'm trying to do. So spare me the story about whatever mess you got yourself into and tell me why you really aren't onboard."

"Well Mr. President, I couldn't go to a hundred and fifty million dollar inauguration...But I did catch some of the bright people who are onboard on tv. I particularly liked the interview with Jessica Alba 'Why can't you be like Sweden?' she asked the Fox News' crew, forgetting that it's Switzerland that's famous for its neutrality. And that classy little rap JZ and Little Jizzy got caught doing on video—nice, very inclusive. If you had canceled the parade and parties to start work after the swearing in and lunch in the East Room I assure you I would have been there."

"I'm going to change things Oliver and I needed to get people inspired. There needed to be a clear demarcation between me and Bush."

"Well I'd say out spending him four to one left a pretty clear mark. With all due respect Mr. President, there needed be an example."

"Will you write about my executive orders at least?"

"You mean like the one you slipped in on Friday late afternoon to start funding abortion in other countries, again. I mean with all the extra money we have lying around and given everyone in America is so pro choice—I'd feel great writing about that one."

"I meant GITMO."

"What are you going to do with all those guys?"

"I was hoping that you would write about the benefit to our image around the world."

"Mr. President, I have readers all around the world, not one has ever posted a comment suggesting that we send the terrorist to their hometown. Sixty-six released terrorist have already wound up back on the battlefield."

"We can agree to disagree, Oliver."

"Fine."

"What do I do about this banking situation?"

"When the whole thing started the government could have bought every foreclosure in America for four hundred billion dollars. You guys spent three hundred and fifty billion on nothing, except for financing the mergers that are now ruining B of A and Wells Fargo." I became very distracted by the girl who sat across from me. She had short hair, beautiful skin, and coal black eyes. "Um, what was I saying?"

"Mortgages."

"Oh, yeah. Well form a government entity to buy the foreclosures—all of them. Forget about the derivatives let the investors take the pain and be done with it. Do away with capital gains tax completely for three years. Pump a hundred billion, at a minimum, into SBA loans. Create a special SBA starter loan that's unsecured for ten to twenty thousand dollars. Make the credit requirement reasonable, something around 620, so all of the people losing their jobs at big companies have the option of going into business for themselves." I couldn't stand it any longer. "Mr. President, I have to go I'll call you back...."

I turned to the girl. "What does your shirt say?"

She smiled. What a smile. "It says you're too old for me."

"Excuse me?" I asked thinking I might have not heard her correctly.

"It says, 'go to sleep so you can wake up and be reborn.'"

"What's your name?"

"Nichole. And you are?"

"I'm Downtown Oliver Brown."

"Well Downtown Oliver Brown, do you talk to the President often?"

I shook my head. "Just every now and then. I mean I suppose I could if I wanted to. I get some calls from other world leaders too, but they never listen to me. I think it just makes them feel better to know what the right thing to do is before they do the opposite."

She laughed, "Who are you?" But this was no longer at Starbucks, that had been days before. We had gone to lunch at Urth Café and hadn't spent almost any time apart since. We sat in her loft, which was tastefully decorated in an eclectic manner that reflected the contrast of her dark eyes and light skin. We came from two different worlds and two different times and yet yearned to be together.

"I don't know I've been so many different things I don't know anymore."

"Why do you want to be with me? I'm half your age, you've had a thousand girls?...I don't want you to go...I'm just trying to get my head around this...This is the mark from where they used to put the chemo in. It makes you so sick. Do you like my idea of draping a curtain on that wall and putting a painting in the middle? I made you some CD's. The whole movie is about these guys trying to score some beer and go to a dance and meet girls. Fact: I love lingerie—for the fashion..." And so getting to know Nichole went. "What are you thinking, Oliver?"

"You know Downtown is a new community—it's just being born now." The view from her window was Staple's Center, however it didn't seem like we were in LA. "And since I had everyone over last week after the Yard House I've been at Eric's, (Eric The Porn Star, not the blogger) to watch the fight, and now your place. There's something different going on down here now. It used to be we all met at Starbucks or a bar or restaurant, but now we're in each other's places." I pulled her towards me because I wanted her head to rest against my shoulder. "One of the reasons I've stayed here so long is that I wanted to write about this—a birth of a community." She sat straight up. "Do I make you nervous?" I asked, sensing this to be so.

"Yeah you do. I know you hate lies so I'm being honest—you make me a little nervous, Oliver."

I wanted to lean over and kiss her but for some higher reason I didn't.

POST 41

Downtown Oliver Brown Does Dishes At Fleming's

Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks, just let me get to Starbucks and have a coffee before...ring ring ring. Before you ring I said to my iphone, not out loud, as it ringed the old school ring I had it set to.

"Oliver, it's Lee." Meaning Mr. Lee my Korean accountant who takes my permanent state of financial crisis far more seriously than I myself am capable of—because there is no longer such a thing as debtor's prison.

"Hey Mr. Lee," I answered, hoping that he was not expecting me to have figured out how to pay for the damage Misha did by driving my SL500 into that swimming pool, because I told her I was too old for her.

"Oliver is it true you haven't called Amoeba Records in over a year?"

This question was even more discouraging than the SL 500 bill. You see way back when I was a Hollywood insider I produced a DVD titled "Mike Fenton's Actors Workshop". Mike Fenton being the preeminent casting director of all time and the DVD being the definitive five and half-hour course on how to get a job in Hollywood. A good seller for years, I just stopped—

"Has it really been over a year?" I asked Lee.

"Close to two years, Oliver. And you haven't called Samuel French either...I suspect I will be hearing this from every other store that buys the things that you've produced. In my profession Oliver we call these intellectual properties passive income sources. Do I need to explain what that means?"

"No. But Lee why do you even care? I haven't paid you in years."

"Because I'm Asian...I live for this. Now the buyer at Amoeba, her name is Jackie, told Lisa, your manager, that she wants five hundred copies, but she thinks you're hot, so you must deliver these yourself."

"No way, Lee."

"They will pay you cash on delivery. And Oliver while you're on Sunset take a hundred copies for Samuel French..."

I will not bore my beloved readers with the degrading details of this errand. And I do not mean to say that ordinary work is degrading, but I've always loathed artists that grub for money. I'm the last of a generation, that would be X, to believe that being the best at what you do should bring an adequate sustenance. And to this end I must digress. Has the idea ever floated through any economist head that speaks his piece on Fox, CNN, or MSNBC that maybe the problem with the economy is that people have just become so stupid and lazy that no company can survive with them running it? Does it bother anyone that my lifetime GPA is higher than either of the men that ran for leader of the free world? In fact one's GPA was so low that he would not release his transcripts. And I'm not talking about the Naval Academy. Fake it, til you make it baby!!!

So of course, Amoeba only took half the number of DVD's that they ordered giving me the exercise I so needed, shleping the extra's back to the car I had to borrow from Stan Peters, Hollywood's scummiest and most powerful producer, whom to his credit thought the SL 500 incident was hilarious. And if you recall Stan gave me the car for writing a script I have yet to finish. My point being that even dropping off an order of the simplest item to the very person that's ordered it—most likely will turn into a less than quality experience. However, for Mr. Lee's sake don't hold this against Amoeba. If you want to make it in Hollywood go buy Mike Fenton's Actors Workshop there or at Samuel French for that matter. And being benevolent for a moment, if you have no idea what I'm talking about, Amoeba is the best record / DVD store in America and Samuel French is certainly one of the coolest bookstores on the planet.

So, by Thursday I had some cash in my pocket again, which turned out to be a good thing for Eric Everhard my friend the porn star. You see he got arrested for shooting a scene without a permit somewhere in the valley.

"Oliver, she was just running through the park with a BB gun. It wasn't like a sex scene or anything. Just a girl with big tits in an orange jump suit running with a BB gun. And twenty cop cars showed up."

"And you thought this was a good idea why?" I asked. Anyway, the only reason this tribulation is of any relevance is that I spent all of the money I had so painfully extracted out of Amoeba, getting Eric out of the clink.

Now when my lifelong friend Ed, who is a multi-millionaire, invited me to dinner at Fleming's I had for some reason not anticipated a need for cash and because I had just had a fair amount in my pocket the day before it somehow had alluded me that I was without a cent and eating a very expensive meal.

"I'm so stressed. I can't watch the news anymore," Ed lamented.

"Listen, my friend. Look at the bright side...." Now I'm a gifted writer with an incredible imagination but I was stumped for several moments in my quest for a light at the end of the tunnel that was not the freight train that the people doing the people's business are trying so hard to put on the tracks. "If things get any worse, and it's looking like they will, Las Vegas will be forced to legalize prostitution. Can you imagine, legal right on the strip."

Ed told the waitress, "bring me a drink every time you see that my glass is empty until the moment I leave," before she could even ask us what we would be dining on. "Oliver, I need legalized prostitution in Vegas right now, like a moose needs a hat rack...But do you really think that might happen?"

Fleming's was unusually busy for a non-Laker night at LA Live. Dine LA had really brought the people out. This is extremely important to consider—more people more dishes.

Jennifer, the hot managing partner stopped by our table to chat right about the time that my prediction that Westside real estate prices, where Ed has a very large home in the hills, were down at least thirty percent with another thirty to go—at least. Ed turned colors and excused himself—abruptly. I feeling profoundly bad for not cheering up my friend turned to Jennifer and began chatting about this and that until the bill came.

"Oh...I don't really know how to put this, but..." And then I explained the whole bail thing.

"Oliver that's terrible. Don't worry about it. You can pay tomorrow."

"No Jennifer, I have to change my ways. I will do the dishes. Send Jose home, I'm ready to work off my debt."

"The dish washers name is Tim, and our dish washing system is pretty complicated."

Taking off my Zegna coat to make the point that I would not be denied I said, "I'm serious. I can't take another debt, even if it's only a two hundred and eighty dollar dinner."

So, like I had done in reform school all those years ago, I cleaned off the plates and washed, rinsed, and dried. The time was flying by because JJ, Gay David, and Jeanine The Graphic Designer had been in the bar drinking and noticed my disappearance into the bowls of the kitchen. Thinking they might catch Jennifer and I up to some shenanigans they came to spy.

"Oliver, does that girl Nichole you've been hanging out with lately live in my building?"

"Yeah she does, why?"

"Well a girl that looks just like her knocked on my door right before I left—looking for the guy that lives next door to me. And this guy's a player—she's not the first."

"Great," I said finishing the last of one thousand three hundred and twenty dishes.

As I walked home, enjoying the beautiful night, I text messaged Nichole as I had promised to do when I was finished with dinner. To absolutely no surprise she did not return my text or answer her phone. And yes, I thought about taking any number of girls home that were in the bar at Fleming's, but my hands were sore and chapped from washing all of those dishes—and I had been wanting some quiet time to sit and read the East of Eden.

The East of Eden by John Steinbeck, like my books Criminal and In Development, is on the Harvard list of books that one must read to be considered truly educated. If you haven't read it, go down to Metropolis Books on Main Street and buy a copy, so far it's pure genius. Anyway, it was the next morning and I had just gotten to the chapter where the treacherous character Cathy is introduced into the story. Nichole's text said something about her having fallen asleep unusually early. "Can you come to Starbucks I miss you."

And we sat on the bench outside. "You look so sick," the crazy homeless man said to her of all people. "My mouse looks healthier than you." She began to cry, which along with my murderous look sent the guy scampering along to ask some non-English-speakers a few feet away if they could spare some money that was needed to put gas in his Lamborghini. Nichole put her arms around my neck and I held her as she cried for a while longer.

I decided that I would take her to a particular spot on the beach in Malibu that I like to sit. There the bad news from her doctors that she had to come in for another scan would drift off in the breeze. I knew that it would be a beautiful day—probably our last.

POST 42

Downtown Oliver Brown And The Money Tree

I sat and stared out at the cold driving rain from my window table at Starbucks 11th and Grand. Eric Everhard the porn star crossed the street with his smoking hot girlfriend Kim. I was sad to see them leave—although pleased that Eric had returned the bail money I had lent him. Nichole's words, "I can't do this," were still fresh in my head. Why can't I just get a nice girl like Eric has?" I was thinking when the phone rang.

"You promised to come to my press conference, Oliver."

"Sorry Mr. President. Oh, and sorry about the crack about having a hire GPA than you—even though it's true."

"Oliver, maybe if you weren't so smart you'd be more successful."

"Food for thought Mr. President. I'll try to dumb it down and be more responsible so as to improve my income potential."

"Good. So what did you think?"

"Mr. President, you know how you said at your news conference that Japan didn't spend enough during its recession of the 90's, so it lead to what they now call the lost decade because there was no growth?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's absolutely not true. They spent so much money that they quadrupled their national debt. And it had no effect. In fact it made things worse."

"I'll talk to my speech writers on that one. They're not as sharp as they were during the campaign."

"And you know the part of your press conference where you mentioned that there are now people out there that think that FDR's New Deal didn't work...and the argument over this was settled long ago?"

"Yeah?"

"Well usually during 6th grade all American children are taught about FDR and The New Deal...um...IT DIDN'T WORK. In fact every textbook ever written is pretty clear that only World War II pulled the country out of The Great Depression. The best The New Deal did was lower the unemployment rate from 25% to 15% after six years."

"I didn't go to school in America in 6th grade Oliver, you know that. Could you please stop showing off your mastery of the facts, I won, the people have spoken. Now what should I do?"

"Hold on, I'm getting another call." I hit the swap button on my iPhone. "Hello."

"I finally get this whole blogging thing," said Ed, my millionaire buddy who had just barely recovered from our dinner at Fleming's. "But if you were going to write about our dinner at Fleming's, why didn't you describe the food? That Ahi Tuna was fantastic."

"I'm a storyteller, not a restaurant reviewer. Besides, it's not like the meal was comped, I did dishes."

"Hey sorry about that. I didn't realize you didn't have any money on you. Do you need me to loan you some cash?"

"No, I've found the answer to my cash crunch."

"Really, what is it? I need to get some money coming in."

"Hey, I'll get back to you, I left the President on hold." I clicked over. "Mr. President?"

"One of your girlfriends?"

"No."

"How did it wind up with Nichole, anyway?"

"Well it turned out that she wasn't going to see the guy that lives next door to my friend Jeanine to have sex—she was just borrowing a corkscrew. Ironic."

The President laughed. "And you think I'm gullible for trusting Geithner."

"No. I think it makes perfect sense to put a guy who didn't pay his taxes, ran the New York Federal Bank, which helped to cause this crisis, and who doesn't even own a home in charge of the Treasury. Did I mention that he doesn't even have a net worth above a million dollars? Now that's a financial whiz if ever there was one."

"The girl."

"It lasted another week. But my overactive sex drive has apparently ruined the relationship...something about fornicators going to hell...Besides she was too old for me."

"I thought you mentioned that she was twenty-one?"

"Yeah, I should have known better...Nineteen is really the best age for someone with my libido...and of course you never have to take them anywhere that serves alcohol, which saves a bundle."

"Well sorry to hear that it didn't work out."

"Listen, suspend gas and payroll taxes for a year. Also, lower the capital gains tax rate to zero for three years and cap personal and corporate tax rates at twenty-five percent. If you do this the economy will start to roar overnight...hold on I've got another call."

"You bastard! You're dating a cancer patient??? I bought us a house!!!" It was April The Stripper calling from Vegas.

"It was a two week thing...She doesn't even like having sex with me, which is strange because I'm incredible in bed...I'm going to come back..."

"She doesn't like having sex with you? That bitch, nobody rejects my man. Give me her number."

"I miss you too. I'll call you back. I can't keep putting the President on hold."

"Where was I?"

"Tax cuts," reminded the President.

"If you want to stimulate the economy tax cuts are the best way to do it. I know you like to spend money, but when you spend money that we don't have it causes inflation and bubbles and what not. It's time to let the country get to its economic equilibrium."

"I don't get the last part."

"Real wealth is only created by making products or providing services at a price that the marketplace is willing to pay. And people can only afford what they can afford from this type of income. Passive income is great if you can get it, but it doesn't create real wealth—only products and services do that. And finally, people have to make enough to live. You can't legislate that. And you can't use credit and inflated prices to get around the fact that people make way less now than they did in 1972, inflation adjusted. Since wages haven't gone up, no matter what you do it's inevitable that prices will come back down to what people can truly afford."

"Oliver, I can't stand by and watch people suffer—I have to spend a few trillion and see what happens..."

"Nice chatting with you Mr. President."

No sooner had I hung up than, "Oliver it's Lee." That would be my very dedicated Korean accountant on the iPhone. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Make a deposit for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You wiped out almost half your deficit in one week."

"Lee, you're not going to believe this but remember my buddy Josh Johnson?"

"Good looking young guy that you met at Hard 8 Lounge." The Hard 8 Lounge where I often go dancing and listen to music is a clothing store for those of you who are not acquainted with this fact. They're open to the public on Saturdays, if you feel like a little trip down to 12th between Hope and Grand.

"That's the guy. Well he's the one who set the whole thing up...it's like having a money tree on my balcony."

"Is it legal..."

"One hundred percent, Lee."

"Well what is it?"

"Damn." Looking at my watch. "I'm late for a wind tasting at Ralph's..."

"Wait Oliver..."

POST 43

Downtown Oliver Brown Gets Crocker Clubbed

"There's a lot of people out for Art Walk tonight," I thought to myself as I pitched Monica at the Nickel Diner on letting me cook for the dinner shift three nights a week. No. I wasn't thinking of this as a financial rescue plan, but as a community service. They were supposed to be open for dinner. I like thousands of others in the neighborhood had suffered the disappointment of getting to the door and seeing that hand written sign apologizing for the false start. Luckily I hadn't fed the voracious appetite of the new three-dollar an hour meter at which I was illegally parked. I wonder how many people have three dollars worth of change in their pocket anyway?

"We'll think about it Oliver," said Monica, the woman responsible for the food that put the Nickel on Los Angeles Magazine's best new restaurant list (#3). "Where are you off to?"

"I'm on my way up to 5th and Spring to check out the new Crocker Club."

As I descended the steps into the former bank vault turned club I could not help but to be reminded of The Edison. I worried that a cheap knock-off would hurt Downtown's great new reputation for nightlife. But the moment I took in the bar and the quality of the crowd I knew that I had found the perfect place to kick off many a future Art Walk from.

And that's when Josh Johnson called and told me that he would be there shortly—I pulled up a chair at the bar and settled in.

I had a feeling that the attractive girls that had passed me on the stairway were meant to cross my path. So it made sense that one turned out to be Josh's girlfriend and the other the girlfriend's friend who had a boyfriend, but I sensed might be looking, like a smart monkey, for her next vine to swing from. Now, I'll spare you the conversation at the Crocker Club and just give you the one sentence that set the tone for the rest of the night. Oh, first let me include this: they didn't want to hang out at this perfectly great bar and have a drink.

"Let's find some free drinks," said Josh's girlfriend as we stepped onto the sidewalk outside of the spot I was perfectly content to spend the rest of the evening at.

And so I knew I was in for an evening of fine art and wandering around looking for free, cheap wine—always at the end of a long line of people. Oh, I know it sounds dreadful, and because I'm Downtown Oliver Brown a Playmate or Super Model should fall into my clutches and save the night, but strangely that's not what happened.

Rather, I found myself driving over to a gallery / loft on Alemeda. The party, as my friend Ali had described it, was being sponsored by Citizen LA. My iPhone rang and I felt around for the Bluetooth that is wisely required in the golden state.

"Hey Oliver, it's Josh are you here yet?"

"No, I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"Did you know that there's a five dollar cover to get in?"

"No, but I wouldn't really say that five dollars is a cover—it's more like a contribution."

"Well we'll just wait for you at the door."

And yes, by the time I got there Josh and the girls had decided to keep on rolling to the next place—I'm guessing that would be the one that had no cover and free booz.

Inside that crowd was cool, the bands were good, and at long last Downtown Oliver Brown and George Stiehl the publisher of Citizen LA sat down and talked. Oh I know, because I'm Downtown Oliver Brown the conversation between the two symbols of counter culture should be coming down to this page like fire and brimstone from heaven, but no—not today. It was a hell of a conversation though.

POST 44

Downtownster Launch Story

Downtownster.com, like most great ventures, was born from an array of circumstances so organic that our business seems almost accidental—even to me. So, let me share with you this: I myself did not intend to get into the business of blogging and until a couple of years ago hardly knew what a blog actually was or why they were becoming so popular. That being said, as an author of books and a writer of movies, I knew that the future success of my marketing efforts would involve blogging—and so it will be for all businesses large and small.

What are blogs? Yes, I know you're reading one, but the question is not that simple minded. This particular type of blog actually came from somewhere. Blogs were originally online personal journals that evolved into bloggers (people) writing on topics of personal interest, which eventually led to blog sites that aggregated content from these sources. Then came the inevitable incorporation of hard news and media into blogging and blog websites, and like all other business owners I found myself in the middle of a communications revolution—and we are in the middle of a revolution. Well, where there is trouble...

I needed to sale books, so I started blogging. First as myself, journal style, to tell anybody that would listen what I was up to. And then, in the story or novelistic format that some would say that I pioneered on the Internet. The reason that my novelistic style exploded onto the scene and has had such a great impact with respect to promoting people, places, and businesses can be best summarized in one word: EXPERIENTIAL. When a blogger tells a story, rather than a dry, journalistic, recitation of facts, the reader becomes far more involved and much like the power of word of mouth is moved to act. In my case that can involve some pretty crazy comments and an occasional marriage proposal.

Then came Downtown Oliver Brown (now featured here on downtownster.com). Being a writer I decided that the story telling I was doing should not just be from my point of view, so I began to invent characters—the first of which was the dysfunctional, yet talented and loveable Oliver Brown—a million plus readers later this syndicated blog proved that serialized fiction could thrive again as it once had in the golden days of print media.

Finally, with an ever-growing readership, impact on people and business, and so many writers wanting to be part of the blogging world Downtown Oliver Brown had somehow put me at the center of—I created downtownster.com. Over the last few days readers have been previewing phase one of the site, which was populated with blogs I had written for syndication over the last few months, and have had an incredible amount of nice things to say. Perhaps the most common is that the site is clean and easy to read. Believe it or not, this was actually intentional. I've also had several comments that our categories are particularly well suited to Downtown. Good. And I assure you that we will continue to add categories that the readers of downtownster want. Starting today there will be daily posts. And although I never intended to be a blogger, let alone running one, let me just say, this has turned out to be one of those great, unexpected things in life. So, log on, read on, and blog on. We're all in this together now.

POST 45

Downtownster Switch Unpublished Draft

Encore, the 2.7 billion dollar addition to Wynn Las Vegas, got it right when they decided to name the hotels restaurant that changes looks every twenty minutes SWITCH—but unfortunately not because a couple of walls slide around. No, SWITCH is what you should do if you have a reservation at this overpriced mediocre dining establishment. Let me repeat, switch to another restaurant and do it fast. And let me tell you why.

Like most great dinner plans ours started with a call for a reservation. After ten minutes on hold—literally. We were told that our request for a 7:30 reservation was not possible and that we should come at 8:30, a minute of protest later and we were on the schedule for 7:30...Upon arrival we waited to get into the 80% empty restaurant for fifteen minutes—literally. And because this is downtownster.com let me throw in that I didn't like her smug little attitude.

Dave, whom the character Dave The Jew in Downtown Oliver Brown is based on, and myself followed her to our table for four by the service door. More remarkable than having the worst seat in the empty restaurant was that it was missing a chair and place setting—can't make this stuff up.

Unfinished...

POST 46

Fleming's LA Live Delivers

Okay, it's a play on words. I didn't mean by the title that Fleming's will deliver their food, but rather that the food delivers one hell of a dining experience.

What would a Stan Lerner blog be without a disclosure? Given my past appearances on the pages of the LA Times, Los Angles Downtown News, some gigantic billboards, the cover of a novel, and just living Downtown for fourteen years the idea that I'm going to walk into a restaurant and do some kind of anonymous review is ludicrous. In fact Fleming's LA Live has graced more than one of my Downtown Oliver Brown adventures and I even wrote a piece for blogdowntown announcing its opening. So, the facts being what they are when I walked in with my assistant Drew to do a serious review I expected some serious service and food. And I got both and then some.

Fleming's LA Live starts with what one might consider the best location in the development—it's located facing out on the corner of Olympic and Figueroa. The obvious advantage is the exposure to both pedestrian and vehicle traffic. The less obvious advantage, but perhaps far more significant is, that the noise and smells generated by the ventilation systems within the complex, which can be deafening and offensive in places like the side entrance to the ESPN Zone, do not seem to plague Fleming's at all.

When you walk into Fleming's you will most probably be greeted by management, which this particular night happened to be Scott Wise. And while I'm much more familiar with Jennifer (managing partner), who puts up with me for reasons that I cannot fathom, Scott stepped in and made me feel like I was at my cousin's place. I can't tell you how much I appreciate dining in a restaurant where I feel at home, but still receive the highest level of service. To this end, the transition from Scott to Nessa our waitress was seamless. Nessa brings to mind a character that might be found in the Ayn Rand classic Atlas Shrugged. A waitress? Not really. More of a service professional so good at what she does – I would let myself fall in love with her, but for my girlfriend who does not share my enthusiasm for "Big Love".

If you're not already familiar with Fleming's ambiance it's an upscale combination of burgundy and cherry wood, lots of cherry wood. Fleming's LA Live is not a particularly large restaurant -- the seven-thousand-foot restaurant has seating for 300 guests in its richly appointed dining room and room for another fifty on the outdoor patio that stretches along Olympic. The restaurant also features four private dining rooms one of which can be seen from the street as a glass enclosed wine cellar. You can see the kitchen from the dining room, it looks tight back there, but minimal space doesn't seem to bother the chef and that leads me to the best part of writing this review, the food.

After snacking on a starter of rosemary bread, Champagne infused Brie, and sun dried tomato herb butter, all of which were outstanding, I put every salad on the menu to the test. The Fleming's Salad while not much in the way of presentation is a standout. The lemon vinaigrette dressing mingles with the candied walnuts and dried cranberries in a dazzling juxtaposition of taste. The Wedge also stands out, simply because the blue cheese dressing is perfect. And the Cesar is competent, it actually packs a nice little kick, but it has tough competition.

Entrée's, Drew ordered the bone in filet (special) and I the Chilean Sea Bass (special). The bone in filet as Nessa explained is for someone who wants a little more flavor versus the filet without the bone. The extra flavor comes from a layer of fat that surrounds the bone, some would say that this makes the bone in not as tender, but Drew could detect no noticeable difference and gave this wet aged steak his highest mark. I should mention that this is a substantial piece of meat, so a large appetite is necessary to do it justice. The Chilean Sea Bass ( Patagonian toothfish) could not have been better. A thick piece of fish, miso glazed sitting on top of a bed of Asian slaw. I know it's hard to blow it with this particularly great fish, but either under or over cooked and it's not good. So, hats off to a steakhouse that gets it right.

For sides, I took the same approach as I did the salads. Fleming's Potatoes like the Fleming's Salad is a standout. Now I can't help but wonder whether I could have written a much shorter piece that just said, "If it starts with Fleming's order it," but until downtownster hires a few more writers I have to stretch things out. The Fleming's Potatoes are mixed with cream, jalapenos and cheddar cheese. It's the jalapenos and cheddar that bring these spuds to life. The Garlic-Mashed Potatoes are a nice backup plan and again the use of blue cheese does something special to this dish.

To make my doctor happy I ordered a vegetable—Creamed Spinach. This is a dish that The Palm has ruled for a long time, but not any longer. Fleming's Creamed Spinach is at least a tie and on this particular night the winner. Perhaps my toughest test for any restaurant comes down to...yes onion rings.

Fleming's offers a half half of onion rings and double cut shoestring fries that I can't recommend enough. If the portions weren't so big Drew and I could have wound up going fist to cuffs over who got the last ring. Let me say this plainly—these were the best onion rings I've ever had in my life. I would have to think back to the great days of Hamburger Henry's in Belmont Shores (Long Beach) to even think of a ring that was in the same league and even Henry's could not touch these.

Made fresh on the spot with a sweet white onion and buttermilk batter, Panko breadcrumbs and light seasoning I can't fathom how they reached this level of perfection. It might be that they remove the onion's outer membrane before dipping in batter, this not only eliminates the chewy sliding onion from the crust issue, I think it greatly cuts down on the amount of oil retained in the ring (in this case peanut oil). I could still eat the onion rings at The Nickel Diner in a pinch, but the Yard House tower of rings—well they need to take a walk down the block and learn how the big boys do it.

Of course I was drinking, albeit not as much as I would have been if this were a Downtown Oliver Brown adventure, but that's why I can actually remember what I had for dinner. I started the night off with a Sparkling Peach Martini—a concoction of Belvedere Vodka, DeKuyper Peachtree Schnapps, cranberry juice all topped off with Champagne and fresh squeezed lime...I recommend this drink if you want to start off easy. Fleming's has over a hundred wines by the glass and another ninety or so (reserve) by the bottle. With the Chilean Sea Bass Nessa recommended the Conundrum 2007 and I'm passing this recommendation along. This glass of wine, the blend of which is unknown thus the name Conundrum, is a Wow glass of wine.

If you find this revue effusive—it is. There are a lot of mediocre people and companies out there who are apprehensive when they here I want to write about them, because they know I'll call it the way I see it. But when someone says, "Bring it on Stan," and delivers greatness —I call it the way I see it with some passion. Fleming's is a chain and I can't vouch for all sixty-one restaurants, but Fleming's at LA Live is an excellent restaurant.

If you're not aware of the fact that Fleming's LA Live has recently begun opening for lunch—consider this my final tip. They're open for lunch. In the weeks to come I'll be back to put their lunch menu to the test, but if it's anything close to dinner all of us downtownsters should be stopping in.

POST 47

Las Vegas Report

I cruised in from Los Angeles last Sunday, wind in my hair, to attend the Grand Opening of the new M Hotel, which is just south of South Point. And I will describe my experience to you in the same fashion I described it to Kristen the PR Manager at the Wynn. "Crowded, jammed, packed, and that's all I can really say." "That's what I heard," replied Kristen as we transitioned to the more relevant topic of Wynn and Encore. So, there I sat discussing a future piece I might be doing on Wynn and Encore, the reality weighing on me that I did not get the story that I had come to Las Vegas to get. My mind drifted to a Downtown Oliver Brown adventure, which might save the day, but rather I resolved myself to find some gem of a travel piece in my 48 sleepless hours.

"How about a report?" I asked myself. "Something of a prelude of things to come." And just like that the good time I was having made perfect sense—I was in Vegas! So let me start by stating the obvious, business is off in Vegas. The former fastest growing city in America is awash in foreclosures—largely due to Californians who bought houses there speculating that prices would continue to go up. A reservation at Switch, the pricey restaurant at Encore that transforms itself every twenty minutes, was easily had with less than an hour's notice. Gone are the three-hour waits to get into clubs like Rain. And there's lots of room at the tables to play. Sounds pretty bad—it's not.

There are still plenty of people in Vegas, it's not a ghost town and Saturday nights will make you think it's still 2007. Frankly, I like the smaller crowds and room prices that have come back to being the good deals that make you want to spend a crazy amount of money on everything else that the casinos have a much better profit margin on. I would warn the casinos to not cut back on staff or service to save money during these hard times. Getting it right now can really make for a customer for life. And what about the crowd at the M on a Sunday night?

M stands for Marnell, and the Marnell family knows something about the gaming business. Anthony Marnell II developed the Rio, which during the ten years he and his son Anthony Marnell III ran the place both innovated and set the bar for Vegas in many ways. The buffet, Club Rio, and Danny Ganz leap to the front of my mind. Now for the sake of full disclosure I produced a big hit called "Night Tribe" at the Rio, but this was sadly long after the Marnell's had left. And I was lucky enough to try and hold to the standard that they had set as Harrah's, the new owner, did everything possible to make the Rio into the unremarkable place that it now is.

So, when the Marnell's opened on Sunday the locals turned out. People do have memories after all, and they wanted to see if the casino run by Anthony III would bring back the magic to the local market that Harrah's had destroyed. And they turned out and turned out. Apparently, so delicious is the rewards card that they offer, people stood in line hundreds long to get one—I bear witness to this. But of course M is a hotel that knows how to take care of locals.

Now I'm tempted to start telling you more about the place but I was quite serious when I mentioned earlier that the M was just too crowded to get into any kind of depth. To do the hotel justice I plan on going back and really getting into the nooks and crannies. I will tell you this: I like the location. The view of the Las Vegas valley and surrounding hills is one of my favorites. The design of the hotel has a kind of classic 80's feel with a kind of updated twist that gives it an incredibly open feel that lets in a whole lot of light. The view from the lobby out to the pool is incomparable. And the terrace off of the bar makes equally good use of this feature. And I did have a bite in the café. The quality of the food is there. Suffice it to say I'm really looking forward to my next post on this 400 room destine to be a success of a hotel and casino.

POST 48

Los Angeles Theater Hosts Downtown Purim Party

The last few years have brought a number of remarkable events to Downtown—I've been privileged to write about a few of them. A good many stories I have written have been cocooned in my semi fictional style allowing me to...well...embellish a bit here and there. But this one requires no such magic...

Now, I added blogging to my schedule of play, movie, and novel writing not because I was trying to find a way to spend the four hours left of the too little twenty-four hours in a day. Gee who needs sleep anyway? Exhaustion does indeed enhance the affect of alcohol. No. I started blogging because after thirteen-years of living in Downtown I noticed a community being born. Not to be confused with the billion dollar buildings going up, but people coming together, actually forming a vibrant Downtown community. And I think I'll be mentioning this in future blogs so get used to it—it's really something special and all too easy for us to take for granted. And tonight I took a moment to get a closer look at one of the most remarkable developments in this extraordinary birth process.

First, there is a Downtown Rabbi. Yeah, I know there are Rabbi's running all around the jewelry district and there are some places for Jews to gather and say their prayers—I'm not talking about that. I mean that there is a Chabad Rabbi living Downtown with his wife and two young children. He has founded a Chabad of Downtown and now for the second year in a row he has thrown a party to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Purim at the Los Angles Theater. This Rabbi's name is Moshe Greenwald, he's 26-years-old and he's a force of nature.

Second, the Los Angeles Theater is a gem that Downtown so needs to be back in fulltime service of some kind. I hadn't been inside the theater for a few years and I'm happy to say that it still takes the breath away and it actually looks to be in better shape than it was a few years ago. There hasn't been a complete restoration, but seemingly gradual progress in the right direction.

Third, there's my arrival to cover this story...Most of my readers do not think of my name in the same mind set as...well...religion. Food, sex, gambling, clubs, drinking, dancing, drugs = Stan...A Purim party = anybody else. But again, until downtownster hires a few more writers...

I had to smile at the amount of food and alcohol the Rabbi and his wife had arranged for the guests—drinking is a big part of this holiday, which celebrates the Jewish victory over the evil Haman (viceroy to the Persian King Ahashverosh) while in exile after the destruction of the First Temple. The crowd numbered over a hundred, it included a busload of elderly from the Hollenbeck Retirement Home, young couples with kids, a few hip looking singles, clothing mogul Victor Mizrahi (Hard 8 Clothing), and a writer drinking a strong Jim Beam and Coke (me).

The Rabbi took a moment to greet me and introduce me to his father who had come from Long Beach to do the Megillah reading. The Megillah is the scroll read aloud telling the story of Purim. After the reading there was more food and drink, music, and a magic show, which the kids seemed to seriously go for. And as I stood in back at the bar taking in the rag-tag eclectic group of Jews I could see that the Downtown community is about to add yet another dimension—a thriving Jewish community is going to sprout out of the historic core. I smiled. All the billionaire developers with their billion dollar buildings didn't make this happen. Hell, most of them don't even live Downtown. But a 26-year-old Rabbi did...There's more than Purim party going on.

POST 49

LA Fashion Week Is Weak

It's day 14 of my not working on the script I'm supposed to be writing and for some reason even now that downtownster has 9 writers working on stories—I've been blessed with writing something about LA Fashion weak and yes I know how to spell-WEAK...Okay let me put this simply—I hold organizations in the same esteem that I hold big corporate America and smallpox. I particularly love when artist like Peter Gurnz come to LA from New York—to bring back 1930's Hollywood to Downtown. Oh, and if you aren't familiar with my story...I moved Downtown thirteen years ago to get away from all those giants of thought and culture in tinsel town. So thank you so much Peter for your effort—my words drip with sarcasm and disdain.

I skipped eating to avoid throwing up in the Los Angeles Theatre, which if you read my piece on the Purim Party, you'll see that I hold in considerable regard. And no I don't fault the theatre for taking the money Gen Art and BoxEIGHT gave them...Although I would have sold blood diamonds before I took a dime for this event, which would be so much better off in Culver City. As I approached the theatre there were...let me count...ten good looking Aryans in black suits at the door. Now I do like Vegas clubs, but unlike the guys at the Vegas clubs who actually make money by taking care of people, these guys had the air of faking it about them. Imagine that, some good looking wanna be fakers at the door of a Hollywood wanna be fashion event—I stared at the little skank behind the red rope with the list and restrained myself from laughing in her face. That's about the time when good-looking guy number 11 walked up and suggested I could pay to come in.

"But George Stiehl invited me to come by," I said. George is the publisher of Citizen LA. And I like George so trashing this piece of trash event is distasteful to me. But charging press to come into your event...And what type of fashion show charges admission anyway? Sounds like some organization is making a buck or two.

"Why don't you call George?" said good-looking guy 11.

I pointed through the glass doors at George who was busy at a long table filled with more lists—I'm sure the biggest names in the industry were on them. "He's right there, why don't you just get him?"

"Why don't you call him?" said this brain dead moron.

"Because the music is blaring, I doubt he'll be able to hear his phone if he even has it on, and he's twenty feet from where we're standing."

"Well other press is paying."

"You know I think I know what I'm going to write."

I walked off intent on eating at Blue LA Café, which will be the subject of my dining blog this week.

What do I have to say about this years Gen Art BoxEIGHT fashion week? It reeks of scam wrapped in art. Why my anger? Well, I wasn't such a bad painter before I took up writing, and the clothes I once designed appeared in almost every major fashion magazine, I think of myself as an artist's artist and I don't like when people exploit what we do under the guise of discovering the next big thing! And I hate the Hollywood attitude being brought to Downtown—even if it's by an organization that likens itself to Warhol's Factory. I've actually owned a Warhol guys—you're not the Factory. If you want to learn more about Warhol, Bert Green is having a nice little Viva Hoffmann show.

After my bite to eat, it was off to Hollywood; that would be the real Hollywood where a-holes with attitude belong at the door. Now as distasteful as I find this trip to be, at least it was for some young guys trying to do a legitimate event for fashion week. Whatever the meaning of fashion week may be.

The event was at Kress on Hollywood Blvd, Hollywood's biggest, hottest club according to the gossip entertainment shows and magazines that I don't watch or read accept when I'm trying to buy groceries at SUPER RALPH'S on 9th Street. Comes late night they never have enough cashiers so there's plenty of time to catch what's going on, on the covers. Apparently Jessica Simpson is back in Daisy Duke shape!

So Josh Johnson, a good-looking, bright, young friend of downtownster wanted me to check out the Jeff Sebelia show that was being put on by Royalty Rope Events on the rooftop level of Kress. Okay, it's not my scene...But I'm not mad at the shabby crowd...They just don't know...I had the advantage of running around Hollywood as a youth in Armani, driving a Ferrari, financed with unlimited drug cash. I know it's wrong, but seriously those were the good-old-days. And if I didn't already have a hot young girlfriend and there weren't 9,000 cops looking to give me a DUI I might have actually had a few drinks and taken home a tacky souvenir—meaning one of the cute young things all around me that did have some potential, after a good bath.

Jeff is a cool guy, he was the winner of the third season of Project Runway, my girlfriend loves his clothes (she has great taste), and he is a real downtownster—he lives above Pete's at 4th and Main. Jeff, like myself is part of the tribe of Angelino natives that live Downtown. A hard rocker turned production designer who went to Trade Tech for twelve dollars a unit—and now reasonably famous fashion designer. Now that's not a fake it til you make it story, so I'm happy to tell it.

The show itself did not do Jeff justice—it's the nature of trying to do an event full of club goers. Rather than a runway they used a platform and the MC did not have a mike plugged into the clubs sound system so nobody more than ten feet away could really understand what was going on. But a fair amount of people did stop what they were doing to get a gander at the clothes and while the models weren't SUPER—they were having a good time and that was enough. Before I left I huddled with Josh and Matt and told them I had a good time. Then I suggested that they do some events Downtown...The fashion industry could use some bright young guys whose hearts are in the right place...Maybe next year.

POST 50

blu la café

There's just some places you should give your business to and blu la café is one of them. After a terrible few minutes at Gen Art BoxEight's unimportant, scam fashion show I headed over to the little place next to Cole's to see what it was about. That's right, if you didn't know there's a new little café next to Mr. Moses' super sandwich shop and hopping bar.

No, blu la café is not a threat to other restaurants in the neighborhood. The owners, a graphic artist and an actor who just wanted a place to eat and more importantly wanted to do something for the community HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THEY ARE DOING and that's okay. It's a nice little place—the service is slow, not bad, but slow so, no need to be in a rush. The food? I had the salmon panini for dinner, it was quite good for a café, I recommend it. For breakfast I tried the Florentine Omelet—not great and my pancakes were rubbery. But here's the saving grace, they make one hell of a cappuccino, way better than Starbucks, I had two of them.

I was chatting with Jacob, the partner who's there the most, and couldn't help but be charmed by the warmth he brings to his café. He bought breakfast and our parent company's investors, to whom I keep promising a spin off of downtownster to, appreciate the gesture I assure you. I'm still trying to think up a justification for the bills I ran up for my upcoming Downtown Oliver Brown adventure—that's right he's coming back in a big bad way next week. Anyway, Jacob's from the South and the menu reflects this to some degree. Perhaps the best part of the story is that in their search for a location they encountered nothing but landlords who didn't want to give two completely inexperienced operators a good location—Pacific Electric was no exception.

Originally the little back corner that blu la café got shoved / leased into was a back corner of cold storage space. Jacob admits to wanting to cry, but his partner assured him that there were some possibilities. Now we all know he meant creating a nice design. But as the soul of the world would have it, the possibilities turned out to be keeping long hours 7:00am-2:00am on Friday and Saturday nights and 7:00am-11:00pm Monday-Thursday and being next to arguably the hottest restaurant (Cole's) and bar (The Association) in the area. So after some serious drinking at The Association or Coles a little breakfast at blu la café is a pretty good idea. Also, I should mention that blu la cafe has a surprisingly good wine list, not large, but good.

So, here's looking out for the little guy, let's give them our business. Actually the community already is. On both occasions that I dined at blu la café I met some really cool people including Rick Taub one of Downtown's more note worthy musicians. I could have done much more on their food but this place is about the vibe and the community. The owners live Downtown, so does the always working Hilda, who I might have a little crush on, and frankly it's just a nice place to take a break from life ten feet away from the concrete madness.

blu la café is located at 126 E. 6th Street, LA, 90014

POST 51

Downtown Oliver Brown XS

Kristen, in public relations, could not believe such a matter could have fallen on her shoulders. Thousands of employees at the nicest resort casino in the world and it was her walking into the spa...to do the unthinkable.

"Hi Danny, I need to speak to Mr. Wynn right away."

"He's in the middle of a massage."

"It can't wait, take me back there."

"Are you crazy?"

"No, I just happened to stay late and be the only one in the office," she said forcing a smile. "Lucky me," she thought to herself.

"This better be good," said Steve Wynn, the legendary hotel and casino owner.

"It's all how you define good Mr. Wynn. If you mean good news..."

"I mean good enough to interrupt my massage."

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid it's exactly that kind of good."

"Don't tell me..."

"I'm sorry Mr. Wynn, but it seems as though Downtown Oliver Brown is in the hotel with his friends..."

"Tell me he's not with Dave The Jew and Stan Peters Hollywood's scummiest and most powerful producer—again."

"They're with him."

"And?"

"Whiskey Peet and fat Andy are too."

Steve Wynn rolled off of the table wrapped in the 1,000-thread-count sheet. "First a global financial meltdown and now this. Can't a billionaire get a break these days? Please tell me they haven't made it to the tables yet..."

"They're playing a million hand..."

"Great!"

"I love this place!" I said, betting another million. Originally, as you might recall from earlier blogs, playing million dollar a hand poker had made me nervous, but after hanging around with Whiskey Peet, Dave The Jew, Fat Andy, and Stan Peters (Hollywood's scummiest and most powerful producer) long enough I had somehow become acclimated to this totally irresponsible behavior – given that unlike my friends I have, at best, two cents to rub together and at the time of this story still owed about ten million give or take from my previous trip to Vegas.

"My boy! My boy! Of course you love this place! You live in Laaas Angeleees with 34 million liberal fagooots! What's with all the fruity butterflies? Shiiiit not one dead animal carcass on the walls to be found...We should have just played at my place!" He turned to Dave The Jew. "Did you check on the White Lightning before you left?"

"Sure I did," responded Dave, going all in.

Now this was not exactly true, but when your best friend is one of the richest men in the world and more importantly never leaves home without a six-shooter strapped to each thigh you get a pass if you stretch a little. And in this case, the still located in a three thousand foot shed behind Whiskey Peet's fifty-five thousand foot mansion happens to be an elaborate contraption. We had tested some of the clear liquid magic but the gauges were impossible to read—mostly because we didn't have a mirror handy and the white powder we poured out onto the glass made a hell of a mess.

Anyway, given I don't know a thing about poker I'm not too sure how I won, but I did and just like that my ten million dollar debt was gone.

"Son of a BITCHHH!," exclaimed Whiskey Peet. "What type of lucky Jew are you?" He said to Dave The Jew.

"Shit," said Fat Andy.

"How the f**k was I supposed to know Oliver was holding..." Dave The Jew was saying when Steve Wynn walked up.

"Gentleman, gentleman, what type of language is that—especially in the presence of ladies?"

And for the first time we all noticed that Barbara Bush, the former First Lady, and one of her hot granddaughters were sitting with us.

"Don't worry about it Steve, I've played with a-holes like these guys before. Let's see if the pussy writer can put together another flush."

"Pussy? Bring it on Old Lady!" I said. And then with the luck of a drunk Irishman she caught me with a pretty good right to the jaw. Frankly, I probably would have caught a beating but for Steve getting in the middle. I know I'm a former Golden Gloves Champion but the White Lightning and Cocaine had rendered me into a gelatinous blob with legs and arms. And the old broad still has plenty of steam left.

"Guys why play in my casino when you could be having a good time in our new club?"

"CLUB?" we all said simultaneously.

"Well shiiiiit! We can always gamble at my place! It's not some little fagggot club?"

"Sixty-thousand-square-feet, I spent twelve million dollars on it—I think you boys are going to like this place," assured Steve Wynn.

Keeping my eye on Barbara I asked, "What's the new club called?"

"It's called XS," Steve said gently guiding us as a group away from the table.

"You better hall ass out of here," shouted Barbara after me.

I began to turn around, however Steve's firm grasp kept me on the path to the mega-club located conveniently between the Wynn and Encore. "Here we are." He motioned for one of the well-dressed VIP hosts to come running. "Jared..."

"Yes, Mr. Wynn!"

"This here is Los Angeles's very own great writer, Downtown Oliver Brown." He nodded at the boys. "And friends. I want you to give them the best table in the place and make sure they have a great time—until closing. I'll be very upset if I hear that they're not in the club the rest of the night having a great time...Do you understand?"

"Yes Mr. Wynn!"

Steve seemed...how should I put it?...Relieved, when he turned to us. "You're in good hands guys. Drink and dance the night away—"

We followed Jared into XS the sixty-thousand-foot twelve-million-dollar-club. I no longer had ten million in gambling debts on my mind. My girlfriend was back in Los Angeles studying for midterms at USC or something...I felt that exited feeling that you can only feel in anticipation of a goodtime in Vegas. Steve was indeed a wise man. It was good that I quit while I was ahead. And then came the crushing of arms around my neck and breasts against my chest.

"Oliver," panted April The Stripper into my ear. Then her tongue was in my mouth, so I couldn't possibly tell her about my girlfriend Nichole. "You came back for me! Who told you I was going to be at XS tonight? Oh it doesn't matter just so that you're here and we're together."

To be continued:

POST 52

LA Live's Saint Patrick's Day Massacre

Okay, I didn't work on the script, and didn't raise the $500,000.00 I was supposed to in order to spin downtownster.com off from its parent company Lerner Wordsmith Press today...Sorry shareholders, but it was a SAINT PATRICK'S DAY MASSACRE and I had to get in the middle of it—and yes like all good downtownster.com writers (Vaughn Blake) I've been drinking Guinness. So as Elvis would say "My boy! My boy!"

It started simply enough; I met Carlos our programmer to go over the pictures that will soon be uploaded to the coming soon downtownster.com store. That would be right here on this very website. Our initial collection of Downtown Oliver Brown clothing will no doubt be a big hit and be an even greater distraction to my screenplay and novel writing than blogging, but enough about me and downtownster. We were working and having a coffee at The Farm at LA Live...As usual there was nothing going on in the plaza. Apparently it was crowded the day before with 450 people trying to get 45 jobs in what AEG calls a job fair and the rest of us call a publicity stunt to lure CNN into using the place as a backdrop.

It was this very quiet nothing going on for the community atmosphere that we have all become so used to that struck me as I stood in the city's other cement bunker, albeit with trees and a fountain, Pershing Square. And yes I know that the city is working on some multi-million dollar study to determine how to spend a few hundred million in funds we don't have to make the place feel not so Cold War Era, but I'm actually of the belief that we're headed back into a cold war with Russia, so that the current state of Pershing Square is just fine. Anyway, I took in the fountain that poured green water and smiled. Then walked to the area where the Young Dubliner's were rocking the house. Seriously, these guys were great, if you missed them they're going to be on Kimmel tonight—don't miss them again.

White people, black people, brown people, I think an Asian or two all gathered in Pershing Square in an event put on by Parks and Recreation. So for the millionth time—I'm not a fan of big business, organizations, or STD's, but government, well let's just put it this way...I've had the pleasure of being its guest—if you know what I mean. So, when the government does something right and big business, in this case AEG / LA Live, does something wrong—I am compelled to write about it. Simply put; Parks and Recreation put on a great event attended by thousands of members of the community and they should be congratulated. Congratulations! AEG / LA Live the recipient of close to three hundred million dollars in taxpayer support did NOTHING!!!

It's disclosure time. When I was writing The Adventures Of Downtown Oliver Brown for blogdowntown, I moved into Starbuck's LA Live and wrote a series of overall favorable pieces on LA Live—I even defended the project against an LA Times architecture review that likened it to a boat hull docked at the corner of Fig and Olympic. My defense was based on function over form. LA Live is a mass of steel and glass, but I was hopeful that it would be filled with downtownsters attending community events—this made the austere aesthetics make sense—shame on me.

Disclosure number two: I was promised a behind the scenes look at LA Live by then Managing Director Lisa Hezlich. I was connected with Lisa by Tim Leiweke President and CEO of AEG himself and to be honest I like Tim and I liked Lisa...But I was never given what I was promised and I went easy on them with only mild comments, which lead to more not kept promises. Then Lisa left (perhaps fired) and the community was asked to believe the preposterous notion that she had decided to go back to her roots in retail in the middle of the worst economy since the Great Depression. The obvious lie to the public, which make no mistake about it, is heavily invested in LA Live sickened me. Downtownsters deserve to be told the truth...I had coffee with Lisa just before her vacation and subsequent departure...she told me that she was living a dream.

Disclosure number three: downtownster made a proposal to Tammy Billings, whose most recent email to me indicated that her position since Lisa's departure has been elevated to Director of Marketing, that LA Live fulfill Lisa's promise to support downtownster's blogging effort with bloglalive and that bloglalive would be run by downtownster. The idea being that there would be an independent blog operating from LA Live 24 / 7. I felt this to be crucial given that Tammy is the LA Live Examiner AND THE EXAMINER IS OWNED BY AEG! It strains all credulity to believe that LA Live can objectively blog about itself...This reeks of scam and misinformation...Downtownster's request to set up shop at LA Live was not so shockingly rejected.

Final disclosure: in the past downtownster has solicited advertising support from LA Live. But no business has ever been transacted, for good or bad, between downtownster and AEG / LA Live. I have the feeling after this post their dollars won't be flowing our way anytime soon, but that's all right because I care about this city more than I care about AEG / LA Live's money...And that could be why Mike Roth, LA Live's Director of Communications, refuses to return my phone calls.

Shame on you Mike—remember the taxpayer's credits! I'm calling you out. Do you even live Downtown? Does Tammy Billing's live Downtown? Does Lee Zeidman who added Lisa's job to his management of Staple's Center live Downtown? How about the boss himself? Why don't you take a moment from your busy schedule of doing nothing for the community to answer whether someone employed by LA Live other than janitors and security guards (hourly employees) live anywhere near Downtown? Communicate big shot!

So there's some history, but the facts are the facts. LA Live's Grand Opening Christmas Tree Lighting extravaganza gave the community the classless Adam Carolla joking with a strung out Britney Spears and a tree lighting that literally didn't work—at least as planned. Most of us expected the LA Phil and Leno...Things didn't get better on New Years...On New Years LA Live gave the community...well let me think about it—NOTHING! This apparently was the warm up for all of the NOTHINGS to come. And don't try to tell us the Obama event was an AEG / LA Live idea...Although it seems to have been a prelude to a live event now playing in Washington that is described in Latin as a—circus.

I've written often in my blogs of the culture of mediocrity that is in large part the reason for our country's steep decline. I can't think of a better example than LA Live, a 2.5 billion dollar entertainment complex, made possible by the help of the public, that can't even throw a first class Saint Patrick's Day event. If it were my company I'd be handing out pink slips instead of greenbacks. This is supposed to be the entertainment capital of the world and LA Live is supposed to be iconic...That means something should be going on in the plaza EVERY NIGHT. And AEG, that doesn't just mean the suckers that you can get to play for you for free because you're AEG...Yeah downtownster knows the Natalie Cole Christmas story.

The community wants AEG executives who are qualified to do their jobs and from the community. The community wants discounts to LA Live ticketed events. The community wants an independent LA Live blog. The community wants AEG to let everyone know that the Examiner is owned by AEG and that AEG reviews itself. The community wants Tammy Billings to put up her picture as the LA Live Examiner and disclose in her Examiner bio that she is also the director of marketing for LA Live! The community wants daily events in the community plaza. Not a farmer's market or some other nonsense that doesn't cost AEG money—BUT ENTERTAINMENT! AEG may have a lot of money and the good graces of City Hall, but there are five hundred and seventy thousand members of the Downtown community on any given day and forty thousand of us who live here fulltime and it would be a mistake to think that the community is just going to sit back and keep taking it.

POST 53

LA Live's Saint Patrick's Day Massacre

Last week I posted the blog LA LIVE'S SAINT PATRICK'S DAY MASSACRE – which I am now reposting as LA LIVE'S SAINT PATRICK'S DAY MASSACRE II! No, I'm not suffering from writer's block, I have more things to write about on any given day than I can peck out on the keyboard of my Mac. I'm reposting this blog and will keep doing so until the time that AEG / LA Live comes to the conclusion that becoming the scourge of our community is not a desirable course. I will each week add developments for better or worse in this cause.

Last week several thousand people read my post and then subsequently flooded me with emails and text messages agreeing that AEG / LA Live has completely disappointed the community thus far and was in danger of becoming a disgrace to Downtown rather than an icon. Let me make this perfectly clear; not one single member of the community disagreed with my post. I even heard from friends in West LA who had caught wind of what's going on...One asked to come down and see for himself...I suggested Saturday day, quite sure, that as usual, the plaza would just be an empty slab of cement. But before this tour was to take place I got an interesting phone call the day after my post.

"Hi Stan, it's Mike Roth."

"Now you're calling," I responded to the director of communications for AEG / LA Live."

He explained that he was dealing with some jury duty issues, but wanted to meet and try to work things out. I assumed this to mean that AEG / LA Live was ready to deal with the issues brought up in LA LIVE'S SAINT PATRICK'S DAY MASSACRE. We agreed to speak at 5:00 p.m. and set up a meeting. At 5:00 p.m. Mike Roth asked me to call him at 10:30 a.m. the next morning to set up a meeting, as he needed to consult his secretary about his schedule. At 10:30 a.m. I called, but he was not in. And then with the same disrespect that AEG / LA Live has made a point of showing the community Mike Roth simply never bothered to call.

Saturday, I gave my friend the tour—there was nothing going on...Like some of downtownster's other readers he had been considering the purchase of a residence in the AEG / LA Live Ritz Carlton Residence do to be completed at the end of the year, the tour made quite the impression...Again, if you are a new downtownster reader, and thankfully our readership is growing daily, I urge you to read the rest of this post. If you've already read this post I urge you to forward it to your friends.

POST 54

Bottega Louie

If you're reading downtownster you might already have a feel for our style—we're not a news blog, meaning that we don't run around and look to break the latest greatest story in less than six hundred words. Frankly we leave that to Ed and Eric at blogdowntown. No, our mission at downtownster is to find stories and get involved in them—we're storytellers, each with our own unique voice / point of view. And as of the time of this blog I'm pleased to say there are now fifteen downtownster writers working on stories.

That being said, David Kean (The Realtor) mentioned to me this morning that Bottega Louie was doing a soft opening today, the official opening being next week. Three years in the making all the usual words have been written. I did however want to stop by to see if Bottega Louie belonged on the downtownster story list, so here I sit—literally. Am I breaking a story and the downtownster mission? Yeah. Funny thing that I can't even not break my own rules.

Why? I walked into the space and ran right into Leslie, formerly of Roy's fame; the tour began immediately. Words and phrases came to my mind with blistering rapidity. Perfect, classy, transcendent, absolute perfection, game changer, superlative, love, romance, Europe, instant classic—and I can go on. I love saying this: let me say this simply Bottega Louie is in a league of its own. It is a game changer in Downtown and everyone else is going to have to rise to the occasion. And that's putting it lightly. I've been blessed to eat at a good number of the best restaurants in the world, they having nothing on this place with respect to vibe and being the overall package.

Downtownster will be doing several stories on Bottega Louie, Kat our culinary genius will be getting into the mind of their kitchen / genius chef, Sam Marvin (Vice President) and I'm definitely going to sit down with Daniel Flores (President of Bottega Louie) and Leslie (Director of Retail) to find the soul of the matter. But for now let me just revel in breaking good news for Bottega Louie and for downtownsters. The heavy-duty stuff will come later, I promise.

Bottega, which means little store in some other language, and Louie, which sounds like the name of a cool guy that would own a cool little store, describes Bottega Louie inversely. Bottega Louie is not small. The spatial impact is huge and hits you like a sledgehammer from all angles. The ceiling height, the open kitchens, the neatly organized shelves in the retail area, the expansive white marble, the floor to ceiling windows, the white walls that just go away, and strangely the impeccably dressed staff all combine to make the huge space warm and homey. Like a good coffee house you want to stay in this place. I think many downtownsters were under the impression that Bottega Louie was going to be mostly a gourmet store with a restaurant. The store is incredible, but make no mistake about it; Bottega Louie is a restaurant with a great gourmet store and takeout counter to die for.

The food, which I sampled lightly, because I don't intend this to be a culinary review, was perfect. The fact that it was perfect and the restaurant is technically not even open speaks to serious attention to the training of the staff. Training the staff is almost a lost art today...And I'll concede to places like the Yard House that their staff knows all 150 beers. But I'm talking about the quality of the food, and service so fast that I'm not kidding when I tell you that it took about three minutes to get a hot pizza, Cesar Salad, and soup. Pizza, the Margherita Pizza was the best I've ever had. Soup, the vegetarian Lentil was unique, I've never had anything like it. Cesar Salad, as good as I've ever had and the best in Downtown.

I should mention that BOTTEGA LOUIE IS NOT EXPENSIVE! From the praise that I'm heaping on you might think so, but Bottega Louie is a recession buster. That being said you should dress up to dine at this restaurant...Only because it's good for the vibe. When I say "not expensive" I mean that a pizza and coffee for two is going to cost you a twenty...That's ten dollars a person to sit and eat in a masterpiece of a restaurant.

On the subject of vibe: great space, well-dressed good-looking staff, world-class food, GOOD MUSIC, and a bartender with the title mixologist. There is no mood or occasion that Bottega Louie does not fit and add to substantially.

Okay time for some Stan philosophy here: our country has been on the wrong track for a long time now. I blame this on the culture of mediocrity that is particularly pervasive in Big Corporate America and Government. Inferior people working their way up the ladder and hiring people below them who are even worse. Note: inferior people make their way up the ladder by not getting fired. They hire people less competent than themselves so as to not be made to look bad. If you're one of these people and you're reading my blog, do me a favor, don't. What does this have to do with Bottega Louie? The moment I walked into the space and met the people involved I knew that someone with a great vision had been backed by someone who gets what this country is supposed to be about and then the vision and the money were surrounded by people with passion who made it happen the way it should happen. This formula is what once made this country great. And it's with real passion of my own that I tell you that it's still possible—come see it for yourself.

Bottega Loui is located at 700 South Grand Avenue.

POST 55

Super Suede Bar & Lounge

Super Suede, the term, carries many connotations. Something that's Super! Maybe something that's phony. In the case of Suede Bar & Lounge I meant—neither. I just like the fact that it rhymes so I used it as a title. Suede Bar & Lounge located at 404 S. Figueroa St. is really on Flower but because it is located in the Bonaventure Hotel the address is confusing, especially since on the Saturday night I cruised in I had been sampling Champagne at Ralphs—four glasses.

Where was my hot young girlfriend on a Saturday night you might be asking yourself? Spring Break, I've mentioned she's on the young side, but before there were cougars there were...Anyway, I digress, sorry. So I stood in front of the Skyline contemplating the rest of the evening, pent up energy a-plenty. I lighted the good cigar in my hand and embarked on an evening walk. A lucky young couple that strolled along side me benefited from my genial, tipsy, disposition as I imbued my extensive knowledge of the neighborhood upon them. At Wockano I bid them adieu.

The sign for Remedy caught my eye... "A new place to drink I thought to myself." The idea of a new place to drink caught fire in my mind. I made a mental note on Remedy and proceeded to Suede. I'd heard about it for months and had been meaning to check it out but it just hadn't happened. Downtown = so many good places to drink and so little time. And a few minutes later I was standing on the patio outside of Suede smoking my stogie and conversing with Esteban who besides being one of the doormen at Suede happens to also be a tax auditor. Hey, there's a recession on.

Then came the disappointment of the night...My cigar was done and I had forgotten to bring an extra along. But making the best of the situation I cruised with Oscar inside to the bar. Oscar Macias is the GM and all around cool club guy. No Hollywood attitude at Suede...starting at the top. I ordered a Jack and Diet or two while Oscar filled me in on Suede...Funny enough the owner, Richard, went to Garfield High, a couple of miles away from my own alma mater Montebello High; more on that later because at this point of our blog I hadn't met Richard yet.

Suede Bar & Lounge is not large. I'd say 150 people is close to swinging from the rafters time. It has a lot of table seating, club style, and on this particular night the tables were pretty much taken up by a couple of birthday parties. The music early on was ambient but as the night progressed made it's way to a reasonable dance mix. Way back when, I owned the number two-rated club in the world (second only to Ministry of Sound) so I'm hard to please when it comes to sound and DJ's. The sound at Suede could be a lot better but, again, I'm a snob.

The crowd by 11:00 or so had filled the place. I don't know if it's PC to say this, but it was a predominantly well-dressed Latin crowd. I'm sure depending on what's going on at the hotel there can be an influx of all kinds of people but I'm guessing that the busy nights skew Latin. Standing in the middle of things, as I like to do, I found my body swaying a bit to this song and that. I eyed a few of the cute girls around me and there were a few. This was not a babe fest, yet I was finding the selection adequate...Probably not PC to say either.

Anyway, the promise I made to be faithful to my girlfriend while she was away floated around my head and made me feel guilty for some of the thoughts Jack Daniels and myself were beginning to entertain. I made a mental note to call Oscar and reserve a table one of these nights, girlfriend in tow—there's some fun to be had at Suede. I chatted with Oscar and Richard, who had arrived by this time, for a few minutes before leaving. "Hey you're not leaving," said the very attractive girl leaning over the rail that separates the patio from the street.

"Yeah, I have some writing to do tomorrow." Translation: My girlfriend is coming home tomorrow and I've managed to make it a whole week without doing anything that I'll be feeling guilty about.

"You should stay and buy me a drink." Her hand came to rest on my arm as she said this.

Let me add here that she was probably Colombian, around 25-years-old, long dark hair, and legs / butt extraordinaire.

"If we have drinks here are we going to wind up back at my place doing shots?" I asked.

She smiled. "Direct, I like that...Where do you live?"

"9th and Flower—four blocks down." I pointed south.

"It's a definite possibility..."

"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of," I sighed more than annunciated.

"You don't strike me as the afraid type." Her hand slid down to mine.

"I have a girlfriend."

"And she's letting a guy like you run around on a Saturday night? Maybe it's time for a new girlfriend?"

"Are you volunteering?" I questioned—suggestively.

"Would you buy a car before the test drive?" she retorted in kind.

We both laughed. I pulled my arm from her grasp.

"I've got to go," I said, still smiling as I walked off.

I don't know whether I was more pleased with Suede or myself at this point. It's a tough city to do business in and an even tougher city to have a relationship...And she wasn't completely wrong...Why was I wandering around on a Saturday night by myself? It was an interesting thought. But not a happy thought so I put it out of my mind and just enjoyed the walk home.

POST 56

Bottega Louie Grand Opening

"Hey, do you want to come with me to the Bottega Louie party tonight?"

"I'm down behind the OC curtain...Maybe."

"So, you're being noncommittal?" I said this with some boss like disgust—to make the point that not going with me was not an option.

"I'll go."

"Be at my place at four-thirty." I hung up on Shannon (downtownster senior writer). My girlfriend had a late class at school that she could not, not attend and the thought of walking around the Grand Opening soirée being thrown at Bottega Louie without a chaperone was a akin to teasing a tiger at the San Francisco Zoo. Meaning, that I was reasonably confident that there would be attractive members of the opposite sex at this bash and I have a particularly strong appetite for troublemakers who like to tease me.

At this juncture let me advise you to read my blog of last week simply titled Bottega Louie. I was effusive in my praise of this game changer of a restaurant. In short the trial I was blessed enough to attend could be summarized as such: the space is a masterpiece, the food is perfection, and the prices beyond reasonable. The party was really just a formality for me to attend—I knew what to expect.

I spent the day suited up for the occasion in my black suit and classic brown tie—I call this my Capote look. I know that I have absolutely zero resemblance to Truman Capote, but I'm referring to the era, which people still dressed with some class, in the classical sense. Bottega Louie makes all who enter want to look good. And isn't it time we all start to dress again? So with the trusty Shannon on my arm I checked in with the polite young man at the door and entered.

Most of the tables had been removed to make room for the standing room only crowd, which atypical of Los Angeles was there right on time. The retail market was taking orders and giving out complimentary food by the bag full. This generosity was taken from the Hearst Castle party guide. While the food flowed out from the retail counter, trays of delectable items such as lamb chops and goat cheese stuffed endive leaves passed by every thirty seconds or so. And keep in mind this deluge of food was just meant to warm the appetite of partygoers on their way back to the gourmet pizza oven where every type of pizza was being produced on the minute.

Drink—the drinking began upon stepping in the door. "Champagne?" the girl asked.

"Why yes, don't mind if I do." The first glass of Moet went down the hatch around 5:00 the subsequent fifteen or so went down over the next three hours of schmoozing and there was a plethora of schmoozing to do.

Shannon was practically knocked to the floor by the hug I received from Carmen Rodriguez, director of something at City National Bank. Carmen is one of the well- connected Downtown movers and shakers one would expect to be at a Grand Opening. I should probably allay the reader's fear for Shannon's wellbeing. Shannon won the Pan American Game's Gold Medal for mixed martial arts, so she's more than resilient enough to get through a Stan hug-fest.

"Stan, this is Cynthia...You two should talk!" said Carmen.

Cynthia Ruiz is the President of the Board of Public Works...I'm not too sure what this job entails, but much like Carmen she is a dynamic powerful woman and I was sure to mention my concern that AEG / LA Live is not fulfilling its' promise to do the right thing by the community. I did have a meeting with Michael Roth (Vice President of Communications), by the way, and he made some promises that I am waiting to see come to fruition. I was also sure to mention my desire for the Mayor to chat with downtownster on a weekly basis. And with respect to this, I really do mean it in the most positive way. I think downtownster provides the Mayor a new vehicle for communicating with the community.

Carol Schatz wandered into my schmooze zone. "Hi Carol, Stan Lerner..."

"I got your call, Stan. It's just really busy at the office right now, our big event is next week."

Carol is the President of the CCA, which basically represents business's interest to the City Council—she's been given too many honors to mention in this blog and although I don't recall the ranking, I know she's on the 100 Most Powerful People in Business list. Not as impressive as my onetime ranking on the FBI's most wanted list I know, but impressive non-the-less.

"Not a problem," I responded. "But after the big shindig I'd really like to get into the loop with the CCA. I think downtownster readers would appreciate hearing about what's going on."

"We'd love that...Hey, Hal Bastian's here, you need to start talking to Hal as well."

And just as I was having a laugh with Hal, who manages the Downtown Center Business Improvement District, David Kean (the realtor) walked in with Jan Perry...who refers to him as her friend without benefits. For those of you who don't live on this planet Jan is the Council Woman for the Ninth District. Everyone I know likes Jan...She has a sensibility about her reminiscent of a Jewish Mother—minus the nagging. I myself like Jan a great deal and was pleased that she both noticed and liked the classic Gucci shoes I was wearing. That's future mayor material in my book. Speaking of books—PLUG—I now have six books available as e-books on Amazon Kindle for your further reading pleasure and my financial benefit.

Then I was talking education with Pamela Huntoon, Education Deputy Ninth District. Pamela was part of the David and Jan contingent...Ricky Klein who designs all the venues for 213 ventures joined the group, as did Michael McCoy. Michael an architect with KTGY shuttled an endless number of people over to meet Jan...Why an architect from Santa Monica knows half of Downtown I can only speculate, but who cares, it made for some fun.

It was a swell bash. And I said so to Daniel Flores, the President of Bottega Louie, who seemed to be getting used to my excessive gregarity. And yes I know that there is no such word as gregarity, but there should be. After bidding Daniel and others adieu Shannon made sure I got home safely. I feel like making up a story about someone trying to mug us and Shannon, who is attractive, beating him to a pulp, however I feel my word count limit approaching.

THREE DAYS LATER – I've recovered from the Bottega Louie party, a hard night of drinking and dancing with the girlfriend at Bordello, and a spontaneous trip with the girlfriend to Santa Barbara. I know. I'm a great boyfriend as long as I'm kept on a leash the length of...say...a tennis bracelet. Anyway, it's Bottega Louie's first day open to the public and I am of course at a table drinking cappuccinos and greeting friends who have all been informed that I've moved from Starbucks to Bottega Louie. That's right. NO MORE STARBUCKS FOR ANY OF US! Even if you have to walk a couple of extra blocks – the coffee is better, less expensive for what you get, and the business is locally owned. I'm going to skip a major disclosure and save it for another blog, but let me just say here that I've been involved in an effort to get Starbucks to change their ways—no luck so far!

I predicted last week that Bottega Louie would be a big success, and as I switch to Mimosas, and watch the happy lunch crowd come through I'm patting myself on the back—I can still pick a winner. It's day one and there are already lots of happy customers. I'm now emboldened to make another prediction. I've heard the word icon or iconic tossed around a lot. Tim Leiweke used it ten times in one speech when referring to LA Live. But saying something is iconic doesn't make it so—just a word. Bottega Louie actually delivers, and it will be an LA Icon—you can hold me to this prediction. Note: I'm sitting here now watching it happen.

POST 57

Breakfast At Bottega Louie

Foreword by Stan Lerner: the following novella "Breakfast At Bottega Louie" is a work of fiction meant to give the blog reader a unique literary experience. I introduced the serialized semi fictional blog "Downtown Oliver Brown" for much the same reason, but Downtown Oliver Brown is satirical, so by definition the writing is what could be called, "literary light," and because it is a serial, much like a soap opera, it has no end. "Breakfast at Bottega Louie" is a love story that examines the intersection and repair of two broken lives. I am writing it daily and will post it as such—and I promise there will be an ending, although I have not yet punctuated it in my own mind.

BREAKFAST AT BOTTEGA LOUIE

I did not move to Downtown Los Angeles in order to seek adventure nor to help the less privileged, but rather as a small, insignificant dinghy adrift in the sea of life. It's true that like all writers, although I was a businessman all those years ago, I have had my moments of self-aggrandizement in which I have felt as if I had some special calling in life. I might have even caused a few dozen or so to share in this indulgent maybe even delusional belief. Yet, the reality is fairly simple: I came to live where I have now lived for the last fourteen years because it was inexpensive. Not that it looks inexpensive, rather the converse is in fact the case—I live in the lap of luxury. Indeed it was a once in a lifetime event that imbued such a fortunate circumstance on to me. A golden cage of my own in a thriving part of the city that has on some blocks even surpassed the quality of life that can be found on Ninth Street between Flower and Hope, for this is where I dwell.

One such block to rise in status midst our prosperous neighborhood would be 7th Street. It had some grand old days in the grand old days but had spent forty of the last forty years as a shadow of its former greatness. My own mother, may she rest in piece, reminisced about the trolley cars that had transported her and Aunt Louise to shopping excursions at the stores that once towered above the streets. The original Robinson's headquarters I'm sure was a favorite stop. And just across the street was Brooks Brothers where my dad had bought suits. I know this latter statement to be absolutely true as I wore a hand-me-down from this very store in my senior picture. I didn't mind at the time, but now wish I had been wearing a fine suit of my own on this occasion.

With this location, formerly Brooks Brothers, I am inimitably well versed. Because in the days that I sought to build a clothing empire of my own rooted in the value proposition and a familiar sounding name, I toured the premise with the serious intent of turning it into a larger and improved version of my store a block to the north. Why this did not transpire I can no longer recall, but this is easy to forgive as my empire building days left carnage on the streets that would have wowed the Cesar's—even Caligula, and after praying for much forgiveness some things a man should be allowed to forget.

For three years the site that was once almost part of my rein of business terror seemed to be under perpetual on and off construction. The floors above were with equal sluggishness being transformed into lofts—part of an adaptive reuse boom that was both revitalizing the city and adding substantially to my net worth, which ironically had been increasing daily for years as I benefited from no merit of my own other than the weakness to live the life of what I think of as the faux rich. Interesting, that a phantom economy turned my faux rich life into a life of semi substance. No doubt in the future I shall lay claim to visionary status when I inevitably decide that humility no longer suits me. Humility? Yes, in substance if not in form I am a humble man. Particular? Yes. But one can be humble and still have an appreciation for the finer things in life. In fact in Los Angeles you can have all of the fine things in life—as I exemplify with little money at all or a fair amount of money that you owe and mean to, but don't pay back.

I had been told of a gourmet market to open in this space where my father was once fitted for suits. Dave told me this and since he is gay and in real estate I assumed it to be completely accurate. Because, let's face it, who can not keep a secret more so than a gay man that tells everyone he is gay. Personally, if I were gay I would tell no one. I mean that would seem to be more fun—especially with respect to the opposite sex. Imagine a black hole of neediness that one could not be sucked into simply by the fact that you appeared to be, but were not part of the same universe. I think that this is the great secret of heterosexual males—all wish to be gay. Not because they are attracted to men, personally I would rather be mauled by a Grizzly Bear, but because like the truth it would set us free—I digress but not really.

The gourmet market, known as Bottega Louie, when the wrappers came off the windows was a market, a café reminiscent of an indoor piazza, and fine dining establishment with an open kitchen. The white marble that lay beneath my Gucci clad feet exuded the class of a substantive foundation necessary to all great social interactions. The often-played classical music synthesized with the morning light to give me life again as I sipped my cappuccino and because I am a greedy man I had been indulging myself at Bottega, the little store in Italliano, for eight consecutive mornings.

"Oh grand," I thought to myself as I read the LA Times front-page story. Funny how members of the establishment react when you say LA Times. A giggle and role of the eyes that have come to symbolize a death watch of sorts. Yes, the once proud paper of the Chandler Era of Los Angeles is now owned by an overleveraged trailer park billionaire. "Is it safe?" asked Zell. "Is what safe?" "I simply want to know if its safe?" asked Zell coming closer. "Yes, its safe." Let me interrupt one of the greatest scenes in motion picture history and say...ITS NOT SAFE! Men who have adorned themselves with wealth renting out space in trailer park establishments should not purchase newspapers! And they should not be funded by unfunded pension funds silly boys of Wall Street. Although if I could write a risk management algorithm I'd probably move back East and short the market—more unoriginal than you might think. But that would be another story of a Chinese terrorist plot that destroyed the economy of our country. Ugh!

So the front page made it clear that my disdain for killing unborn babies, my belief that government need not more tax money to waste, and the fact that I served our country with distinction now classified me as a potential right-wing threat. I thought about this for a moment—"true," I concluded. And contemplated throwing a tea party of my own. "No taxation without representation!" meaning: that elected officials should listen and act with respect for the will of the people—not just be elected and do as they please, please.

"Excuse me handsome, do you mind if I join you," said the voice, light and polite with an accent from several nice little towns, but not enough time in any to be weighed down with the reality of their circumstance.

I lowered my paper, my LA Times, perhaps soon to be as relevant as the tenants of the La Brea Tar Pits. Twenty was all she could have been. So pretty, so small, and a polka dot sundress—in April. Her short brown hair was as playful as her smile. Brown well shaped thighs at eye level gave her otherwise breath of dial soap scented fresh-air a sense of sexuality. This girl was a drink to be had...But I had given up drinking in the morning when the last of the old men from Europe I had grown up with had expired. I looked past her at all of the empty tables. Bottega is busy for lunch and dinner, but not breakfast—because it is what they do best. And isn't it true brothers and sisters that it is the nature of man to want to believe a lie more than the truth. The best should always go unrewarded in this day, which makes it the imperative for contrarians such as myself to indulge in a breakfast at Bottega Louie.

"Of course you can join me, but there are plenty of other tables."

She sat letting out a sigh of relief. "I didn't come all the way from Windfield Kansas via Lakeside Montana to the City of Angels to eat by myself." She poked me in the chest with what I considered to be a very well formed little finger. "You look interesting."

"I can just give you money to buy something to eat. You don't have to sit with me," I suggested rudely.

"Oh," her eyes teared up. "You think I'm that kind of girl. It's true I probably can't afford to eat in a fancy place like this, but I think you need me more than I need you..."

I smiled. "Well, now that we've cleared that up—please stay."

POST 58

BREAKFAST AT BOTTEGA LOUIE PART TWO

"My name is Breeze Goodwilling! But my friends call me Breezey and not because it rhymes with easy....You are?" Her hand jutted out toward me.

"I'm..."

"No, don't tell me. I'm just going to call you Man...Like in that book "Anthem"."

Forgetting to let go of her hand I asked the obvious, "You've read the least known work of Ayn Rand?"

"And "The Fountain Head". And "Atlas Shrugged"." She snapped the fingers of her left hand, which remained free from my grasp. "I'm not going to call you Man, too seventies street, I'm going to call you Roark, like Howard Roark. But you kind of remind me of Hank Rearden also." She shrugged and clasped her now free hands in her lap in front of her. Then her face lighted up with a thought. "Because you're an original thinker like Howard Roark in "The Fountain Head" and you look pretty established like "Hank Rearden" in Atlas Shrugged—I'm going to call you Hank Roark. Do you love it, Roarky?"

"Yes I do. I've always wanted to be an objectivist super hero. But seriously my name is Howard—so let's stick with that, Breezey."

Leaning forward she kissed me on the cheek. "I knew you were a Howard." She leaned back and crossed her arms across her firm, high with youth chest. "Where are you from Howard? It seems like you've traveled the world. You're so worldly postured. And posture never lies."

"I was born in East LA. Went to UCLA. Moved to Downtown LA. And once saw a cock fight and bull fight in the same day—in Tijuana, T.J."

She leaned forward. "I knew there was something worldly about you. I've always wanted to go to a bull fight...But even though I'm open minded I've never watched pornography so I doubt a cock fight would interest me much."

"Not that kind of cock fight," I quipped. "Roosters, they tie razor blades to their little rooster feet and they slash each other to death—then they give them to poor people to eat."

"That sounds so brutal, but I'm glad they give them to the poor people. I wish the world wasn't such a brutal place. Don't you?"

I thought of all the men I had shot in Lebanon and other countries to protect the American way of life. Sometimes when not able to shoot them I cut their throats or strangled the life out of them. On one occasion I called in a bombing that destroyed, not only a pesky terrorist type, but an entire apartment building filled with families. Just for the record I allow myself to have no regrets about any of this. I am a third generation American and even though industry may be on the decline I feel a sense of pride in that as a people we can still obliterate all other countries and or their people any old time we want to.

I nodded. "It would be better if the world wasn't such a brutal place."

Breezey looked me eye to eye. "My Grandfather fought in World War II, so I know the posture of your kind. War is different. Grandpa was the nicest man ever; he used to make me pancakes on Sunday mornings. Did someone make you pancakes on Sunday mornings, Howy?"

The smell of Sunday morning breakfast wafted through the air giving my early morning chores a sense of urgency to be concluded. "A lifetime ago," I thought.

"My mom used to."

"She doesn't anymore?" Breeze asked, with the shock exclusive to those who still suffer from youth.

"Both my parents are dead," I said flatly. So cold has my life become that not even the memories of the womb that conceived me nor the hands that built the shelter that allowed my being to flourish into the nothingness of today can warm my shell much.

"You're an orphan. You poor thing. Lucky I came along."

"What would you like to eat?" I asked, repulsed with myself for not wanting her to leave.

She looked at me with an incredulous smile, so amused was Breeze. "You decide. You're the man."

The waiter at Bottega Louie that tends to my usually fairly simple needs has an uncanny six-sense for my digestive desires. "Would you like to order Mr. Roark?" asked this server of professional distinction.

"Could you bring the young lady some coffee, juice, Steel Cut Irish Oatmeal, Smoked Salmon Benedict, and a Belgian Waffle, please."

"Yes, sir."

"That's more than I eat in a week."

"But easier than trying to decide what you might like...Other than pancakes, which undoubtedly would not be the equal to the ones Grandpa used to make," I said, explaining my thought process thoroughly.

She smiled. "I think I might, kind of, love you—"

"Yeah, I kind of love you too." I said this gruffly in an attempt to hide the truth that underlay my words.

As Breeze took her last bite of waffle, having finished off everything else in its absolute entirety, she asked the inevitable, but first let me add that there was much conversation during her culinary expedition that I will recount when she is not present in the present tense of our story. "Is there a place that you would recommend that I stay? Something safe and affordable and that wouldn't mind me paying once I get a job and my first paycheck, which shouldn't be too much trouble because I'm a hard worker. And I'm honest."

I wrote down an address with my Mont Blanc on a napkin that lay akimbo beneath my cup and saucer. And handed it to her.

"Is it nice? I mean I'm not fancy or anything, but I haven't had a nice place to call home in a long time."

"You'll like it." I reached into my pocket and handed her the key to my home—I've never done anything like this in my life in case the question weighs on anyone's mind. "One block over and two blocks down. Do you have any, things?"

She shook her head. "I did, but everyday I ridded myself of something until this morning when I had absolutely nothing...That's what did it you know. If I had anything we wouldn't have met, I'm sure of it."

I pulled out my wallet and handed her a hundred dollar bill. "There's a Ralphs Market across from where I...I mean we live. If you need more..."

"No this will be more than enough. Do you want me to make lunch? Of course you do." She waved her hand around. "You can't eat here three meals a day. I make a great peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Do they have Wonder Bread at markets in Los Angeles? That's the key ingredient."

I nodded. I wanted to tell her not to break anything or steal anything or jump off my balcony. But I held my tongue. I really didn't care about anything anymore, so if some girl I had known for an hour was to ruin such a disappointing existence, so be it, the thought kind of thrilled me. "Better to die an old lion," the voice from so many centuries ago whispered in my ear. This wisdom from Solomon had preserved me many times in the days of my youth. "But I am an old lion now," I whispered back in the shadows of my mind.

Breeze kissed me on the cheek—again. However, this time she lingered for a moment and the scent of her hair intoxicated me like no amount of libation ever had. "Get some work done and come home—I miss you already."

I watched her walk out of Bottega Louie. Then looked down at my computer still in its Gucci carrying case. While she ate I had mentioned that I was a writer—and now she wanted me to work. "I think I will," I almost said out loud. And then the unthinkable thought almost made me laugh hysterically—I did of course control myself. I was looking forward to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!

POST 59

BREKFAST AT BOTTEGA LOUIE PART THREE

Post Breeze's departure I sat at Bottega Louie and resumed work on a script long overdue to be finished. Hollywood is a funny little place filled with men and women that split at the seams with self-importance all according to a formula that calls for the less the talent variable to be supplanted by the arrogance constant in every possible calculation. It's enough to make anyone with even the slightest skill wish that they didn't have it—so they could then join the ranks of the Hollywood Happy. Me, I do it (write) because I can no longer bring myself to masturbate five or six times a day. Rather, I put my words on paper, usually a hundred pages or so, and let the creative executives do so in the round.

Currently I am writing the screen adaptation of my novella horror classic titled "Blast". "Blast", only available as an ebook for Amazon Kindle, is a gory affair. Kids throwing a rave in a defense plant left vacant and full of death implements of every possible kind. There is teenage rape, cop killing, drug abuse, best friend infidelity...Excuse me I have to yawn...Oh, and the always classic biting off of the bad guy's penis while being forced to commit oral copulation—always a crowd pleaser that one is. No doubt the MPAA will think this masterpiece deserving of an R rating, anything less would ring disappointing to me. No. I'm not a sellout. I feed these sows this ever increasingly bad slop hoping that they will one day bankrupt themselves, financially speaking since there is no moral account for me to raid amongst this band, and cause their likes to leave the town allowing the type that don't use the word commercial in every other sentence to once again make motion pictures.

Later that day—lunchtime, I stood in my high-rise two-bedroom two-bath condominium trying to digest not a peanut butter sandwich I had not eaten yet due to Breeze's excitement at the improvement she had made to my office, which she insisted I see at once.

"Do you like it?" she asked, so brimming with glee that I became lost in thought trying to ascertain the last time I had been so enthusiastic about anything as she was.

"Yes I do. Where did you find pink paint and the time to paint my office, while I was working on my latest masterpiece "Blast"?" I inquired pretty sure I had never stood in an entirely pink room before.

"Well your neighbors down the hall are having a baby soon, a girl, and they were painting her room pink." She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me for real. "I'm sorry I just had to do that. You have the cutest expression on your face right now." I call this my rigor mortis look. Years in Hollywood have given me the uncanny ability to freeze a grin on my face no matter what thoughts might be coursing through my cortex. So unique is my ability, several presidential candidates have sought out and paid for me to train them in the art over the years. Here's a hint as to how to achieve this incredible state of emotional paralysis. Before every pitch meeting, social event, and premiere have a friend that you trust water board you, all the while trying to keep a smile on your face. And because the CIA no longer water-boards, RIGHT, you can get the entire apparatus necessary for such training at a very reasonable price—these days.

"Hey, this is a pretty good peanut butter sandwich," I said sitting in the dining room wondering what color it might be in the future.

"I took the crust off for you." She took a bite of her own crustless Wonder Bread wonder sandwich. "They're not that hard to make, I can show you. See most people don't understand that a sandwich isn't just a clump of something between two pieces of bread. A sandwich is about balance. Too much peanut butter and not enough jelly and you have a mouth full of yuck. And you can't even taste the bread." And then Breeze proceeded to go through every possible incarnation of what could go wrong with a peanut butter sandwich. When she finished with peanut butter her explanation moved on to tuna fish and six different types of lunchmeat.

Because we hadn't yet known one another in the carnal way her dissertation was nothing less than delightful to listen to.

"Can we go to the Opera later? I've always wanted to go to the Opera."

I was still pondering the mustard to pastrami ratio of her previous train of thought. "Good," I thought, "she'll keep me quick on my feet and I, I mean we, only live a few blocks from the music center so the opera is much easier to get to—than say, the Grand Prix."

"Sure, I'll procure some tickets at the conclusion of lunch."

"Now," she whispered with a sense of intensity.

"Here?" I asked, but knew the answer.

"Yes."

With one sweeping motion of my arm I cleared the Wedgwood and Baccarat to the hardwood floor. She lay beneath me on the tabletop before the last sound of crashing china and crystal had finished tickling the hairs of my cochlea. No details need be explained. Breeze was like no other woman, is all I will allow myself to say. And much like when she left me sitting at Bottega Louie craving a sandwich made by her own hand for lunch, I was already looking forward to what evening time might bring; because Breeze Goodwilling was indeed a mystery that I was hoping could never be solved.

POST 60

BREAKFAST AT BOTTEGA LOUIE PART FOUR

A week had gone by since Breeze first appeared at my table that morning at Bottaga Louie—much had transpired. Every morning started with breakfast at Bottega Louie, I continued to order the Breezster everything on the menu. However the once quiet morning hour was quickly becoming a thing of the past, the blame for which lay squarely on the perfectly formed shoulders of my lover and soul mate Breeze Goodwilling. For during the hours after breakfast when I would write and she would seek out gainful unemployment she would tell everyone that she met about our delectable breakfast tradition. And then they would come—as much to see her as to eat, but the effect was the same, intentions aside.

Honestly, I have some doubt that Breeze was making such a vigilant effort to join the workforce and I don't blame her. Perhaps there is nothing better than to be a beautiful woman. Surely there is nothing worse than to be a homely one—although even the ugliest of the female gender can find a man to satisfy them on any given night at any establishment that serves beverages of the fermented nature—there is always a willing taker of their goods. Conversely the most handsome and wealthy man among us can frequent a dozen watering holes and still have a night in which he goes home thirsty for feminine attention. But a beautiful woman is truly blessed, as more riches than can be found in Fort Knox lie just below her beltline. Perhaps Breeze hadn't been conned out of her ultimate worth. I for one was willing to provide an unlimited line of credit against the bullion that was in essence a crotch. And from the ever growing number of those hovering around our table during breakfast at Bottega Louie so were untold others.

"Sweetheart, when you're done writing today can we take a drive somewhere beautiful?" she inquired.

"Of course, what are you in the mood for?" I asked this because The Golden State has beautiful deserts, mountains, and beaches to see all within an hour or so of each other.

"Well Bobby, that's the boy I told you that works at the law firm, said if I was his girl he'd take me to somewhere called Santa Barbara." Breeze reached over and put her hand on my arm. "Not that I would ever be his girl. I mean he's really good-looking, but too young. And don't you worry I've told him so."

I put my cappuccino down. "Well if the good-looking young Bobby would take his girl to Santa Barbara then the old handsome Howard will certainly do the same. In fact I think we'll spend the night at the Biltmore and then go over the hill to Los Olivos and do some wine tasting. Bet Bobby didn't mention that part to you?"

Breeze leaned over and kissed me on the lips, for all the other vultures to see. "I love you. A girl just needs to play these games sometimes. It makes us feel good about ourselves."

"I know," I said standing. "C'mon, I'm not going to write today. Let's get this show on the road." My gaze oscillated around the cafe at the jealous ones. "That's right boys, talk is cheap the Biltmore isn't," I thought to myself.

POST 61

BOTTEGA LOUIE PART FIVE

I held Breeze's hand as we traversed the last of the rocks. I, steady as the surefooted Appaloosas I had ridden in some of the least desirable places in the world—doing some of the least desirable activities for monetary gain. All a very stark contrast to the beach of Santa Barbara the sand of which was soon cool to the touch of our feet. The sun warmed my skin, busy injecting its outer dermis with melanin, while the concerto of wind and sea soothed my ears. At some point after a substantial stroll we sat, Breeze between my legs, her back against my own chest and abdomen, and perhaps even more so than when engaged in intercourse our bodies melded together. The three following days were a continuum of the bliss described herein, but alas it was incumbent on us to return to the city—although for the life of me I cannot recount why it was so. This is a truth that I urge all to ignore, if you find bliss, do not depart.

"I really do love you," said Breeze pulling my smoking pipe from my mouth and taking a puff as she had observed me to do every night prior to dinner—yes prior.

"Hold it in your mouth for a few seconds and enjoy the body," I suggested.

She exhaled slowly. "It tastes fruity."

I nodded. "My favorite tobacco."

"How come you never ask me questions about my past?"

I shrugged. "I don't care for lies. And no woman can tell the truth about her past and speak the whole truth."

"I would tell you everything," she offered.

"I'm sure I'd love you less for it."

She slapped at my chest playfully. "I hate you. I hate you." I pulled up her loose t-shirt and kissed her stomach and then the soft flesh just below the pink of her nipple.

"I love you," she whispered into my ear as we tipped over horizontal on the couch—forgetting about dinner.

Three delightful mornings later I sat at Bottega Louie. I had decided to add some bread and butter to my breakfast of cappuccino. Breeze had been weary from our much-anticipated night at the opera—it did not disappoint. Pagliacci was high drama from the moment Placido Domingo had walked on to the stage. I had taken the liberty of ordering Breezey's breakfast in anticipation of her arrival.

"Do you mind if I join you," asked the nice looking young fellow, interrupting my repose and reflection.

"Do I know you?" I asked, though from his accent I could easily foretell the encounter to come.

"No, but you and me got a lot in common."

I gestured toward the chair. "I doubt that. But please join me anyway."

Sitting. "You're different than I imagined. When I heard Breeze was living with a writer I pictured a high falooting old guy."

I leaned forward and said very quietly. "Before I was this...I killed a hundred little fucks like you." I leaned back and smiled genially. "So mind your words carefully young friend." My blood ran cold and the desire to hurt terribly this beautiful young creature rushed into me like the consumption of old—a disease in my heart I thought to have long since been cured of. "And I particularly dislike things like extortion and theft of things that belong to me."

"Breeze and me are married. You're living with my wife...I don't want your money...I want Breeze."

"Fool," I thought to myself. "Did you forget the end to your own story? Like Ramses II charging ahead at Kadesh you have outrun your army—the army of yourself." I looked at the husband. "Why should I believe you? Maybe you're just ..."

"A stalker," he said finishing my thought. "I'm not. We got married a year ago, on her sixteenth birthday. Probably told you she was older. Probably didn't tell you we have a baby—that's not why we got married though. We loved each other. And then she started reading all the time. First it was just a bunch of stuff on the computer at the library. Then books."

"My books?" I asked.

He nodded. "It took a while for me to figure out. I mean I was in some kind of shock for a while, waking up and her not being there and all—the baby cries all the time."

I rubbed my forehead. Adultery, statutory rape, child abandonment, now I could rest in peace knowing that I had achieved perfection in my imperfection, of course I could lie to myself and say I did not know.

"In Texas it's legal for us to live as husband and wife...I'm sure you know that in California..."

I waved off his words. "I didn't ask, because I didn't care. I suppose I wanted this."

Breeze walked in and joined our table as if nothing was wrong. "Hi Randy, fancy meeting you here."

"You look good Breeze."

"California suits me."

"I'm here to bring you home."

"This is my home."

"No, your home is with your husband and your son back in Texas," said the husband.

A tear ran down Breeze's cheek.

"Tell the writer that you have a little house, but it's nice. Tell him that your husband works hard. Tell him that I've never laid a hand on you. Tell him that I had plans and you talked me into settling down because you had to get out of your parent's house. Tell him that I didn't deserve this, Breeze."

"I'm a terrible person." She looked at the husband tears streaming down both cheeks. "Why would you want me back?"

"You're no different than anyone else Breeze." Nodding at me. "Neither is he...And I don't hate you Mr. I have a right to, but I don't." Looking back at Breeze. "Everybody wants a better life. But you have a life and you can't just leave it—you have to live the life you already got."

Breeze turned and looked me eye to eye; the loneliness of my true life was once again my companion. "Do you want me to go?"

I nodded. "You should go."

The husband raised himself from his chair and extended his hand. Breeze Goodwilling took it and stood, a smile coming to her face as she quickly regained her lost dignity. And without another word they left.

As I watched the good-looking young couple depart Breeze's breakfast arrived at the table.

"Are your guests coming back Mr. Roark?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Will you still be needing all this food?"

I smiled, picturing that first breakfast at Bottega Louie that I had bought for the beautiful young girl. "No. Put it on my bill, but take it away." And he did.

THE END

POST 62

Brittney Spears And Me?

It was 2003 and I was strolling down Sunset Plaza to the famous Coffee Bean on Sunset—everyone frequented this particular Coffee Bean. Do not go looking for this establishment; like much of Hollywood's luster—it is gone. So centered was my life around this place and the people that relaxed, schmoozed, and created there I had moved my office down the street. On this particular day it had been yet another argument with Steve over our upcoming DVD release of "Mike Fenton's Actors Workshop", a pretty damn good how to make it in Hollywood video.

Accompanied by my once good friend Daryl Mack I lamented my partnership with Steve up to the moment we walked into the Bean—to find it vacant.

"Where the hell is everyone?" I asked the girl behind the counter, then checked out the cute little blonde that had walked up at the same moment with the same bewildered look as I. She wore some tight little jeans and a matching jean cap pulled down almost to her eyes.

"There was a power outage, we just opened a minute ago—literally," said the girl behind the counter.

"So, how you doing?" asked the little blonde amused at how overtly I was checking out her posterior.

"Good," I answered, pulling back into a more upright position in order to make eye contact. "How you doing?"

She laughed.

"Sorry about that. I'm not usually so obvious. Nice though..."

"That's a beautiful suite," she said, letting me off the hook.

Concluding she was nice and cute and familiar for some reason we all proceeded to order.

"So what are you up to today?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"I have to go to the studio," she responded.

Normally, I would have inquired further. But I'm bad with faces so I had no idea that I was speaking with Brittney Spears. And I was so aggravated with Steve that I couldn't give what I wrongly assumed to be an aspiring actress the interest I normally would have.

"But I have some time to hang out and have coffee if you want to sit for a while?"

I smiled. "What a nice girl," I thought to myself, starting to wonder why Daryl hadn't ventured a single word since our having walked in. I had even ordered for him.

April 17th 2009

I walked with my girlfriend, who is about the same age as Brittney was back when this story began, to Staples Center—Brittney Spears the girl from the Coffee Bean on Sunset was about to perform something called Circus....

In case one is wondering, this adventure was not my idea. But I wish I could share with every reader the excitement of my very special companion. I also wish I could share with you the feeling of walking into an arena filled with twenty-five thousand young white girls, on average half your age. It's not the bliss you might imagine. Especially when you see a father or two dropping off daughters and friends only a year or two younger than your date. Ugh! Did I mention that I had been suffering from the flu all week? And something close to no sleep the night previous? Sick and haggard add a few years to an already self-conscious event such as this.

But to my pleasant surprise the surrounding youngsters seemed to care little about my date and myself. Rather, they focused on the spectacle taking place in the middle of the arena—a stage truly set up as if a circus was to take place. And yes a circus actually did. First let me say the Pussy Cat Dolls did a nice job of warming the crowd up.

"I love the way they dance," cooed my girl.

"It's stripper dancing, honey," I replied knowing that she'd only been to one strip club and was too embarrassed to watch the goings on. She told me this. I'm not the one who took her.

"Oh."

We left it at that.

Then came the Circus. Most of the performance was right out of Cirque du Soleil with a few tricks from my own Las Vegas Spectacle "Night Tribe". No. It doesn't bother me; imitation is a sincere form of flattery. I will admit that it is strange to watch a show that's your show, that's not your show. It kind of made me want to be back in the business, just to show the imitators how it's really done.

After some of the Circus fun concluded Brittney came out to thunderous screams, and I mean thunderous, to lead the merry bunch. I don't know how I remained conscious—suffering from brain fever at this point the noise made me see triple at times. And every time the Brittster pranced to our side of the stage this Volcanic like eruption was duplicated. I kept smiling being the sport that I am.

What did I think? It's a good show. And it's a big production—if not so original. It is also a sexual odyssey. The whole show is sex. I'll spare you the social commentary; I'm no virgin myself. But if I had daughters under 18-years-old I wouldn't let them go. Call me old school but kids today are just bombarded with too much too young. Oops I said no social commentary.

As for Brittney, she looked good. Her body was the tight little turn on it was back when I encountered her at the Coffee Bean, way back when. Her voice? I don't think she was singing. And I don't think anyone in the crowd cared. Brittney fans were there just to see her looking good and dancing around—which she did to the crowds delight. I will say this; she looked a bit over it all. She did all the moves, but she seemed to me, to be less than inspired. But hey, it's a lot of work to do a big show like Circus every night—and given some of the personal challenges she's had to face in the last few years nobody in their right mind could call Circus anything less than a big success.

Back to 2003

"I wish I could stay and hang out with you, but I'm having a big headache at the office." The look on the cute, little blonde's face made me hate myself for saying these words. "But I'm sure I'll see you around.

As I walked out the door with Daryl I shook my head. "I have to get away from Steve. That was a really nice girl and I just blew her off because I'm in such a bad mood."

"That was Brittney Spears," Daryl finally said, in a choked off voice.

I looked up the little alleyway next to Tracy Ross to see a very large black man opening the door of a very black Mercedes S500 for the cute little blonde.

The palm of my hand hit my forehead. "Damn, I thought she looked familiar. Why didn't you say something?"

"I'm star struck. I just froze. Sorry," he said with a shrug. "I'm sure you'll see her again."

And so I did...At the Circus! I wonder what would have happened if I had hung out and had coffee that day...Funny how life goes.

POST 63

Crown Café Best Panini In LA

"Stan you should try out Crown Café—and blog about it," said cute little Sarah a wine tasting buddy of mine at Ralphs.

"Really, I haven't heard of it."

"It just opened. Emma, my roommate is the supervisor—you'll like it."

"Well, what do they serve?" I asked, not always feeling up for restaurant reviews. I'm a foodie so while I enjoy restaurants, writing about them can turn a hobby into work and I'm sure you know what that can be like.

"Coffee, panini, and some deserts," answered Sarah.

"Okay, but you have to go with me for lunch."

A week or so later I was walking with Sarah over to Crown Café, 531 S. Los Angeles St., 90013, between 5th and 6th. And since I was expecting a hole in the wall with a couple of tables, I was more than pleasantly surprised to find Crown Café to be quite spacious—perhaps 2,000sq. feet or so. The décor is reminiscent of a Starbucks, but much nicer. And no automated espresso machines, they're grinding and pulling shots by hand the way it should be done.

The menu at Crown Cafe is limited, but frankly it doesn't matter. The cappuccino, made for me by Emma (who happens to be an award winning barista) blew everything else in Downtown away with the exception of Bottega Louie, which it certainly equaled. The Panini, I had the Caprese, which was made artfully with roasted red peppers and sun dried tomatoes was without a doubt the best Panini I've had in LA period. Sarah assured me that the Chicken Artichoke Panini she was eating was every bit the equal to mine. Let me say here that I live above Panini Café on 9th, and I've had several of their sandwiches—THEY'RE NOT EVEN IN THE SAME LEAGUE! Panini Café makes a good-looking sandwich, but it doesn't taste like much. CROWN CAFÉ on the other hand makes a sandwich that both looks and tastes great.

I should note a few details that caught my attention: Crown Café has free wireless and the artwork on the walls, which is for sell, is, in some cases very good. This makes sense given the building, which Crown Cafe is at the base of is an artist loft building and, as of late, a major hub for art walk activities. Also, Crown Café is making their drinks from a coffee bean roasted and distributed by Dellanos—this is a very good bean and rare in Downtown where most of the gourmet coffee beans are roasted by Lamill or Groundwork. Finally, while desert at Crown Café is standard fare the Pecan Bar is way above average and a must with an afternoon coffee drink.

Before I urge you to go visit this new gem of a Downtown spot, that extends the boundary of the neighborhoods revitalization, let me tell you the part of this story that will always make Crown Café special for me.

"Emma, I want to learn how to be a barista," I said to this attractive coffee veteran.

"You mean like you want to watch me make one?"

"No, I want to make my own cappuccino. You just need to tell me what to do."

And with an audience of two employees, Sarah, and a very cool customer in wait, Emma taught me the art of making a proper cappuccino. Okay, so I burned my hand a little on the milk steamer, it was still worth it. At my stage of the game there's not too many first times for anything left—so this was a major thrill. The trick by the way is in the pour. Emma was careful to advise me to only make enough milk for one drink and to pour at just the right speed into the cup to leave the desired amount of foam on top. That big pitcher of milk at the big chain places that's constantly being added to and reheated, is a NO to good cappuccino making.

I left Crown Café amazed, as I always am about how life works out. I had expected nothing from this place and had the best Panini eating experience of my life—and a hell of a lot of fun playing barista. Go check this place out, you're going to like it!

POST 64

Downtown Oliver Brown More XS

Last week on Downtown Oliver Brown we ended with:

We followed Jared into XS the sixty-thousand-foot twelve-million-dollar-club. I no longer had ten million in gambling debts on my mind. My girlfriend was back in Los Angeles studying for midterms at USC or something...I felt that exited feeling that you can only feel in anticipation of a goodtime in Vegas. Steve Wynn was indeed a wise man. It was good that I quit while I was ahead. And then came the crushing of arms around my neck and breasts against my chest.

"Oliver," panted April The Stripper into my ear. Then her tongue was in my mouth, so I couldn't possibly tell her about my girlfriend Nichole. "You came back for me! Who told you I was going to be at XS tonight? Oh it doesn't matter just so that you're here and we're together."

This week:

Now as I described in previous blogs, nobody kisses like April. In fact nobody does anything like April and I've done everything. Anyway, the kiss was a mixture of pleasure and pain due to the right-hook the former First Lady, Barbara Bush, had delivered to my jaw at the poker table—sore looser that old dame. Then much to Whiskey Peet, Stan Peters, Dave The Jew, and Fat Andy's delight she delivered several more bone crushing hugs.

"I love this mare..." Whiskey Peet hoisted her off the ground and spun her around in a 360-degree circle. "It's about time you come back and saddle her up for another ride. Especially since she bought you that nice house to live in with her!"

Now as you may recall April bought the incredible house with the money she had won gambling at Whiskey Peet's private casino—mostly while Dave The Jew and I were driving around hallucinating from a strong dose of peyote (Lophophora williamsii). Then she caught me by surprise by taking me there and having sex with me on the floor—while the boys apparently, rather than excuse themselves, took iphone pics. This conceivably facilitated my breakup with Misha, but had faded from memory by the time I had met Nichole.

Nichole: "Hey I like the Annie Lennox look."

"I just finished five rounds of chemotherapy."

"Oh..."

This conversation took place over lunch, which ensued after my noticing an unusual saying printed on her t-shirt. She was beautiful like an angel.

So our group proceeded up the stairs to the landing that overlooked the truly spectacular club. There was something very 1980's about XS—in an updated way that dazzled my 1980's bone! The club, a circle with a dance floor that flowed out to a pool area used for topless bathing during the day, was pulsing with electronica and surprisingly well-dressed young ladies of every attractive shape and size. Of course April put them all to shame—still I could not help but to gaze and drool, a little.

Jared took us to the best booth; right on the dance floor, and April wasted no time in commencing with something similar to the lap dances that she'd given me the night that we met at Seamless.

"You want me to bring her over here," said April, nodding toward the girl she caught me glancing at. "It's okay as long as I'm involved."

"Sure." April walked off and the boys all looked over at me. I shrugged. "I have no idea what she's up to."

And then with April on one side and the blonde she introduced as Kristi on the other side we some how managed to engage in a three-way French kiss—this went on for several minutes until the moment Sandstorm started to play.

"I love this song!" shouted April, pulling me to my unsteady, drunk, coked out, blood boiling with lust, feet.

The great thing about dancing to a House classic like Sandstorm is that everyone can just kind of dance with everyone, so our whole group bounced around with one collective conscience. Halleluiah! By the time we settled back down to our booth the table was covered with bottles—my eyes focused on my little blue friend, Johnny Walker and the girls went right for the Cristal. By girls I mean April, Kristi and the ten others that had miraculously appeared with the bottles. Drinking, dancing, and more of the three-way French kiss kept the night humming along at a brisk pace. This may be churlish to say—the Go-Go dancers seemed under inspired in comparison to the girls at our table. I don't know why this bothers me. Perhaps because they're actually getting paid to do the exact same thing we were paying to do. Or in this case Steve Wynn was paying for us to do in order to keep us out of his very classy casino.

I don't remember leaving the club or at what point April had procured a suite at Encore—weird given we usually have sex back at Whiskey Peet's or our own house, but it was a beautiful room from what I could ascertain buried underneath two female bodies. It struck me as strange that two girls who did not know each other previously were able to trade off positions so seamlessly. But April had been the best dancer at Seamless, so it kind of makes sense.

I know. It seems strange to me as well that I could be in love with April, Kristi, and Nichole all at the same time. I think her name was Kristi. But as their bodies consumed my own I did still feel a profound love for Nichole. I decided as I bathed in that sweet mixture of body fluids, not my own at this point, that I would do the right thing when I returned to Los Angeles. I would live a double life. There was no other choice, I could not leave Nichole and since she would never go for a polygamist arrangement I would not be able to tell her about April and maybe Kristi.

Breakfast that afternoon was a frelich affair—I had to head back to LA.

"You are one dumb son-of-a-biiitch!" said Whiskey Peet. "Now you got yourself two little sex monkeys to play with and ur going back to the land of Fruity Pebbles! Shiiiit!" He turned to Stan Peters, Hollywood's scummiest and most powerful producer. "Stan, I know ur not some liberal fagooot, talk some sense into Broke Back Boy, here!"

"I need him to finish a script—"

That would be my script about an author that moves Downtown to escape the pretentious idiots in Hollywood.

"You self-centered kuter f*cker..."

"I've got fifty million riding on this," said Stan, immediately realizing that he had agreed to pay me based on a thirty million dollar budget. So according to the Writers Guild he now owed me another five hundred grand. "Shit!"

I shook my head. "And you wonder why I don't put my heart into your projects you cheating bastard."

"Don't be so sensitive, I cheat everybody," said Stan, in his heart believing that this made it all okay.

A few hours later we did not board Stan's G5 as planned. No. The whole bunch of us could not fit so we took Whiskey Peet's 747, which like his mansion is decorated with every kind of animal he's ever killed, back to LA. I would have been stressed over April and Kristi accompanying me back to the same city that Nichole resided in, but as it turned out Kristi had not yet joined the Mile High Club, so April insisted on the three of us...Well you know. And all was forgotten.

POST 65

President Obama Fails To Deliver

Several people over the last few weeks have asked me to deliver on the downtownster promise to not just write about the City State of Downtown Los Angeles—my world of preference. But to weigh in on larger matters from the downtownster, sophisticated, urban perspective. Downtownster has a political section without a single post; the words to come will rectify the vacuous plight of our political section and no doubt raise a few brows. And since the idea is to look at the larger world around our little island why bother with LA's own half a billion dollar budget shortfall—the President is abroad.

The President boarded Air Force One for London to attend the G-20 summit last week. The media celebrated as if the fact that President Obama is not President Bush was in itself the solution to all that troubles mankind. President Obama made it clear that his goal was to convince the other members of the G-20 to spend more on their own economies, in effect adopting the Obama Economic Doctrine of spending one's way out of financial crisis. Since this is my first blog on the subject or in the political category for that matter let me digress with the following:

I'm a Reagan Republican who has not in good conscience been able to vote in the last several elections. I did not vote for, or against, Barack Obama, but did and still do question the credentials that qualified him for the job of President of the United States. And yes, I'm aware that he was a community organizer for a few years and a politician for several thereafter. I believe that it is generally accepted that he had no significant achievements in either endeavor, other than being good at getting elected and certainly eloquent when reading a speech. And please let's be clear, he does not write his own speeches.

I will say this; I like President Obama, in that he seems like a nice guy who loves his family. And let me make this perfectly clear, I'm rooting for him to succeed. I disagree with him on how to handle almost every issue but I sincerely hope that he is right and I'm wrong—although I doubt this to be the case. The President is a product of an entitlement system and culture that I have always held in disdain. He, because of his unusual family background, was given help by the system—I was not. I grew up doing backbreaking labor after school to earn money and then fighting on the streets of East LA to keep it. The point being, I see things from a different perspective than President Obama because we come from different worlds and I acknowledge this.

The members of the G-20 are hard men that see the world the way I do. So, I was not surprised that they smiled at the President's attempts to present a humble America that just wants to be a country among countries. And then they smiled when he asked them to start spending money that they don't have on their own economies—and then they said, "NO!" but with a smile. And the media here in our country tried to make this sound okay, by focusing on the ipod the President gave to the Queen or the fact that the First Lady gave the Queen an inappropriate hug. What nobody seems to want to say is that these little embarrassments are nothing but indicative of the real embarrassment. The President failed completely to win over the G-20 to his way of thinking. Rightly or wrongly he failed and this should be a serious topic of conversation.

The G-20 fiasco was followed by a meeting of NATO that was so profoundly disturbing that it should make every American forget about "it's the economy stupid!" Literally, while President Obama was calling for nuclear disarmament North Korea was violating yet another UN resolution by firing a long-range missile over our ally Japan. It won't be long before North Korea will have a missile that will reach California. So to put it simply, North Korea already has nuclear weapons and soon will have the capability to deliver them on the Golden State. Or more probably will sell these weapons to terrorists who will do so. Remember how you felt when you heard about 911—it couldn't happen, but it did. That's how it's going to feel when a terrorist organization delivers a nuclear attack on our country—but a thousand times worse. We're going to wake up one morning, if we're not in the blast radius, and it will have happened. And much like just locking the cockpit doors the people we've charged with the safety of our country will be acknowledging that we should have eliminated the threat—

I've met some of the players on the world-stage; they're not the reasonable, compassionate, people that our President and we would like them to be. So what are we to learn from this dismal failure of a trip abroad? First, call it what it was—a failure. Learn from it. Being liked is great, but it's results that matter. If our country asks our European allies to send troops to Afghanistan and they say, "no" we should make it clear that our ongoing military support of Europe is the bargaining chip on the table. We maintain 50,000 troops in Germany alone. Maybe it's time that the Germans protect themselves against the Russians or the French against the Germans? How long would it take until they were all back at it? Isn't that why we're really there? It's time for Europe to pay up—

Iran is lying when they insist that their nuclear program is for peaceful purposes—this fact is known to every intelligence agency in the world. Negotiations and sanctions have done nothing to stop the Iranian efforts. President Obama's overtures to Iran have been absolutely rebuffed. Why? Because they do not care whether it's President Bush's threats or President Obama's smile and charm their goal is to achieve a nuclear weapon. The only way that this threat is going to be eliminated is through military action. If the President plans on honoring his campaign promise to not allow Iran to develop a nuclear weapon—he should stop the rhetoric and get down to the reality—there will be a war waged on Iran. Or there will be an Islamic fundamentalist country with a nuclear weapon. If America does not act the Israelis probably will and again it is hard to imagine that America will not have to be involved in such a conflict.

North Korea will continue to build its nuclear arsenal and missile delivery system. The only way to end the threat posed by North Korea is military action—a top North Korean General has said that there is no doubt in his mind that there will be a war with the United States. It is implausible to think that Japan, the world's second largest economy, is going to restrain itself much longer against the North Korean threat and much like the case with Israel the United States is going to have to act to not only eliminate the threat to our ally, but to our own country as well.

Am I war mongering? No. Like most Americans I'd like nothing more than peace with Iran and North Korea. Frankly, I find Kim Jong-il kind of whacky and fun—I'd like to have a drink with him if he wasn't building weapons that threaten my country's existence. And Ahmajinidad, even the Germans have reassured him there was a holocaust in which they killed six million Jews—and still I have a lot of respect for his religious convictions, that would be the ones that don't involve the killing of people like us. But the President's trip in juxtaposition to world events makes Neville Chamberlain seem shrewd.

American's like to enjoy good times together. Recently the times got a little too good and we all got a little soft—OVER! Politicians who think they need to baby us should be voted out of office in mass. Compulsory military service needs to be reinstituted (The Draft) and our country needs to do what it didn't do with the financial crisis or Ben Laden for that matter—ACT. Mr. President stop talking, shaking hands, smiling. Your only real job is to protect our Country, so tell Iran and North Korea to do as they've been told or destroy them. Now that's real CHANGE!

POST 66

Ralphs Responds

As a product of Gen X and the 1980's culture of "Greed is good," I never imagined myself in the role of community advocate, let alone community activist. But whether it be the outrage of LA Live's lack of community events in their not so public plaza or posting Vaughn Blake's blog about Ralphs' failing its customers—here I am.

Unlike LA Live, in which I met with Vice President of Communications Michael Roth and have yet to hear back regarding any of our off the record conversation, Ralphs responded—and in a big way. As you may recall, I added a foreword to Vaughn's post, so Ralphs knew exactly whom to call, and they did, to schedule a meeting with Store Manager Joe Martinez. Let me say here that I've found that while it doesn't make for as interesting a blog if you want to get things done with the guys in charge like Joe, you have to be willing to go off the record—

Joe took over as manager of Downtown Ralphs just four months ago and with this in consideration I was more than willing to hear him out. But after hearing his explanation as to what's been going on with the store as of late; I could only stand firm on the position taken in Vaughn's blog—Ralphs needed to start raising the bar back to where it once was positioned when the store first opened—starting with more cashiers and shorter lines. Also, a staff with a renewed sense of being part of a community, namely ours, that is happy to have a job and not just be looking to take home a paycheck.

To Joe Martinez's credit, pay attention to this Michael Roth / AEG LA Live, the staffing was changed in less than 24 HOURS. At least three cashiers were put on until 11:00 p.m. and two until closing and the u-scan open until midnight. I came to see with my own eyes the lines that had been extending down the aisles during the late night hours—GONE! THANK YOU JOE! And back are the smiling helpful faces...I doubt that this is a coincidence, amazing what a few words of encouragement from management can do. Again, because much of what was said was off the record I cannot tell you of other improvements in the pipeline, but suffice it to say that Joe Martinez and Ralphs are once again committed to making Downtown Ralphs not only the number one Ralphs in terms of sells, it currently ranks in the top five, but the number one Ralphs in terms of service.

Okay, here's a hint of things to come. You'll notice that the cheese department has been expanded, and to compliment the incomparable Mike Berger in the wine department and Mark in fish, there will be a cheese expert—doing samplings as well. Also, attention will be given to expanding the selection of Kosher foods to meet the needs of Downtown's growing Jewish community and a Ralphs sponsorship of the upcoming Downtown Relay for Life to benefit the American Cancer Society—GOOD FOR RALPHS!

A lesson to government and business can be learned from this short little blog. BLOGGERS ARE YOUR FRIENDS—as long as you're trying in good faith and to the best of your ability to do your jobs. Downtown Los Angeles is a strong, vibrant, and growing community with less and less tolerance for the fake it til you make it bunch of exploitation specialists that inevitably gravitate to the coattails of success. Notice: if you want a free ride go to Washington DC, they're handing them out by the trillions. Notice to AEG LA Live: the community's patience is running out. Do what Ralphs just did—THE RIGHT THING!

POST 67

Town Hall From Flanigan To Friedman

It's Friday and I showed just a bit late to Bottega Louie for breakfast, which in my case is a cappuccino. Why I let the annoying guys at the bar buy me drinks I do not know, but it did make them go from annoying to down right pleasant in a matter of minutes and yes this is all well before noon. And yes my beloved readers I am now writing with a considerable amount of alcohol pumping through the system...Last time this happened I set my sights on the disgraceful use of the public plaza at LA Live, but on this occasion I shall compare a Town Hall event Downtown to one on the Westside.

First let me say that Town Hall Los Angeles is a great organization that does a mind-bending number of events and they've been here doing what they do for 72 year or so. Currently lead by the engaging Jon Goodman PhD Town Hall should be considered more than just a place for free speech, but really a vehicle to all who live and work Downtown to become involved in what I will label for the purposes of this blog as a civic lifestyle component. Until attending the Town Hall roundtable with James Flannigan, Senior Economic Editor, The New York Times, I did not consider civic events a lifestyle possibility—consider myself corrected. This was simply one of the better events I've attended of any kind.

The story begins with Carmen Rodriguez, City National Bank / Downtown Mover and Shaker. Carmen, worried about my lack of civic involvement offered me two tickets to the James Flanigan event. Frankly, I said yes as a reflex knowing Carmen would never suggest anything bad. What I didn't do was connect the dots that this was the same James Flanigan that wrote for the once venerable LA Times for the majority of my years on Earth. My dad, may he rest in peace, loved reading Flanigan. And as I sat in the conference room with a view, being used for the roundtable, I could see why dear old Dad thought so highly of this evening's speaker.

The topic Mr. Flanigan was speaking on was the bright future of the Southern California Economy, also the subject of his recently released book "Smile Southern California". James Flanigan, fills a room with warmth and like most downtownsters he's engaging. Upon the conclusion of the lecture he took questions including several from me. I personally don't agree with some of Mr. Flanigan's conclusions, and in his eyes that twinkle quite brightly I could see the "Oh boy I've got a live one in the audience tonight." But a real man like James Flanigan doesn't run from the challenge of having someone ask tough questions he engages and discusses and the event is better for it. Flanigan is the real deal he can think on his feet—I love this guy. By the end of the night Jon actually threw us out as it was well past quitting time.

Let me apologize to Rob Friedman in advance. I don't vibe with the Westside or the Westside attitude, which by definition he exemplifies. I also think that anyone who takes the time to speak at a Town Hall event deserves a thank you from all of us—it's a great way to contribute to society, so for that Rob Friedman I applaud you. But as I pulled into the Luxe Hotel in Brentwood I couldn't help but feel that feeling given off by pretentious people who think that somehow in the Grand Scheme of Life they are more important or worse yet superior to others. Funny, because the owner of the hotel Efrem Harkham is an acquaintance of mine from way back—he's a nice guy, so no reflection on him, it's a culture that is much larger than a hotel owner, a hotel, or the CEO of Summit Entertainment.

As I stood in the patio area in front of the room where lunch was to be held, and no they don't feed press or validate parking, the breeze blew and colorful leaves dropped lightly—yes this was nice. Rob Friedman approached and with the powers that be at Town Hall I joined an intimate circle of conversation.

"Rob, this is Stan Lerner. He writes for downtownster."

He did not offer to shake hands. Welcome to Brentwood my friends.

"Actually we met when you were at Paramount. I think Bob Cort or Rowland Perkins introduced us."

Rob looked less than impressed. "Could have been either," he responded.

"Funny I remembered him as being a cool guy, " I thought to myself.

I'll spare you the next ten minutes of forced conversation. Oh this was good. "Do you have an Amazon Kindle?" I asked, trying to find anything to talk about.

"Yeah."

"Well do you like it?"

"It's okay."

"I just made six of my book titles available on Kindle. A lot of people have told me it's great." I cut myself short.

Rob looked at me with a look that said, "I don't care that you've written one book let alone six."

And then it struck me. In Downtown we want to engage. We want to know each other. And we want to help each other succeed. Generally in the world of Downtown there is some respect for a writer who has had more than two million people read his blogs, a script in the Museum of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science and of course those award winning books —not so when you head West. So there I stood until, thankfully, Rob had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom.

As everyone else ate lunch I worked on "Breakfast At Bottega Louie Part Three" but only until Rob Friedman graced the stage to give his speech. Ironically, the theme Rob was trying to impart was the breaking down of barriers, which he referred to several times as silos. I don't care for the word, but I'm not going to be surly because Rob was not impressed by my presence. He also threw around a number of statistics all available through the MPAA, yet interesting none-the-less. The tone? Frankly a downer. THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF FLANIGAN.

I was slightly amused that Rob credited the success of Summit Entertainment to the fact that the company had somehow been designed to have a different culture—no silos. When in fact the success of Summit Entertainment is like so many other companies, nothing too much more than good luck. Rob was fortunate to be taken under the wing of Sherry Lansing at Paramount. (Sherry was lucky way back when that she was a good looking secretary) Summit was funded with a billion dollars back in 2006 when the market was throwing around money. And then the topper, "Twilight", which is something akin to the after school specials I watched as a kid. But let's face it, the youngsters loved it and it made a lot of money. But to confuse this lightweight franchise with Star Wars or Raiders of the Los Ark? Bad idea.

After some sophomoric questions from the audience I got one more chance with Rob Friedman—at the door. By the way I had tried to speak with a few other Hollywood folk that were there—all were as impressed with me as Rob, including his publicist. Anyway, I asked Rob, "So what really excites you? What do you think about when you wake up or before you go to sleep?"

This last encounter seemed almost too much for him to bear. "My kids. I think about my kids. And I still like making movies. I go to the movies once a week."

Up at the valet there was no further conversation. I did notice that I drive a nicer car than all of the Hollywood Big Shots, including Rob Friedman, and unlike theirs it's not leased. And yeah this is a cheap shot—sorry. You know I don't go to the movies much anymore. Maybe I just know too much about how they're made for my own good.

POST 68

Perez Hilton Commits Gay Hate Crime

On Sunday night Miss California Carrie Prejean should have been crowned Miss USA, but lost because she answered the question posed to her by Perez Hilton, real name Mario Lavandeira, honestly—and to the majority of heterosexuals correctly. The question? Does she believe in gay marriage? Her answer: a polite no offence, but no.

With LA Live's plaza empty, President Obama's trip to Latin America, war with North Korea and Iran on my mind, not to mention a whole essay worth of economic discourse to write why would I write about a fat, no talent, gossip monger and his beef with a beauty queen? I caught Carrie Prejean being interviewed; she's beautiful, articulate, and very smart. When she was shown a video of this vial creature who would be nothing, but the nobody that he truly is if he used anything other than a knock off of someone else's name (Paris Hilton if you're completely clueless) ranting and raving and calling her a bitch; Carrie Prejean, simply mentioned that she was a Christian and that she loved and forgave the cretin.

Well, I'm not a good Christian as you might have gathered and I'm weary of this trend in our culture where the best of the best, the Carrie Prejeans of the world, are brought down by the dregs and misfits, the Mario Lavandeira's of the world. But let me go back a few years.

I was in the process of editing my novel "Stan Lerner's Criminal", I'll spare you the plug, and I would often meet my editor Lawrence at the Coffee Bean on Sunset and Fairfax. Those of you who are familiar with my writing might have understood me, to have in the past, been one of the regulars at the legendary Coffee Bean on Sunset Plaza—don't be confused, I was. But to meet with Lawrence I would trek down the street and subject myself to, what was, not as desirable a scene—no offence.

As we perused through the 800 pages of "Criminal" and the red ink of Lawrence's grievances I could not help but to notice his constant distraction. "Why do you keep looking over at that freak?" I asked. "This is why I prefer you come down to my Coffee Bean." I stared over at the potato sack with arms and legs that sat up against the back wall with some kind of queen fashion statement of a Hello Kitty hoody pulled over his head. "This is what's ruining our country. I mean, I know it's a free country but freedom without some sense of purpose or responsibility can actually be a terribly destructive force..."

"That's Perez Hilton," interrupted Lawrence. "You're right. He does totally creep me out."

"That's what?" I asked.

"Perez Hilton," answered Lawrence, not getting that I had never concerned myself with those who are known for being known—and that's it. "He has a blog." Lawrence directed my computer, which was also on the table to Mario's website.

"So, he's the queer version of Paris Hilton? Does he do a drag show or..." Lawrence turned my computer to face me and I stared at what might have been my first blog.

"He's a blogger. He writes Hollywood gossip."

I began to read some of the mindless drooling on the screen. Pure human flotsam all being generated from the gay degenerate sitting against the wall. I sighed as I looked at the pages of what would become an award-winning novel—four years of labor. "You know the sad part? The time people waste reading his nonsense is what's destroying the world of literature that you and I are trying to make a living in."

"And he makes money doing it," added Lawrence, as if the sight of Perez Mario Hilton Lavandeira was not already disturbing enough to one of the most disturbing writers of a generation.

My mind drifted to that scene in the great novel "American Psycho" where Patrick meets up with the Perez Hilton type character walking a white poodle."

And as the years have passed I have actually come to bear witness that this nothing but trash talking freak has been elevated by corporate Hollywood to the point where Donald Trump would allow him to be a judge at the Miss USA pageant. Now I know that The Donald is all about making a buck, but seriously Mr. Trump—have things really come this far since "The Art of The Deal". And girls, why would you participate in a pageant that has a judge who can't go by his own name?

So as I listened to Carrie Prejean speak to the situation with such class and I listened to the rants of Mario I concluded it's time that the silent majority get behind the Carrie Prejean's of the world. And yes Mario, we know how to blog too.

MAJORITY, STOP LETTING CORPORATE HOLLYWOOD RAM THIS SICKNESS INTO YOUR HOME AND YOUR MINDS.

Gay is a sexual preference. In Mario's case his preference is to have another man's penis inserted into his rectum. Or another man's semen spilling into his mouth. Sound graphic? That's what gay means. It's not about talking with a lisp or wearing funny little clothes. Or somehow being thought to have taste because having sex with another man somehow imbues one with anything more than sperm. I have a lot of gay friends. Almost none of them are screaming queens and even fewer believe that marriage should be between anything other than a man or a woman.

But even if they do, I don't take issue. What I take issue with, is when one group persecutes another group. And in this case straight, white, Carrie Prejean was persecuted for her beliefs, which most of us agree with. This is a disgrace to both gay and straight Americans—it is hate. And there is no better symbol of this disgrace that is being perpetrated on both the straight and gay public than Perez Mario Hilton Lavandeira. Don't read his blogs. Don't do business with advertisers that give him money. And don't watch or participate in any show that he is involved in—HE IS AN INTOLLRANT HATE MONGER. He just cost someone, one of our own, a well-deserved victory. Imagine a society that allows this to go on. Personally, I don't want to.

POST 69

One Million Now Dead Worldwide From Swine Flu

A tip from an old friend of mine at DHS interrupted my usual coffee routine at Bottega Louie. "The government is covering up the numbers, Stan." I can't say what else I was told as I don't want to compromise my source, but so credible is my source that I raced over to Vaughn Blake's and dragged him out of bed. I called Shannon on the way to Vaughn's. I told both of them the bad news and being downtownster' bloggers they agreed to go with me to Hidalgo Guadalupe the third largest city in Mexico to get to the bottom of this pandemic.

The trip there was somber. Unfortunately, it also took an extra day – we got caught in the middle of a shootout between the police and some drug dealers on the outskirts of Ensenada, fortunately both Shannon and Vaughn are good with guns and we were able to hold our own long enough to get out of there. My Suburban took at least a half dozen rounds, but was still drivable.

The Mexican military had all roads into the city blocked ten miles out. So, with really no other choice we buried and camouflaged the Suburban as best we could and humped it on foot. I had hoofed it through this area twenty-five years ago, it was no picnic then—at forty-four and out of shape it was pure hell. Well not exactly. Pure hell is what we found as we stood at the outskirts of the city. The citizens that were still alive were looting every building that was not occupied. Gangs of young men were raping young girls right out on the street corners. And the army was doing nothing but making sure no one could get in or out. THEY WERE LETTING MAYHEM REIGN! Vaughn wanted to intervene, but I refused to let him. "We're here to report, not get ourselves killed," I scorned.

I sent Shannon and Vaughn to the hospital to see what they could learn. I made my way to an old friend's villa. He happens to be a major narco trafficker, so nobody knows what's going on more than he. I explained upon my unexpected arrival that I was a blogger now and that I had been tipped off that all hell was breaking out all over the world and that our government was covering it up. Although, Vice President Biden at least had the decency to tell the world that he himself would not be in any public place especially an airplane. My old friend sat me down and explained that things were actually much worse than my friend at DHS had led me to believe.

"An Arab from Saudi Arabia came here and brought the disease with him—in a bottle," said my friend in a heavy Mexican accent.

"What?" I questioned in total shock.

"He was heading for your side of the border, but he stopped at one of our local whore houses. It was in his jacket on the floor and the whore stepped on it by accident. They were both dead in three days. Since then the people are dropping like flies on a hot August day."

Vaughn and Shannon confirmed that the first two deaths reported by the hospital were indeed the whore and the Arab. We all would have liked to have stayed and helped in whatever way we could, but word had gotten out that we were there and my friend the narco trafficker informed us that the national police had issued an order to apprehend us preferably dead. We had no choice, but to leave and tell the public what was really going on.

In San Diego I was able to meet up with another old friend of mine. He confirmed our worst fears. THE DEATH TOLL IN THE UNITED STATES ALONE WAS EXPECTED TO REACH THIRTY MILLION. WORLDWIDE THE CDC EXPECTED SIX HUNDRED MILLION DEAD!

I did question him as to whether Tamiflu would be able to save lives. He informed me of yet anther government cover-up. There isn't enough Tamiflu to save even ten percent of the population and most of what we do have on hand is past its expiration date so it is possibly even more deadly than the N1H1 virus. Basically what the public is not being told is that one in ten people in this country will be dead soon.

I asked how we might save ourselves. My friend one of the top men at the CDC said, "Everyone should stay indoors. And nobody should eat pig. And in most people significant consumption of alcohol kills the virus dead. Oh, and whatever you do avoid contact with Mexicans."

Back in LA, Vaughn, Shannon, and myself decided to have drinks—lots of drinks. We talked about the horrors we'd seen. And we talked about the media and government that keep talking about the swine flu as if what I've just written is true. Chris Mathews actually compared President Obama's handling of this PANDEMIC to President Bush's handling of Katrina. Joe Biden really has said don't fly. And Janet Napolitano Director of Homeland Security has said go ahead and fly, but keep your kids at home. Here's the truth, thirty-six thousand people die of the flu each year here in the U.S. To date, one person, a small child who had been flown in from Mexico has died of H1N1 in the U.S. But if the mainstream media wants to make a story out of this—take notes boys and girls, take notes. Because this blogger is tired of seeing everything done half-ass!

POST 70

Roy's – Starring Roy Yamaguchi As Himself

Over the past few years, since Roy's opened Downtown at 8th and Figueroa, I'd guess I've eaten there around two hundred times. The sheer size of this number could lead one to believe that Roy's is somehow commonplace—it's not. I love food, I could have eaten anywhere, Roy's is simply that good. And I should point out here that while Roy's is a chain each Roy's does offer dishes that are unique to each and every location—so consider this a story about Roy's Downtown and Roy's Downtown only.

The story of Roy's Downtown requires Roy's to be considered, like Staples Center and The Standard Hotel before it and Ralphs Market and Bottega Louie after it, to be a game changer. I came to the story early on. Literally, when the space was under construction and I ran into Leslie Kaden who was working out of a temporary construction office (Now a private dining room) in the back of the space. Leslie as I recall was in charge of something to do with wine and what not. Frankly, what I recall with greater clarity was how nice she was. And after running into her a few more times she invited me into the office of humble beginnings to meet the rest of the management team responsible for opening Roy's Downtown.

It's funny now to think back—how serious Matty was in those days. Matty, is the managing partner of Roy's Downtown. Sharply dressed with a ponytail and a history with Roy Yamaguchi, the founder of Roy's, that dates back almost twenty years, impressive under any circumstance, but particularly impressive given Matty looks all of thirty-years-old. I remember asking him something to the effect, "What, did you start working for Roy when you were ten or something?" He laughed and probably wondered why there was a writer hanging out in his construction office. I was writing a little 620 page novel titled "Stan Lerner's Criminal" back then.

Well, Roy's opened and became one of the most successful restaurants in our city and probably the country for that matter. My novel came out, earned rave reviews and won the Grand Prize at the Hollywood Book Festival. And Matty got used to me always being around—and eating most of the time. But more than this intersection of restaurant, restaurateur, and novelist is the sum. By sum I mean that Roy's, Matty, and your humble writer along with tens of thousands of others became part of a community, which blessedly is greater than the sum of its parts. So, with our story now firmly standing on a foundation of a vibrant and successful community the extraordinary can now take place.

I stopped in one afternoon a few weeks ago at the DCBID's Marketing Round Table Event—several restaurants were represented, I of course was there on behalf of downtownster. I should mention here that if you own or operate a business in Downtown and you're not involved with DCBID and going to its events you're absolutely missing out on opportunities to grow your business and meet some very good people. After the formal part of the Round Table I was chatting it up with a few of the cool people in attendance—including Aya from Roy's.

"I've been wanting to do a story on Roy's, I've just been waiting for something out of the ordinary to write about," I said.

"How about May Day? We're having a party and Roy himself is going to be there."

"I like the sound of that."

"And there'll be hula girls dancing—"

"Put me down for two. I'll be there for sure."

Later, it struck me that Roy's was the only restaurant I knew of doing something for this pre-Christian Holiday. I know most people think of May Day as being a Celtic celebration of the weather turning nice. But the first May Day was actually celebrated in Rome. It celebrated the Goddess Flora the Goddess of flowers and to this day it is a tradition to give flowers on May Day. So with a bit of reflection and the help of a poet you can see how this caught on in Hawaii.

In Hawaii, May Day is also known as Lei) Day, and is normally set aside as a day to celebrate island culture in general and native Hawaiian culture in particular. While it was invented by a poet and a local newspaper columnist in the 1920s, it has since been adopted by state and local government as well as by the residents, and has taken on a sense of general spring celebration there. The first Lei Day was proposed in 1927 in Honolulu. Leonard "Red" and Ruth Hawk composed "May Day is Lei Day in Hawai'i," the traditional holiday song. Originally it was a contemporary fox trot, later rearranged as the Hawaiian hula song performed today.

So Matty found a nice table for my young lady friend and I. Being a guy's guy he was kind enough to seat me so I could easily see the band and hula girls without having to noticeably turn my head away from my dinner companion. The girlfriend went with the prefixed, which was a five-course meal each course prepared by either Roy himself or one of his executive chef's—including Gordon WK Hopkins, the original Hawaii Kai Chef Partner. A particular treat was that each course was paired with just the right wine, something Roy's only offers on May Day—I can't describe exactly why this added so much to dinner, but trust me, it did.

I opted for a different experience. Given that I have eaten at Roy's so often and have had a few years to decide on what my favorite dishes are, I made the decision to get the usual. But this time prepared by Roy Yamaguchi, Lorin Watada (Corporate Sushi Chef), Gordon Hopkins, David Abella (original Kahana, Maui Chef Partner), and Leslie Gorman (Desert Ridge Pastry Chef). Imagine the chance to taste some of your favorite dishes made exactly the way their creator intended them to be. Not that any well-trained chef, and all the chefs at Roy's are trained by Roy himself, can't offer a great translation, but it will always be a translation. This was a chance to taste pure perfection because as Roy told me in the course of a very nice little conversation, "the cooking comes from inside"—he gestured with his hand toward his heart.

The band, the hula dancers, the lei made of orchids Matty gave to my girlfriend, the wine pairing, meeting Roy, who at age fifty-three looks thirty, and frankly food that was already some of the best in the world prepared by the best of the best—well this was as good as dining gets. It is hard to resist the temptation to describe each dish and to want to do comparisons to other restaurants, I had planned to, but it just wouldn't be fair. Having Roy Yamaguchi come to Downtown Los Angles and make dinner is not really going to dinner—it is a life experience. Fortunately, I've probably had more of these experiences than I deserve, but I'll take it. And I urge all downtownsters to do the same. Los Angeles and Downtown in particular is filled with treasures ranging from art, to theatre, to music, to food, and so much more. Don't just be here. Get to know your neighbors. GO OUT AND ENJOY EVERYTHING. And let me recommend a stop at Roy's for lunch or dinner. It really is one of the best reasons to live and work in the neighborhood. Oh, and if you haven't taken in a May Day at Roy's—mark next years calendar now. It's a great way to get leid.

POST 71

Kindle DX

I often joke in my blogs about downtownster being an unfunded startup, launched in the middle of perhaps the worst economic situation in our country's history—this is not a joke, but the truth. As downtownster grows, literally every day, I am asked with greater and greater frequency to write about the economy, politics, and relationships. Can you imagine that we live in a time that customers, in this case downtownster readers, can tell you what they want and if you have any business sense—you can oblige at the touch of a keypad. So, I woke up this morning planning to write a brilliant essay on the state of the economy. I was even going to delve into why entrepreneurs, such as myself, should be more aggressively than ever, starting companies like downtownster. But then it occurred to me to write about Amazon's Kindle DX.

Kindle, if you are not already familiar, is an e-book reader created and sold by Amazon. The new Kindle DX is a technological marvel, which holds 3,500 book titles at a time and is close to paper-thin. The reading display utilizes ink technology, which gives the reader the closest experience possible to actually reading print. And unlike the Sony e-book reader the Kindle operates with an internal wireless 3G capability that allows books to be downloaded to the device, usually in thirty seconds or less. Yes, THE WIRELESS HOOKUP IS FREE, the cost is covered by Amazon. I should also mention the new DX model has a 9.7 inch screen— 3 inches larger than the past models.

The LA Times take on the Kindle DX, in a recent article, is, not surprisingly, whether or not Kindle will save newspapers—like the LA Times. And while this is a legitimate question, we should all note here that the LA Times and other financially troubled newspapers are in trouble more than anything because of bad business decisions. A debt free LA Times still owned by the Chandler's would have turned a profit of a hundred million dollars last year. This begs a discussion regarding leverage—it's not good. But let's not wander too far. I predicted almost ten years ago that a device like Kindle would be developed and would be the future of how people, not only read books, but newspapers—and now a little something called blogs.

The time has come. So why isn't there a Kindle in each and every one of our pockets? The answer is simple: a Kindle DX costs about $500.00 dollars, which is actually more than the earlier models. This is almost unprecedented. Usually, electronics enter the marketplace at a high price point and become more affordable with each subsequent product cycle.

I recall when the Zinman family was the first in our neighborhood to own a VCR. Marvin Zinman, my best friend Richard's father, was a legendary Los Angeles attorney, and the only person in our city (Montebello) that could afford this device, which cost over a $1,000.00 dollars back then. This would be close to $10,000.00 today, inflation adjusted. But the VCR eventually found a price we all could afford in the $50.00 to $100.00 dollar range, so did the DVD player—AND SO WILL KINDLE, if Amazon wishes it to be so. Keep in mind Amazon makes a lot of money on good old-fashioned books and they are not pressed to change their entire business model overnight, but change they will. If Amazon dropped the price of a Kindle DX to $99.00 dollars today there would be a hundred million units in customer's hands by the end of the year—they might even do some advertising.

So, Kindle is a great product and getting greater every generation—it simply is not at a great price—YET. But it will be and it will completely change how we read books, newspapers, and blogs. I urge the early adopter crowd, if you can afford one, to buy a Kindle. What you save on books will more than justify your investment, e-books are less than half the price of old fashioned books and you will be bringing about a long overdue change with enormous social benefits; the obvious being the amount of paper that will not be consumed any longer. You cannot claim to be green and not own a Kindle. Newspaper print is the number one consumer of paper in the United States. But the far greater value will be the minds Kindle will save.

You see I've never bought into the idea that nobody reads anymore. The fact that book sells top the twenty-five billion dollar a year mark (U.S.) supports my resolve that Americans aren't yet done with the written word. And books are the most sold item on the Internet (Worldwide)—just not enough! I see a new culture in America; a culture of people who walk around not with a device in their pocket, but the words of Poe, Emerson, Tolstoy, Rand, Twain, Joyce, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Capote, Vonnegut, Melville and Dickens and on and on...made possible by such a device. When I tell an advertiser to be sure that they are telling people about their product in the way that the people want to hear it, I can't help but to think that the same is in fact a central truth to all communication. We live in a highly mobile digital world.

3,500 books in a persons pocket = mobile digital world = the way people want their information.

To demonstrate my belief in, this, future of books I've made four of my published works available on Kindle including "Stan Lerner's Criminal". And I have made two of my new works "Blast" and "Impact" -- only available on Kindle. I'm willing to bet on the future of books, actually I have, but really I'm betting on you, the readers of the world—embrace this technology and bring others into our circle. Imagine a world full of literate people discussing ideas and stories. Perhaps today's gang is tomorrow's book club. Why not? It could happen.

Oh, and when you go to the Amazon Kindle Store ask for me by name.

POST 72

Music Union

One of the great things about being the editor of downtownster is that a number of really interesting people, places, events, ideas and so on come across my desk. By across my desk, in the year 2009, I mean across my computer or bumping into me over coffee. And although I can't give everything the attention I would like to, there are times when I can—like NOW. One such character with an idea and a place to do it; is a tall, relaxed, young visionary name Barrett Morse, who is the force behind MusicUnion.

Barrett, like myself, is a veteran of Downtown—meaning he moved here before the rest of the world knew how cool it was to live in a place where there is more to talk about than the new Yoga Class schedule. Sorry Santa Monica, you're nice for a visit. As the Downtown community continues to grow and congeal I run into movers and shakers like Barrett more often than in years past. Because, like me, he appreciates a good drink I particularly like running into Barrett at Must or Dohney. So, when a press release landed in my inbox announcing that MusicUnion was doing an Art Walk After Party – I thought it worthy of a post.

And no, it wasn't news to me because there's an ad on the downtownster' leaderboard promoting the event, but an ad can only say so much. I've been to one of Barrett's events in the past (it was a great event) and downtowster writer Shannon Logan covered a MusicUnion mixer just last week, which she enjoyed thoroughly, so I decided it post worthy because I think downtownster readers will really enjoy a MusicUnion event. THE DETAILS ARE AS FOLLOWS:

POST 73

Obama vs Cheney

Johanna Neuman of the LA Times asks in the May 17th Sunday Edition why former Vice President Dick Cheney doesn't just go gently into the night—

Before delving into the substance of the real issue, which is the Obama Administration's course of action since taking office and its ongoing criticism / blame of the Bush Administration's policies / conduct and Dick Cheney's counter condemnation thereof, any responsible writer has to condemn the Times for printing such a one sided distortion of the facts. It is exactly this kind of trash journalism that is destroying what was once a great newspaper. Let me give you one example: Neuman writes, "Dick Cheney has made the oft- repeated and truly incendiary assertion that Obama's policies are making the country less safe from terrorism." Really, is it "truly incendiary?" Any more so than the assertions' of President Obama or Vice President Biden on the campaign trail or since taking office? But because Johanna Neuman and the LA Times want to discredit the statements of former Vice President Cheney, Neuman is allowed to use carefully crafted language to do so. This is a disgrace and should be called out as such.

In reality former Vice President Cheney has been on several talk shows defending the Bush Administration's policies. In doing so he has stated that it is his belief that these policies kept America from being attacked again for a period of seven years subsequent to the 911 / attack. And he went on to say that the Obama Administration doing away with these policies, in his opinion made America less safe. Anyone watching Dick Cheney being interviewed would objectively conclude the following: Dick Cheney is a very smart, well spoken individual. The Bush Administration did in fact not allow another attack on America subsequent to 911. And that Dick Cheney believes what he is saying.

I have personally disagreed with the Bush Administration on a number of policies and actions, but for the good of the country both the media and the Obama Administration would be well served to listen to the former Vice President closely—in fact I can't help but to wonder why he's waited until leaving office to make himself so available. The Dick Cheney we're now seeing is the Dick Cheney that debated Joe Lieberman to a tie, a debate that left everyone watching, wondering why the two Vice Presidential candidates weren't the one's running for President. So that Dick Cheney has returned—GOOD.

Now let's take a step back and look at some of the policy differences that have caused this argument and the LA Times to disgrace itself, again. The first major policy change by the Obama Administration to become part of the dispute was the President's directive to close the Guantanamo Bay Detention Facility. The President believes that the facility makes America look bad to the rest of the world and therefore less safe. Former Vice President Cheney believes that the men held in Guantanamo Bay are the worst of the worst terrorists in the world—among these men is the mastermind of the 911 attacks on America. And he believes that we are safer with these men locked up in Guantanamo Bay indefinitely or at least until they face military tribunals that would determine their fates.

As of today the Obama Administration has not been able to produce a plan that would execute the President's directive. There are a number of reasons for this, but suffice it to say the two largest obstacles are: other countries will not take these prisoners. And no state in the United States, thus far, has a citizenry that will accept these men into their communities. Also, it should be noted that Congress would not allocate funds to close this facility until a plan was presented to them. So, on this policy debate I think former Vice President Cheney has simply proven to be right.

The second policy that President Obama criticized the Bush Administration for, while he was running for office, was the U.S. policy of rendition, which he vowed to end once he was President because he believed this too made the U.S. less safe. And when candidate Obama became President Obama he did change this policy.

Again, Former Vice President Cheney said that this, change of policy, made the U.S. less safe. Who in this case is right and who is wrong? Let's pause and clarify what rendition happens to be. When the U.S. captures a terrorist that it wishes to interrogate and desires to use torture to extract information it sends the person to a country that does not have laws against torturing people—this is rendition. President Obama stopped this practice for a couple of weeks when he took office, but then reinstituted it as a policy. So again, it would appear that on this former Vice President Cheney was right.

The third policy at the core of this dispute is enhanced interrogation techniques. President Obama ordered them stopped on the grounds that they are not effective and that they should be considered torture. Former Vice President Cheney countered that the justice department's lawyers said that the techniques being used were not torture and that they were extremely effective in extracting information that saved thousands if not tens of thousands of American lives. This lead to a sub-dispute when President Obama released documents describing the use of enhanced interrogation techniques and did not also release documents, as described by the former Vice President, describing how many lives were saved by their use. The later part of this dispute can simply be settled by President Obama releasing the documents that former Vice President Cheney has requested. The fact that President Obama hasn't done so would lead to an objective conclusion that again the former Vice President is right in his assertions—regardless these documents will eventually be available to the public and the truth will speak for itself.

The part of the policy dispute that is somewhat more difficult to understand and leads to dispute number four is that each administration seems to differ over what constitutes torture. At the core of this issue is water boarding or more simply \-- simulated drowning. On this, legal opinion's aside, most reasonable people will agree that depriving another human being of oxygen until they give over the information being sought is torture. Because it does not leave lasting physical damage or end with the death of an interrogation subject—it should be considered the first level of torture or torture light, but it's torture non-the-less. But in the end it does not apparently constitute a level of torture that is considered illegal.

Dispute number four is not between President Obama and former Vice President Cheney. In fact President Obama has stated publicly that the country should move forward and not start delving into the torture debate and or any of its criminal implications. But a number of Democrats have ignored the President and furthered the issue. And in pursuing this path it turns out that several top ranking Democrats were not only aware of, but approved of enhanced interrogation techniques. The Speaker Of The House Nancy Pelosi in particular seems to have been very aware of these measures, but claims that she and the Congress were mislead by the CIA. This, if it were to be true, would be another crime unto itself, but the CIA has documented that the Speaker was informed of what the techniques were and that they were being used. With respect to right and wrong on this I think it's safe to say that both the President and the former Vice President are happy to let Speaker Pelosi go this one alone—meaning if the Bush Administration was wrong so were all of our top ranking leaders.

Finally, the argument between President Obama and former Vice President Cheney reached even domestic policy issues. President Obama is desirous that union organization votes be open ballot—meaning everyone would know how everyone else voted. Former Vice President Cheney believes that these votes should remain private so that pier pressure does not play a part in how someone votes. Clearly President Obama's policy change would give unions more power. And clearly former Vice President Cheney thinks that they have enough. On this the former Vice President makes the argument that he, unlike President Obama, was a card-carrying member of a union for six years. (The former Vice President worked his way through college laying power cables, which required him to be a member of a union.) And based on his personal experience the current policy is as it should be. On this I personally agree with the former Vice President, but I'm sure there is a good argument for the other side.

So, should Dick Cheney go away quietly? Absolutely not. Just on the issues discussed in this blog he has proven to be right more than wrong. Do I personally have lots of issues with the decisions made by the Bush Administration and former Vice President Cheney? We all should. But we all do our country a disservice when we disrespect a man like Dick Cheney. His life is an American success story. He worked hard and had a family. He became one of the wealthiest men in America. And he chose to serve his country. Has he always been right? Have any of us always been right? When the former Vice President speaks, even if we don't always agree, we should always listen.

POST 74

The Golden State Shines Again

Thankfully California voters made their will clear, as if it needed to be made clear, that the state's government needs to come up with a solution to balancing its budget that does not involve borrowing money or raising taxes. Unfortunately, unlike the Governor, many politicians and big labor leaders have failed to embrace this mandate for real change. Instead came the age-old mantra that taxpayers can't have it both ways. "If we can't have more taxpayer money and debt, taxpayers can't have schools, roads, health services, police, firefighters, AND NO MORE DESERT!" they say. Michael Hiltzik wrote, in yet another embarrassing LA Times' cover story today, that it's all a lie—in his bizarre mind Californians don't pay enough taxes; and that part of his solution is to rethink Prop 13. Thanks LA Times—with great thinkers such as Mr. Hiltzik downtownster.com is sure to maintain its 100 percent monthly growth rate.

First, consider this to gain some perspective: the cuts that the LA Times refers to having to be made to avert "financial melt-down." The "annihilating cuts" they call them, total all of 21.3 billion dollars. The politicians, labor union leaders, and LA Times reporters, and I use this term generously, all fail to mention that after this adjustment to the state's budget California will still be spending more on services for its residents than it did in the year 2005. If you recall things were fine, maybe even better in 2005, so is this really such a calamity—OF COURSE NOT. Not when you consider that California increased its spending by 50 percent over the last five years—far outpacing inflation and population growth. So, with revenue down it's time to cut back a bit—GOOD! Will 5,000 state jobs be eliminated? Yes! This is actually on the front page of the LA Times as if it were news worthy. THERE'S 34 MILLION PEOPLE IN THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA five thousand jobs lost represents .00014706 of the population of the state, it is of no statistical significance.

But enough of this foolishness. It is easily concluded that the people who make their money off of the taxpayer dollar have an insatiable appetite when doing so. It is not so easily understood why writers that work for the LA Times don't bother to write about the budget in a historical perspective.

HOW ABOUT SOME REAL CHANGE? California needs to completely rethink how it educates its students. By law the state spends more than 40 percent of its annual budget to produce some of the worst students in the country. LA Unified School District (45,000 employees) employs more people in LA County than any private company. Its budget tickles the twenty billion dollar mark. And half of its students do not graduate. If this were a private enterprise it would be closed down. Can you imagine a restaurant that could not actually produce half the orders its customers have paid for? Well that's LA Unified. Fire half of the teachers and administrators, cut a month off of the school year and trust me things won't be any worse than they are now—seriously. But as the subject of another blog I will discuss some of the changes that can be made to better educate students. Generally speaking better education should cost far less, although it won't please organized labor or the politicians that suck on its teat.

And yes, some of those prisoners we've been locking up to do slave labor for private enterprise might have to be set free. Thanks to the Prison Guards Union and the political nonsense of claiming to be tough on crime, we've been in the prison business in a big way both as a country and as a state since 1990. As a country we can proudly say that we've imprisoned more of our population than any other country in the world. Woo hoo! The "War On Drugs" which has cost our country 20 TRILLION DOLLARS AND COUNTING (that's more than our entire national debt) has definitely played a big part in this human / financial disaster. I've been calling this one a loser since I myself had the pleasure of being locked up, which cost the tax payers about $500,000.00 in 1990's dollars. That's right. While prison guards can easily make $100,000.00 a year with overtime and private industry can contract labor from the prison population at 50 cents an hour—the taxpayer gets to foot a bill that ranges from $60,000.00 to $120,000.00 per prisoner. AND THAT'S WHY OUR STATE IS BROKE! It would be cheaper for the taxpayer to simply pay our criminals not to do crimes—seriously. So again, while I promise to write an entire blog on this subject, the sooner we let out nonviolent offenders the better. Like our schools, our prison system doesn't work and it's breaking us.

So the State is going to rid itself of 2 percent of its workforce, let forty thousand prisoners out of jail early, and force some school districts that really can't do worse than they are already doing to shorten their school year and fire a few teachers—IT'S NOT THE END OF THE WORLD!

What it is, is a chance, a chance to regain our fiscal sanity. And it is a chance to put our heads together and really think about how we can change things for the better.

WE REALLY CAN DO BETTER.

POST 75

Tiller The Baby Killer Gunned Down In Church!

Dr. George Tiller was attending church in Wichita Kansas when a loan gunman walked in and shot him once, a single bullet, bringing a violent and sudden death to one of the great mass murderers of our time. Warning: if you are a person that believes in the right to choose, or more simply put, that abortion is the innocuous evacuation of random uterine tissue—this post might not be for you. I'll say this as plainly as I can. I am not a religious man. But I believe that life begins at conception and that abortion is the taking of an innocent life—the worst type of premeditated murder.

All of the world's major religions agree that abortion is the taking of life and should not be practiced, except in the case of saving the mother's life, and abortion was not practiced without major restriction in the United States until Jan 1973. At this point it would be urbane to launch into a major dissertation on Roe v. Wade, but I'll spare my dear readers the girth of judicial malpractice arguments made by much wiser men than I—including Justice Rehnquist.

Suffice it to say that most of the great legal minds of today believe that Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court case that made abortion legal in all states, was a bad and severely flawed decision. If there are those among you who wish to comment on how the Ninth Amendment right to privacy translates to the right to commit murder in a case in which a plaintiff in her third trimester sued for rights she believed women in general are due in their first trimester—please do. I'll be happy to respond.

So, the reality of legalized murder is what our country has had to exist with for the past 26-years. Again, it would be urbane to discuss the decline of our society from 1973 to date, but the facts of this are self-evident beyond any need for description. Not to say that there were no social ills prior to this benchmark, but they were not of the insidious nature of the ills of today. However, I digress. The discussion I would like to have, if only with myself, is how I feel about the murder of the murderer Dr. George Tiller.

George Tiller killed 60,000 babies during the course of his abortion spree and made a million dollars a year doing it. He was one of three doctors in America that would kill a baby in the third trimester. I've heard him in his own words say that he had the right to do this. "I have a right to make a living," were his exact words. He went on to say what he was doing was legal. Right.

I believe in the rule of law. I believe that it is through legal means that unjust laws should be changed. In the past I chose to break laws I considered unjust—I don't do this anymore. And yet because an unjust law has cost the lives of so many millions of our fellow Americans I can't help, but to feel some relief that a man who has profited so much from legally sanctioned murder is dead.

There I said it. I don't believe in committing murder, but I think I'm glad that George Tiller The Baby Killer has been murdered. Not out of a sense of justice—ABSOLUTELY NOT. But out of a sense of hope that many thousands of lives will be saved.

It's a sad day for America. Yes, because one murderer has killed a mass murderer. But even more so because a flawed court decision will allow another million babies to be murdered this year. That will make it FIFTY MILLION BABIES MURDERED SINCE 1973 it's a sad day for America indeed.

POST 76

Jan Perry A Blogside Chat

It is late at night or early in the morning, hour fifteen of work has passed by some hours ago, and as the quiet of the night will often lead me to, I find myself reflective. My screenwriting obligations have precluded me from blogging the past few weeks as much as I would liked to have, but many of downtownster's twenty-four writers / soldiers of truth and enlightenment, have made up the difference. And to them I say, THANK YOU.

The fact that I have not posted more than a piece or two a week does not however mean that I have been remiss in working on stories. Admittedly, I am backlogged, there is simply more to write about than I have time in the day and that would be true even if I were not busying myself with two screen adaptations and a television pilot. But one story must begin and that is the story of something I think to be unique to downtownster—I call it the blogside chat.

We live in challenging times. And if we are to be honest with our collective selves, most generations can claim such. Of course the challenges differ from generation to generation, but almost all are challenged non-the-less. What are our difficulties? How are they resolved? These are questions that should be first and foremost on all Americans' minds. The answers to these question and their many tangents are rooted in our ability to communicate with each other. And for the purpose of this blog, and all to come, it is imperative to recognize that communication begins with understanding the concept of common reality.

Think of concentric circles at the middle of which is the greatest common reality. The one thing we can all agree on—perhaps gravity. I know of no one that will step off the roof of the fifteen-story building, which I live in to prove me wrong. Interestingly, those who believe that they can fly without the help of modern invention are usually considered to have broken from sanity—they no longer share in the same common reality as the rest of the world around them. The results of an individual jumping from a building such as mine, arms flapping to no avail, are not comical—they are ruinous. And such is the fait of a society that has lost its ability to communicate and broken with itself.

Today, it is incumbent on leaders and those with vision to communicate their ideas in the way that people not only want to hear but trust and understand. The great leaders of times past wrote and delivered speeches. Washington, Lincoln, Churchill, and King all delivered leadership and vision with their words. Their words, the people knew these men through their words. In person, in print, on radio, on film, on television, past generations heard their leaders in their own words and they trusted and understood them.

And because downtownster is nothing if not intensely interested in all things—I started floating the idea to the business and political leaders of our world that we'd like to chat. Not interview—CHAT. An invitation, if you will, to speak to people in the way that they now listen. BEWARE: no recorded speeches, written by someone else, with no opportunity to be questioned will be passed off as real communication on downtownster.

Imagine an ongoing dialogue, that can take hours at a time to have, taking place in public places, sometimes over a meal and sometimes over coffee—my drink. Imagine a person of power in business or politics that is willing to talk to you, albeit through downtownster, no speeches, no teleprompters, no handlers, no questions in advance, no ground rules. Clearly, this person has said much about themselves before saying anything to us at all. But be sure much more will be said.

Because much of Downtown is encompassed by the 9th District, let us put this fact into a greater perspective, Downtown Los Angeles is the heart of the biggest city, in the largest state, of the most powerful nation on Earth, I could not think of someone better to chat with than 9th District City Councilwoman Jan Perry.

"Are you Stan?" asked Eva Kandarpa Councilwoman Jan Perry's Communication Director.

We had met once before at the Grand Opening party for Bottega Louie—I look much different in writing mode than I do at a party. I feel bad about this. Perhaps one day I'll resolve to wear suit and tie at all times.

I looked up from my computer. "I am." Fighting the stiffness in my legs I rose from my seat and shook hands with Eva. I turned to my left. "Hi Jan, it's good to see you again." I glanced down at my computer. "Sorry, let me put this thing away...I was just trying to get as much work done as possible."

Jan was pulling another table over before I was even back in my seat. "What type of computer is that?" she asked.

I should interject here that the tables in the café area of Bottega Louie are topped with solid marble, they're heavy, so I felt bad that Jan had undertaken the task of moving one without my help.

"Good old, Mac Pro," I answered.

"Don't leave your purse open. And don't put it over the back of your chair like that," Jan lovingly advised Eva. She looked at me, "And it's bad luck to put them on the ground."

I smiled and put my computer into its' bag, which was sitting on the chair next to me.

Jan let out a deep breath. "What a day."

"What a day, good or what a day busy?" I asked, Bottega Louie staff converging from all directions.

I chose Bottega Louie for the first downtownster blogside chat, because if feels like a place where important things should happen.

I can't help but to pause and think about the dinner I once had with the great English Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher at the Downtown Biltmore. Or the lunch I had with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu at Solo in New York City. I wish there had been a downtownster blogside chat in which to share both of those phenomenal experiences. Prime Minister Thatcher, had nothing short of a Royal presence—it was, I imagine the closest one could come to dining with the Queen, of course without actually dining with Her Majesty. And Prime Minister Netanyahu had an astounding intellect and certitude—perhaps most striking was his voice, the voice of a battle hardened General sworn to protect the Bible's Chosen People.

"We spent all day in closed session," Jan answered. Then turning to our waiter. "I just want some carrots."

"Coffee," said Eva.

"Cappuccino," said I, not so shockingly. Turning to Jan. "You didn't eat?"

"No. We went through lunch."

Carrots at Bottega Louie are not a mundane affair. I myself had thought this a rather sparse selection until a large dish of grilled carrots appeared in a variety of colors that I did not know existed. Jan immediately spread some plates around and began to share.

Since this is the first blogside chat I've endeavored to write, I'm not exactly sure of the appropriate voice and or balance. I know that an entirely script like recollection certainly won't due. Nor would lengthy academic prose. Rather, at least as we begin this journey, I'll just write freeform—whatever comes to mind with no respect to structure.

A description of Jan goes something like this: AFFABLE. Our paths had crossed several times before our chat and each and every time my impression was the same. You just like Jan Perry. And I'm not being absurd to say that you just like her in the way you liked Ronald Reagan. Politics, I think Jan is a Democrat (I'm not sure), gender, she's definitely a woman, and race, she's African American (her ancestors were Southern slaves), all aside—she's Reaganest. This is one of the rarest of breeds because it takes a broad variety of characteristics to congeal into such character. And no, it is not possible in one chat to ascertain what they all are. But I gathered a few.

For some reason I feel compelled to inform you that Jan is from the Midwest, Ohio to be precise. Reason one for being nice. A trip to Los Angeles her freshman year of college and an encounter with a Jackson Five concert, part of some Rose Parade festivities, convinced her to transfer to USC, where she majored in journalism, which is enough biography for now.

"So what's going on with the budget? Are there really going to be drastic cuts," I asked.

And this is why I skipped some biography and small talk for the moment. The question posed and how it was answered gives the reader a look into the real character of their elected leader.

"It's real. And it's going to be painful," answered Jan.

Straightforward, honest and no "but"—meaning no excuse or blame to try and capitalize on the crisis of the day. The tone of Jan's words was a mixture of compassion and confidence. Compassion for those whom will suffer the reduction of services and confidence that the challenges facing our community will be successfully endured. And this "be calm and carry on" attitude is what makes a great leader.

Since I have a proclivity to stretch blog word counts into the realm of the essay, I will pause now. But for my next blogside chat with Jan—I leave you with this. Leaders who have accomplished much, possess the quiet confidence of a man or woman doing what it is they were born to do.

To be continued...

POST 77

Three Things To Miss Downtown

When it comes to Downtown , downtownster puts most of its effort into telling people what to do, but recently I've come across some what not to do's. And with so many good choices Downtown I'd hate to see you waste your money on anything less than a great experience. SO BE WARNED!!!

Unhappy Hour At Chaya

About a month ago downtownster Shannon and myself stopped by Chaya Downtown to take a look around. The manager of the swank establishment asked us to come visit as his guest anytime. A couple of nights ago we took him up on his offer or at least what we thought was an offer.

"If you place your order in the next two minutes you'll still get the Happy Hour price," said the hostess.

"Classy," I thought to myself. "And this place is dead," I thought still further as I looked around at the not happening Happy Hour scene.

Shannon asked if the manager was there. We were informed that he was, but he was upstairs too busy doing paperwork to answer the phone. Apparently he didn't realize that we were actually in the restaurant when giving this brush-off. Because about fifteen minutes later he was in the restaurant milling around—uncomfortably surprised to see us sitting.

I ordered the Tuna Melt and some Fish 'n' Chips. The Tuna Melt, which was literally bite-sized, does not compete with Subway on its worst day. The Fish 'n' Chips were a soggy mess that seemingly came out of the frozen food section at Costco. Amazingly, our server was completely baffled when I asked for some vinegar—to give this cardboard concoction some taste. A few minutes later I was brought vinegar—not of the Apple Cider / malt variety, but of the clean your window ilk. Shannon had a sushi roll, which was unremarkable, and beer that was thankfully not skunked. This waste of time and calories totaled $25.86 plus tip. Seriously, with every restaurant in town offering Happy Hour, skip this one.

Fleming's

If the Fish 'n' Chips served at Chaya for Happy Hour aren't soggy and tasteless enough to make you never want to go to the UK—Flemings serves up the same Costco style frozen fare as a lunch special. So much oil went into my meal that OPEC had to raise its production for a week to make up for it. Thankfully, and I use this word sardonically, the lack of taste one might find at Chaya was replaced by a freezer burned smoky flavor at Fleming's. I literally felt so sick after this lunch I went home and laid down for a couple of hours. I've written two nice pieces in the past about Fleming's, so maybe this was just an unfortunate foray into fish, but trust me when I tell you that the only thing special about this special is that its worse than Chaya.

Only A Shmuck Should Eat At Puck—Wofgang Puck Bar & Grill, That Is

I'll start by saying that our waitress Hannah was a doll. The atmosphere, think LA Live, but indoors. And then comes the tuna tartare—it took twenty-five minutes for this appetizer to make it to our table. Long enough to catch the fish in Santa Monica, bring it Downtown, and dice it up, perhaps. Certainly long enough for the people at the table next to us to not be waited on and decide to leave. Fortunately it's a cold appetizer so it managed to arrive at the right temperature. Bottom line, it wasn't good, way too spicy, way too much avocado, and way too small a portion for seventeen dollars. To put this in perspective and make this experience more painful, Roy's, just up the block has the best tuna tartare I've ever had.

The main course was a tasteless NOT wild salmon. It was organic, however and it did come with some miniscule vegetables. My dinner partner had a pasta with mushrooms that she didn't finish and isn't worth describing further. No doubt Westsiders and tourists will be wowed by the Wolfgang Puck name and the beautiful view of the always nothing going on LA Live Plaza, but I was not wowed by the food, the name, or the view of the concrete.

And for the record I met Wolfgang a long time ago—when he was a chef not a franchise. I had some great meals at the original Spago—Barbara was a hostess back then and Bernard always made sure I got in without waiting. I can't help but to think that it would be nice if Wolfgang would show some pride, like the old days, and come down to the restaurant that bears his name and do some cooking. Until then, for those of us who remember that incredible garlic chicken, this dining hall is pedestrian and overpriced at best.

POST 78

Write Something About Michael Jackson Please

I received a text message from one of my sources at 3:00 p.m. that Michael Jackson, often called the King of Pop, was dead. This was fifteen minutes before the official declaration and by 3:30 p.m. the calls, text messages, and emails asking me to write something were rolling in. My initial response to all requests was that I had no intention of writing a story about Michael Jackson's death. My reason being: that everyone was going to have something to say and that I had nothing to add. I have a passion for writing and or talking—I'm a storyteller by nature, but a good storyteller should have something unique to say or at the very least a unique viewpoint.

Over a three-day period I did follow the story. Requests for my attention to it did not cease, some coming from the most unexpected people. As these days passed my response to requests that I write about Michael Jackson's death changed. I began to tell readers that I might write on the topic of the inconsistent through line that had become so evident in, not only the nonstop media coverage, but among the general population as well. One of downtownster's most highly educated and respected readers was particularly intrigued by my introduction of the through line concept—and was seemingly not too sure exactly what a through line was. So let me clarify:

A through line is the spine of a story. The concept, first introduced by Constantin Stanislavski, was a way for actors to think about characterization. The idea being that it is not enough to understand what we are doing or trying to do, but rather we must understand our ultimate objective—thus creating a link from action to action that propels us to our ultimate desired outcome.

As I watched the first few hours of cable news coverage each channel and commentator had a take and in some cases several. Fox News in particular filled their time with inaccurate information that was astounding. And of course the vile Nancy Grace was already ranting about the children and custody issues. Michael Jackson in a matter of minutes was called a child molester, a music genius, the loneliest man on Earth, an adoring father, a boy trapped in a man's body, an icon, in debt for 400 million dollars, on the verge of a comeback, worth a billion dollars, and ABC's Martin Bashir, who did more harm to Michael Jackson's reputation than anybody, except for Michael Jackson, made a statement that knowing Michael Jackson was one of the greatest honors of his life. This actually caused me to shake my head. I recalled him saying that Michael Jackson's home Neverland was not safe for children. But the words genuine or honest do not come to mind at the mention of the name Martin Bashir.

The truth about Michael Jackson and the through line that is now being decided on will be two very different things. The truth about Michael Jackson with respect to his music is: Michael Jackson was a musical genius and one of the best entertainers ever. His personal life was for the first 35 years, the personal life of the rich and famous. And let me interject here that it is ridiculous to perpetuate the myth that he was somehow robbed of his childhood. Given the choice, I doubt anyone including Michael Jackson, would choose being a poor black kid in pre civil rights Indiana over being world famous and a mansion in Beverly Hills. The last 15 years of Michael Jackson's personal life were about prescription drug addiction and plastic surgery malpractice—NOTHING MORE. All the rest of the behavior, some very strange, can be attributed to these two factors.

But there is big money involved in the business of Michael Jackson, now. So the though line will be this: Michael Jackson was a musical genius, buy everything with his name on it and take a tour of Neverland Ranch, which will become Graceland West. And to be honest—even I'll go take that tour. Why? Because his music made life for all of us better— and now that's really all that needs to be said.

POST 79

The Guardian

Foreword by Stan Lerner: it is true as stated in the most recent post of "Thought Tools" that wisdom is found in the unemotional ability to understand facts. But sometimes the mind needs the type of rest that can best be found in the world of fiction. So take a few minutes each week and enjoy downtownster's new superhero The Guardian.

BEGINNING

Like a dream, Empire city at night lays between the world of all that is possible and the danger of such. One can imagine hovering above such a place. Staring at each and every rooftop, loud claps of thunder deafening to the ear, bright flashes of lightning blinding you in an attempt to prevent you from seeing. But your vision will not be denied. You see the black figure running on the ledges of the rooftops through the driving rain. So intent is your focus that you can see his feet land on the ledge of a slightly lower roof. The water splashes from the puddle—an enormous flash of lightning, much greater than the others. And the black figure is gone.

Through the sheets of rain the sign fades in and out. It reads: "MUSEUM OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY" but this sign is not welcoming. Rather, it seems to stand guard at the base of the massive steps that lead to the museum's entrance. And still more lightning flashes cause it to transcend into menace as the white van pulls to a stop.

The rear doors open violently and ten men in white lab coats disembark running up the steps. The hand in the black glove pushes the doorbuzzer repeatedly—impatient. And then there is a dim light through the wet glass and the distinct silhouette of a security guard making his way to the door.

The elderly security guard looks out the door. He strains to see out of the glass, but the water and its refraction of the lightning make it impossible. All that is visible are several figures in white coats.

The old-timer shakes his head, annoyed and somewhat in disbelief. "Lab guys at this hour? What the hell are they thinking?"

The buzz of the doorbell is insistent. And builds to a crescendo congruent to the old-timer's annoyance. Perhaps it is this state that pauses his thought process. He inserts his pass card into the wall and punches in his code to unlock the heavy wood and glass door.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming. Hold your horses. Everybody's in a rush these days."

As the door opens a blast of wind and rain hit him in the face, rendering his spectacles useless. Instinct causes him to take a step back and in an almost continuous motion he removes his glasses, bends over and begins an effort to wipe them dry. While he does so he fails to notice that the dripping wet men in white lab coats have surrounded him.

"Gentlemen, what brings you here so late in the night?" he asks.

"Death," snarls Dr. Vincent, a powerfully built man of average height. The knife plunges into the guard before the words have fully registered.

On the guard's face there is a look of horror and disbelief. Now cognitive of what has transpired, but he is dying on the white and black tile floor. Unable to move the old-timer looks into the reflection of his own glasses now just a few feet away. He hears the words, "Take his pass card." The reflection is of men in white lab coats spray-painting the security cameras and moving toward the elevators. A black boot comes down hard on his spectacles, but it is of no consequence as he has just closed his eyes forever.

POST 80

The Guardian Part 2

Dr. Vincent steps over the security guard's dead body just as the blood from the wound he's inflicted begins to pool into a dramatic sea of dark red. It's of no consequence to him as he is intent on joining his men at the bank of elevators.

In the security office a second security guard watches the wall of monitors as he has for the last twenty years. He is still a man in his mid-forties, not an old-timer, but a solid veteran. Of course being a veteran he should not be watching the television, brought into the office against regulations. The show goes on as he sips his fifth cup of coffee, then notices a monitor has gone out.

He shakes his head and picks up his radio intent on reaching his partner—not possibly imagining that he his dead.

"Harry, come in where the hell are you?" He turns back to the monitor and taps on its screen. "Twenty years and never had one of these go out." He shrugs. "Well there's a first time for everything I suppose." He sips his coffee and adopts a more serious tone as he speaks into his radio this time. "Harry where are you? Harry, come in. Are you okay?"

The muscles of his face tense as he leans forward toward the monitor. On closer inspection it appears to be working, the blackness he's seeing caused by some obstruction to the camera's lens. And just as his mind processes the possibilities he is jerked out of his seat by a wire around his neck. Instinct to survive causes him to kick wildly as the man in the white coat quite calmly strangles him. With each kick his boots shatter the glass of one of the monitors he has watched diligently for the last twenty years—though, he gains no leverage to free himself. Only a fraction of a second before his right foot reaches the last monitor on the panel does his lifeless body go completely limp—dropping from midair to his attackers feet like a sack of flour.

The storm outside has not abated; rather it has taken on a fury, appropriate to the presence of the dark figure that stands on the ledge looking through the stained glass dome of a part of the museum long closed to visitors. Its mechanical eyes peer through the night, the rain, and the glass at the murderous men in white lab coats as they gather round a Plexiglas box that contains a solitary microprocessor. Dr. Vincent's face is close enough to the box to cause the slightest fog from his breath. Pulling back a few inches he reads the plaque: "Algorithmic Microprocessor, Invented By Dr. Alex F. Abraham, Born 1990 deceased 2020, Survived by no one, but remembered by all for his revolutionary contributions to science."

With not simply a fall, but a leap from the ledge of the museum's roof, the dark figure begins a freefall decent toward the stained glass dome.

Dr. Vincent is the first to sense the shadow. His men well in tune with him look up, as he does, at the ominous silhouette as it comes crashing through the glass—falling toward them with harmful intent. Without hesitation the doctor smashes the Plexiglas box with a mallet made of material especially for this purpose. With his free hand he grabs the microprocessor and tumbles out of the way just as the unexpected guest lands squarely on his feet—where a second before Dr. Vincent had stood.

Dr. Vincent's men, without missing a beat, engage with P.R. batons the opponent standing in the center of their unholy circle. More than up to the challenge the dark figure greets his first two forward attackers with death spikes to their respective foreheads, then relieving them of their batons he quickly rotates them backwards fending off his attackers from the rear. The ensuing fight is to be vicious, one that Dr. Vincent would like to be a part of, but this is not the time—there is a delivery to be made. Reluctantly, the bad doctor slips out the exit door he knows will allow him to circumvent the swarm of police officers converging on the building in response to the multiplicity of alarms that have just been set off.

POST 81

There's A New Don In Vegas

My history in Vegas dates back to the "Good Old Days." If you know what I mean? And because of this, I've met a few Don's in my time. But perhaps the most interesting of them all has recently come to power in Downtown Sin City, 624 S. Las Vegas Blvd—and that would be the extraordinary Don Vicente of Don Vicente Cigar Co. A robust man, born on the Pinar Del Rio tobacco plantation in Cuba his hands can roll a cigar with the magic possessed only by those born and raised breathing Cuban air, drinking Cuban water, and learning the craft from their fathers.

The story begins with a call from my life long friend Fat Andy. "You're coming this weekend?"

"I don't have reservations anywhere," I replied, feeling a little sorry for myself.

"Stay at Dave The Jew's," suggested Andy.

"I don't know..." Dave is a bad influence on me. And I thought I recalled him mentioning that five or ten attractive young ladies were going to be staying at the house for the weekend...Not easy to explain to my girlfriend.

"Come on."

"Okay...I'll leave first thing in the morning."

The Next Day

I pulled up to Dave The Jew's sprawling single story—I've stayed there so many times, it actually feels like home. Fat Andy greeted me at the door and with the help of a couple of servants that Dave apparently traded an ipod for, I was settled in—in no time.

"My boy!" shouted Dave upon entering the living room. "Let's go smoke some cigars."

I nodded toward the sliding glass windows, thinking that we'd be smoking poolside.

"No...we're going to Don Vicente's," insisted Dave before I could get a word out.

"Is he related to Gambino?" I asked.

"Not that kind of Don. He opened a cigar factory on Las Vegas Blvd.—Downtown. You're going to love this place. It's the best cigar for the money I've ever had and I've smoked the best."

Now Dave The Jew may not work much, but when it comes to the finer things in life, he knows what he's talking about.

We hopped into the SL and headed for the Strip.

When you walk into Don Vicente's Cigar Co., a quaint storefront on the Strip, the first thing you will notice is that there are several Cuban fellows off to the left rolling cigars. The Don sits at his own counter a few feet beyond. To the right is comfortable seating filled with some of the most interesting people you will ever meet—all there to smoke the Don's handcrafted to perfection cigars.

Are you getting the sense that I like this place?

Dave The Jew made the appropriate introduction. And a minute later there was a Torpedo, cut, and in my hand.

"I don't use a torch," I said, rejecting the light Dave was offering. Call me old fashioned, but frankly I'm afraid that given my fondness for libations that I may burn my face off by accident.

Don Vicente smiled and reached into the case in front of him. He handed me a nice lighter. "My gift to you...You like old flame..."

"I do..." I think that he liked this about me.

Dave The Jew and I took our seats and joined the conversation. By the way, this is when and where I met Sir Heath Burkhalter, but that's another story.

"I hope there's no liberals here," said Dave The Jew.

"Do I look like a liberal?" Sir Heath.

"I can't wait to pay higher taxes." Phil sarcastically.

"I'm thinking of leaving the country." Steve. Everyone kind of agreed on this one.

And so on...Then the conversation drifted to nuclear power...One of the Cubans made the bunch of us Cuban espresso served in demi-tasse cups. This is what inspired my 45-degree, slow pull espresso, which I allude to in my blog Special Guest Barista...And I recommend trying when I'm appearing at Hygge (1106 Hope, Downtown LA).

Don Vicente handed Dave a Churchill to hand to me. I lighted it with my new lighter. Like the Torpedo it was rich and smooth AND PACKED A PUNCH. I had doubts about being able to get off of the couch. I should mention that the draw, meaning the ease with which the smoke is pulled through the leaves into the mouth, was the easiest I've ever experienced. This is what separates a great cigar from a good cigar—the draw.

Four hours of smoking later Dave The Jew and I reluctantly departed. But I promised everyone that I would be back on Monday. And I promised myself that I'd be back every day that I was in Vegas.

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." True. But I recommend stopping by the factory and picking up a few boxes to go—

POST 82

The Guardian Part 3

The police, led by plain clothed Detective Fry, storm the room just as the dark figure brings the metal baton down on the skull of the last of Dr. Vincent's men—the shoulders of his white lab coat turn red from the bludgeoning.

"Freeze!" screams the detective, followed by a chorus of the same. The officers, twenty plus, encircle the murderer. "Drop the baton!" insists Detective Fry. "And put your hands up."

The hands go up slowly, there's a strange calm confidence in the motion, which is really more of a gesture. The baton is allowed to slip from his hands—with some light flash smoke pellets. And as all reaches the floor the room erupts into fire and smoke. A dart with a wire attached shoots from the raised prosthetic arm and races toward the ceiling.

Fry peers through the smoke, and although it is surreal, he is confident that he is seeing whatever it is fly upwards toward the glass dome. "He's on the roof!"

The police burst onto the roof with a violence matched by the raging storm. There is no command to fire but they do, and a hail of tracer bullets advances before them as they run in pursuit into the rainy night.

Standing at the edge of the building, the dark figure lets them get close enough, so they can see him toss down a business card. To the amazement of the police, the thing that they have just witnessed commit a brutal murder jumps.

"No!!!!" screams Detective Fry, as he runs to the ledge and watches the dark figure plunge toward the cement below. Then the prosthetic bodysuit sprouts something that looks like wings, which glide him gently to the street below.

Detective Fry stares through the bright flashes of lightning, the dark figure pauses for a moment to look up and give him a parting glance, before disappearing into the shadows of the alley across the street. More curious than angry the Detective digs into his pocket and retrieves a pair of tweezers, which he uses to pick up the rain soaked business card. "The Guardian. I'm Watching," reads the detective out loud.

Detective Fry looks at the hole in the glass dome, than at the tall building across the street. His eyes go back to the alley where the Guardian had disappeared. "I'm watching," he repeats out loud as he turns to the closest uniform officer. "He's watching. That's not an alley it's a loading dock. Get on your radio and tell the SWAT team leader that the suspect is in the storage building across the street. Tell him to surround the building, but not to move until I'm there.

As Detective Fry runs toward the stairwell entrance he here's the SWAT team leader over the radio. "I copy that..."

POST 83

A Blogside Chat With Sonny Astani

Concerto: an instrumental work that highlights a soloist.

Councilwoman for the 9th district Jan Perry graced downtownster's first blogside chat. Jan, as we've come to know her, was an easy choice because her district is, as previously stated, the core of the biggest city in the largest state in the most powerful country on Earth.

Sonny Astani is a real estate developer, he owns the best location in the biggest city in the largest state in the most powerful country on Earth and he's built a place for people to live there—Concerto (9th & Fig).

For almost 14 years I have dwelled in the building known as The Skyline (9th & Flower), which for the last two decades laid undisputed claim to the best address in South Park. Over the years I wondered if anyone would ever have the vision and courage to develop the sprawling parking lot immediately to the east of The Skyline's elegant landscape. And then the word came one day that the empty parcel had been bought. With a signature, thirty million dollars was paid and the end came to a woeful parking lot too long the symbol of unmotivated land speculation. This struck a note.

An optimist by nature I just assumed something worthy would be built, and then proceeded with my own existence. So elated was I over Ralphs opening for business opposite my own abode I hardly noticed the asphalt being broken and carted off one block down. The good times were at their peak when I did notice the fence and deep hole—a lot of costly to move expensive earth had been displaced. And then there was a very tall crane from which a banner hung, which read Astani—and a second note sounded; this one more profound than the first. A plethora of individuals can buy, but few can build.

A year passed, the good times came to an end, and thirty stories of steel stood watch over the corner of 9th and Figueroa Streets. Perhaps, more interesting than those who know how to enjoy themselves on Saturday night, are those that revel on Monday night unto the wee hours. And so without interruption five hundred men continued to work on a building that was given a name that describes the art made by one, when the creative fabric surrounding ceases for a moment of acknowledgement—the height of humanity is found in the silence that allows this realization. I watched as the work continued, though the Good Time Charlie's who had just come for the party had left, or were trying to with haste. And now this third note played with me—"I wonder who this Mr. Astani might be?" I thought to myself.

Recently, residences went up for sale at Concerto. And although this alone was compelling enough to justify a chat with Sonny Astani—there was an LA Times article about his grand, or should I say Fig, endeavor, which I credit as the tipping point. The LA Times, to put it simply, is a bad paper. There are still a few good writers under the company's employ and every now and then they publish a high quality story, but mostly they manage to get it wrong. And while the Times did dedicate an abundance of words to the story of Concerto, they did not ring in my ears as an acceptable account.

I walked into the sale's office at Concerto and inquired as to where I might find the owner—he was not on the premises. But the conversation that ensued resulted in another acquisition of prime real estate by Sonny Astani—Concerto acquired the downtownster leaderboard. Imagine my interest level in meeting the man who had developed a three hundred million dollar building next to my own. And had bought the leaderboard of my website. And somewhere in the process I had become aware of a seventeen million dollar donation he had made to USC, a one and a half million dollar donation to the Skid Row Housing Trust (which helps the chronically ill homeless), and another donation of close to two million dollars to a battered women's shelter. Yes, I did indeed really desire to speak with this gentleman.

Brenda, from Sonny's office called and asked if I could come by on Thursday afternoon—

My first impression of Sonny Astani was that he is a serious man. By that I mean, more steak than sizzle. Dressed in dark attire, physically fit (50's), and a deep voice that pronounces words with a casual blend of humility, confidence, and cordiality.

"Would you like to sit in the conference room?" he asked as I followed him.

I looked around the room. There is no room in the Concerto sales office, built at a cost of $700,000 dollars, which is not impressive. "Actually, if you don't mind I'd like to take you out for some coffee?"

"Sure, where would you like to go?"

"There's a Starbucks at LA Live, let's go there." LA Live, in all of its contrived corporate glory, offers the perfect juxtaposition to chat with someone that is individually excellent. "And Sonny," I continued, "this isn't an interview, it's a conversation, so forget about the talking points..." Because I am prone to verbal excess I'll edit the rest of the thoughts I took the time to share about the utilization of new media communication. I stopped on the sidewalk across the street from Concerto. Shielding my eyes from the sun's reflection I asked, "What do you think?"

This moment caught him off guard just a bit. I knew that it would. Successful men rarely take even a moment to stop and look back or to admire their accomplishments, rather they are always looking forward to the next task at hand—usually a still greater challenge.

"What do you think of the thirty story tower you've built?"

"It's a good building...I really tried to give it some special things...Some touches to make it different from everything else."

As we walked to Starbucks I asked him about his childhood in Iran. His father had worked his way through the military ranks to become a General. Sonny had been expected to excel at school—he did. And with the winds of trouble beginning to blow in the country he called home Sonny journeyed to America to obtain a Master's Degree in engineering.

I'm struggling now. It turns out to be difficult to not turn a chat into a biography for some reason. The story of an immigrant, who comes to America, goes to USC, brings his family to join him, and makes a fortune, it's the great American tale, but it's not the reason I wanted him to start talking with downtownster—there's more to Sonny Astani than that.

To be continued...

POST 84

A Blogside Chat With Sonny Astani

PART 2

Foreword by Stan Lerner: the concept / purpose of a blogside chat is to develop a conversational relationship with extraordinary people such as City Councilwoman Jan Perry and mega developer / philanthropist Sonny Astani—and others to come in the near future. It is my personal belief that one of the great contributing factors to much of what ills our culture, society, and country today are invisible walls, which stand between politicians, CEO's, spiritual leaders, and the people. Of equal concern are the walls that also seem to be between—rich, middle class, poor, gay, straight, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Republican, and Democrat. It is my hope that PART 2 of my chat with Sonny Astani will be yet another downtownster step toward removing these walls...

As I sat with Sonny Astani at Starbucks LA Live and talked about Downtown, I couldn't help but to be impressed by how much he cared for the community. We spoke a bit about his ten-year plan; he's an engineer so of course he has a ten-year plan for Downtown. My mind wandered to the fact that I rarely have a ten-day plan, which is probably why I'm not the one building a thirty-story tower on Figueroa. Anyway, at this point I asked him about the seventeen million dollar donation he had made to USC, the one and a half million dollar donation to the Skid Row Housing Trust (which helps the chronically ill homeless), and the donation of close to two million dollars to the battered women's shelter.

"I didn't want people to think I just came Downtown to make money. I wanted to make sure that Downtown becomes a better place...See at USC it's important that students learn how to build the cities of the future." He moved his hands around in a circular motion in front of him as if he could visualize and outline the perimeter of the city of the future. "We really have to think about quality of life and sustainability...."

"Skid Row?"

Sonny tilted his head slightly as if to say that this was nothing. "It was just a million five to get them over the hump so they could complete the project. You know ten percent of the homeless, the chronically ill, consume eighty percent of resources...They're really doing some good work down there."

This was enough to even choke someone like me up.

I coughed to clear my throat. "How about the battered women's shelter?"

"It hasn't gone as well as Skid Row in terms of getting a new building built, but still a lot of good work is getting done. And we will get a new facility built when the economy gets better....What about you, how do you feel about Downtown these days?"

"You know Sonny, I think in a lot of ways it's what the world should be. So many different types of people all living in what, maybe fifteen square blocks? And it's not just the racial and religious diversity, it's the socioeconomic diversity added into the pot that makes it such and incredible place." I paused and watched the first of thousands that would be walking by on their way to the Lakers playoff game. "I mean think about it we all go to the same supermarket." I pointed around. "Tim Leiweke the president of AEG, Jam Perry, you, me, the homeless guy—we all go to the same Ralphs...It's a real community made up of every kind of people—and getting better every day."

"That's the idea, to create a city that works for everyone," said Sonny, I think reasonably pleased that I at least understand some of his vision.

We spoke for a couple of more hours—he really knows martial arts and lights up when talking about Tai Chi.

"Tai Chi has done so much for me that I decided to build a Tai Chi park and make it part of Concerto's public space on the corner of 9th and Flower," he said, with an expression that was borderline bemused. And by this I don't mean that he was bemused, but that he understood that people like this not so humble writer would be—until coming to understand the personal connection that the developer has to Tai Chi and his desire to bring it to others.

"I'd really like to go through the building floor by floor with you." It wasn't just a building to me any longer.

Sonny nodded and a slight smile crossed his face. "I could take you now, but I'd rather wait until next week so you can see the models."

It was my turn to nod and smile. "Next week then..."

A week had passed and I showed up with cappuccino in hand. I followed Sonny out the back door and up some stairs—we entered a two bedroom, two bath on the corner of 9th and Figueroa. My first thought was, " _I want to live here. I want to write at that desk looking down at The Pantry or up the Figueroa Corridor. The cars seem to be placed on the street as if it were a work of art. But they move, so it's kinetic art. Nighthawk, if it had been painted in Los Angeles would be something like this_."

Sonny had bent down to open a vent below the massive, almost floor to ceiling, window. "There's nothing like this in any building Downtown. I wanted people to be able to get as much ventilation (fresh air) as they wanted, but of course I didn't want to destroy the aesthetic created by the exterior surface continuity."

I bent down to get a better look at the unique venting, making a real effort to focus on something other than the view. "That's really clever. I see they run along the entire window line. It's too bad they don't do that in all of the new buildings. I don't know if I could live in a building that I couldn't let in some fresh air."

"You know Stan, beside the fresh air, I kind of thought sometimes people would want to be able to hear what's going on outside—it's part of the experience of living in the city."

Let me clarify: Concerto is built to be virtually silent, so if you want to hear what's going on outside it's necessary to open one of these cleverly designed panels. Otherwise all of the hustle and bustle is almost surreal. Art being played out in windows as picture frames—per my earlier thought.

The European kitchen caught my interest. "What type of countertop is that?"

"Caesarstone. I used it because I think people who live in a place like this will want to invite friends over and cook. Good food, good wine, that kind of lifestyle." He pointed at the creamy white counter. "It looks nice like granite and marble, but it's more resistant to stain and scratching, you can really cook on it."

"Wow. You put in gas countertop burners? That must of taken some engineering."

"If you're going to cook, gas is the way to go." Sonny smiled. "And it is very difficult to put gas into a building this size."

We walked through the bedrooms, which were placed on opposite ends of the entry hallway for maximum privacy. The smaller of the two bedrooms was closest to the entry, so as to easily be used as an office, should someone desire to work at home.

Since this is a blogside chat not an architectural review I'll have to ask your forgiveness for this observation: Concerto uses real hardwood floors in all of its units and I really appreciate this.

"C'mon Stan, I want to show you the same model, but on the opposite side with a view of the pool area." Sonny was really enjoying this now. Gone were all the concerns of running a huge development business—it was show and tell time. "The unit I'm about to show you sold to the first person that saw it, but it's a great view of the pool...You know about the pool?"

To be continued...

POST 85

Let's Hygge!

I had walked by the location of the highly anticipated bakery countless times—the corner of 11th and Hope. Hoping (cheap play on words I know) that it would open soon and wondering why the hell a bakery was named Hygge. I know both of the owners, Ray and Helen, and could have asked about the strange name for a bakery, but like that pebble in my shoe that I do nothing about until I get home and put on my jamys (ok I don't wear pajamas but...) I let it alone and endured the annoyance.

Then came the email from Ray inviting me and the rest of the neighborhood to a Grand Opening day of Danish pastry eating. I should point out here, for those that are not familiar with the corner of 11th and Hope that Hygge is at the base of Luma, where Ray also lives upstairs. This little shindig was packed and I did try a few delicious morsels, but to do a proper story I decided to wait until I could come back, sit down comfortably, and try all eighty creations that are baked up fresh daily...The arrangements were made! (not really that dramatic I just sent Ray a text)

What would a Stan Lerner blog be if I didn't say something like, "Hey business owners that aren't downtownsters or happen to be big corporations (AEG) that just want to exploit our ever growing density to make a buck—take note that a little locally owned bakery invited everyone in the neighborhood over for some FREE DANISH!!!" Okay, I'm on vacation in Vegas so I won't go dark, but seriously Hygge joins with Bottega Louie in making the big guys look silly. Better product, better price, and owners that care about the community. And for some reason my friend April The Stripper, who is looking at my screen as I write this masterpiece, has just informed me that Hygge means: to hang out in Danish. Now if she would just go back to rubbing oil on my back and let me finish my blog, she would know that Ray did tell me this very fact...But that's still a bit further along in the story.

So knowing that I have blood sugar as volatile as Mount Saint Helens, I invited Shannon to write this piece—allowing me to gorge on Danish and not worry about being too shaky to take notes. And to call 911 in case I went into some kind of shock...I didn't want Ray or Helen to have to deal with this if I hit the floor. So think of this as a blog about the writing of a blog.

Background

Ray came to America to play jazz saxophone, and did so quite successfully for several years before taking a position at UCLA Medical center, where he met his partner Helen. During this period of Ray's life he could not help but to think of one thing, "There was no Spandauer to be found in LA!"

Spandauer is a pastry made of twenty-seven layers of the most delicate low gluten pastry dough—folded and filled with custard, it strikes smooth, cool, creamy notes on the palate, all in that order. This Spandauer thing, which I shared with Shannon, was so good that I came to understand why people in Denmark hang out at bakeries—I'm not kidding.

HOLD ON

"April, put your top back on. I have a girlfriend these days—she won't understand that you just came over for a swim and got naked." Pout. "Okay, but just the top, leave the string thing on." Smile... "How am I supposed to work under these conditions? And where the hell is Andy, I thought he was bringing lunch?"

Where was I?

Great there are kids peaking over the fence—April The Stripper. I should mention here that my doctor's orders to rest are the reason that I'm staying at my friend Dave The Jew's hacienda in Vegas and not at a hotel.

"Hey guys take a picture it'll last longer!...No, I was joking put those cell phones away!!!" To be honest I don't blame them. I wish I could have gotten a glimpse of April topless in a pool when I was their age. Although I do have fond memories of Phoebe Cates in "Fast Times At Ridgemnont High". And since I have yet to mention that Ray was born and raised in Denmark, let me do so now—thus his love of Spandauer.

TASTING

So there I sat with Shannon as Ray pulled up a chair two pink boxes in hand. I wasted no time in opening a box and cutting a Spandauer in half. It was as described previously and I'll take it a step further—what LA was missing. Next I sliced a Morning Poppy down the middle. This one looked a little dry and frankly I would have never ordered it if I just saw it in the case, but once in my mouth it screamed, "This is what you should eat every morning for breakfast!" Funny, apparently a book isn't the only thing that you should not judge by its cover. As Shannon was making a note about a pastry called a Linz (because of its shape) I tried to eat the Raspberry Roumelade.

"Are you going to eat all of the Raspberry?"

"Well not now I'm not," I said reluctantly cutting her side in on some of the filling I was trying to hog for myself.

The pastry at Hygge is fit for royalty because the chef is Henrich Gram and he actually did work for a bakery that supplied the palace of the Queen of Denmark. Remember, baking is serious business in Denmark, so bakers on the level of Mr. Gram not only have a four-year degree in baking they also have a two-year degree in confection. But six years of school and twenty-five years of experience are not what make Henrich Gram the master baker that he is—it's his passion for baking. And you better have passion when your six-day workweek starts every morning at 3:00 a.m.

Thankfully, Ray had taken Shannon back for a tour of the kitchen, this allowed me to sit and eat the rest of the pastries without sharing. And as I did this, I stared at a picture of Copenhagen that hangs behind the counter. I wondered why Ray would leave such a beautiful place with such nice people and bakeries on every corner. "Baking began in Vienna, but it was perfected in Denmark," they say and I believe.

Not too long after finishing the last of the contents of the first of the pink boxes I asked Ray the very question I had just been pondering.

"You know Stan, in America you can do anything or become anything that you want...I think one of the best things about this country is that people come from all over the world and bring what they like best from their own cultures here. So we have the best of everything here."

I could write an essay on what I learned about baking in the course of this interview / tasting, but what makes what I do such an incredible experience are the things that I learn, which are not so expected. Downtown LA is a much better place now because my friend Ray Lee dreamed of opening a bakery. But really our whole country is a much better place now because my friend Ray Lee decided to set an example: think of the best thing you can contribute to this country, work hard, and make it happen.

POST 86

Why Pay To Bury MJ

The story a few days ago was buried in the Los Angeles Times—far less conspicuously than the King of Pop, who stopped at Staple's Center to say goodbye to 17,000 of his closest friends. The tale is a simple one; taxpayers are going to get stuck with the 1.4 million dollar expense for security and services required to have had a Michael Jackson memorial service at Staple's Center. Mayor Villaraigosa, who for the record I've always gone easy on (we're both from East LA and we both went to UCLA), has stated his firm belief that the city should pay for such an event...This firm belief is undoubtedly rooted in the Mayor's close relationship with AEG and AEG President Tim Leiweki, who for the record I like as a person—even though I often take AEG and his staff to task.

Mayor Villaraigosa should consider this: he was barely reelected against a field of nobodies—if I recall with an embarrassing 55.56 percent of the vote. Although it seems like a strange correlation to make, he has also been the face of LA Live—more than Tim Leiweki President and CEO and far more than Philip Anschutz the reclusive owner. AEG may be a loyal financial supporter of Mayor Villaraigosa, but the company has become so unpopular in the community that the Mayor is now paying the political price for his association. And make no mistake about it—this 1.4 million might be the straw that breaks what should have been an incredible political career—not because it is such a staggering sum of money, but because the city of Los Angeles is in such financial straits—

And it is AEG that should be paying for these expenses not the taxpayers of Los Angeles.

President and CEO of AEG Tim Leiweki asserted in the LA Times that AEG shouldn't have to pay for the service held at their property because they didn't do it to make a profit. And he suggested that those of us who dare to think that AEG should pay are publicity seekers. THE POT CALLS THE KETTLE BLACK! Why did AEG have a memorial service for Michael Jackson at Staple's center? To craft a positive image for the King of Pop, which AEG is heavily invested in. It defies credulity to suggest that AEG's business interest did not benefit from the memorial service held at the AEG owned property. And it is this type of preposterous lie that makes the community loath the LA Live development.

Downtownster is prepared to argue all of the ways that AEG specifically benefited from the publicity stunt of having the memorial service for Michael Jackson at Staple's Center. But is this really necessary? Isn't it enough that on a non-event night LA Live is so dead that a bowling ball could roll through it, not only not hitting a single person, but not being noticed any more than a tree falling in the middle of woods. Downtownster warned several months ago that the lack of use of the public space at LA Live for the benefit of the local community would be a gathering storm that would eventually sink the project—sticking the community for 1.4 million, is the equivalent of taking the bucket meant for bailing water out of a ship and lowering it into the ocean, filling it, and then dumping the water onto the already sinking vessel.

True, LA Live is filled with credit worthy tenants that have signed long term leases, so management might think that there is no reason to care about the community, but really, if downtownster was a tenant our lawyers would already be taking a good look at our lease and all of the representations in it. The same way the city should not only be handing AEG the bill for their Michael Jackson extravaganza, but should be doing some serious oversight of LA Live and reporting to the community as to whether or not AEG is upholding all of its covenants with respect to the two hundred and seventy million dollar tax credit it received. Because any company that would stick the taxpayers for 1.4 million...would probably...Well you can fill in the blanks.

One final thought. I've lived in Los Angeles for all of my forty-four years and my family arrived here almost a hundred years ago—I've seen them come and I've seen them go. If a company comes to our community and costs us money, maybe it's time that a company such as this goes back to where it came from.

I hear Denver Colorado is a nice place.

POST 87

No Defending LA Live

Funny, that hundreds of thousands of people have read my blogs either about LA Live or LA Live tenants and only two people have ever bothered to offer a comment in disagreement with the facts as I've presented them—that's a pretty amazing statistic. So when the first comment of the two was submitted I had my doubts about its legitimacy, but I let it go. Yesterday, we received the second comment that disagreed with the facts as I've presented them with respect to LA Live, actually we received it twice, so please read both and note that the comment is referring to my blog "LA Live's St. Patrick's Day Massacre".

Comment 1:

"do you really think bashing la live is going to get you anything? we as a community should be supporting everyone and talking bad about someone on a BLOG. you're a jerk."

Comment 2:

"oops, typo.

we as a community should be supporting everyone and NOT talking bad about someone on a BLOG. you're a jerk."

Now most of my readers know that I take being part of the Downtown community pretty seriously—I've lived Downtown for fourteen years and of course I founded downtownster. I was also a major supporter of LA Live until the time I concluded that AEG had betrayed the community and my trust. I met with Michael Roth, LA Live's Vice President of Communications, he made promises that he did not keep—I've been more than fair to LA Live, I was willing to give them a second chance, and frankly for the good of the community, still would. But not by compromising on what I believe is right. And certainly not because of comments that call me a jerk.

AND WHAT ABOUT THAT COMMENT FROM THE CONCERNED MEMBER OF OUR COMMUNITY?

Here's the problem for big corporate, corrupt, America—the Internet and blogs like downtownster have become the great equalizer. So now big corporate, corrupt, America is trying to defend itself—by lying. That's right, companies like AEG either own their own blogs or employ people to post bogus comments in order to defend their interest around the Internet. AEG owns the examiner.com, which allows them to examine their own interest favorably. And apparently their tenant Outback Steakhouse Inc., the owner of Fleming's at LA Live, has a bogus commenter doing their bidding—because, although the comment above was posted anonymously a trace of the IP address identified Outback Steakhouse Inc. 2202 N. Westshore Blvd. 5th Floor Tampa, Florida 33607 as the origination source. And yes we even know the name of the person whose workstation the comment came from, Patrick.

HOW DID A GUY WHO SENDS EMAIL FROM FLORIDA BECOME PART OF OUR COMMUNITY?

He's not...And frankly, I can't imagine what type of whore a person like this must be to throw away their integrity to defend a company from the truth...Hear this well bogus commenters...downtownster writes the truth and exemplifies why the founding fathers were such advocates and protectors of free speech.

So dear readers, to discourage corporate America from trying to interfere with the truth that we work so hard to bring to you, I'm going to repost at the bottom of this blog "LA Live's St. Patrick's Day Massacre", "Three Things To Miss Downtown", and "Why Pay To Bury MJ?" I urge you to read them, and use our share function at the bottom of each post to send this post to all of your friends—this helps to move the content way up on search engines and corporate, corrupt, America loves this.

Also, while downtownster loves getting legitimate comments, I promise the next bogus commenter that we will not only post your work address, we'll post your full name and make sure everyone knows that you are fraud—Promise.

PLEASE TAKE A FEW MINUTES TO READ THE THREE POST'S THAT SOME VERY RICH PEOPLE DON'T WANT YOU TO READ!!!

AND YES I REALLY DID POST THESE BLOG AGAIN

POST 88

Provecho

I was thinking about things to do Downtown on a Wednesday night—Jazz and Modern Mexican Food crossed my mind. Not as arbitrarily as it might sound given an encounter I was lucky enough to have with the lovely Lauren Brand at the June, Marketing Round Table.

"Lauren Brand, with Provecho and Remedy," she stood and said. This introduction is part of what happens at the meeting put on by Hal Bastian and company—Downtown BID.

After the meeting I was sure to run into Lauren, and she was sure to inform me that I should take her up on an offer to visit Provecho for some Wednesday Night Jazz and Modern Mexican Cuisine. Somehow we snuck a Happy Hour in, which was more than enough to convince me to trust Lauren on her Wednesday night suggestion.

The story of Provecho really doesn't start with all of this PR / blogging talk...It's more of a love story that began when a young girl named Jill and a boy named Gabriel worked at a restaurant in Pasadena called Mi Piace—Jill went on to college, so did Gabriel. Jill graduated college and opened Café Citron, a tiny neighborhood place in Monrovia. Gabriel went on to become Chef Gabriel Morales...Then Jill and Gabriel got married.

It does not take a cognitive epiphany to understand that Jill and Gabriel were destined to open a restaurant—lucky for us downtownsters.

Provecho's décor is what I call high end soothing. Yes, it has a hint of modern, which foreshadows Chef Gabriel's take on cooking.

But before discussing the food at Provecho I must mention two of the best drinks of downtown libation lore. The Provecho Margarita and the La Sancha...I ordered both as my girlfriend and I sat in the comfortable booth with a window-side view of Wilshire. I should mention here that my girlfriend doesn't have the same appreciation for my hundred hour workweeks as the readers of my books and blogs, so Lauren making sure that she was invited made a happy life experience possible. And then some incredible Jazz filled the air.

The Provecho Margarita begins with a cool refreshing note—muddled cucumber and fresh lime, so Chef Gabriel. The second note is hot—chili lime rim, so Chef Gabriel. And of course the third semi sour note, a must in all Margaritas. As I swished this fine agave nectar around my palate I noticed the girlfriend smiling after her first sip of the La Sancha—so I took it from her and proceeded to wash down my Margarita.

The La Sancha is a complex mixology and although I am certainly qualified to break it down atom by atom for you, I won't. Suffice it to say that the overwhelming goodness of this concoction comes from the combination and contrast of pomegranate juice to jalapeno—this drink is hot and sweet all at the same time.

Because the most significant accomplishment of Provecho or the soul of the matter is, as aforementioned, Chef Gabriel's ability to put his own modern translation on traditional dishes I would like to suggest any meal at Provecho start with a Grilled Caesar Salad. That's right, he grills the lettuce and cleverly incorporates cilantro croutons.

The lemongrass guacamole is another good example of the Chef Gabriel twist. But not because of the guacamole, which is good, however the warm tortilla served with this dish is a superstar. And the spicy tuna tostadas should absolutely be ordered to accompany the lemon grass guacamole.

I suggest to the folks working in the kitchen at Wolfgang Puck's Bar and Grill LA Live that they try the spicy tuna tostadas at Provecho, so they can experience for themselves what their tuna tartare should taste like. Oh, and take note that priced at ten dollars the spicy tuna tostadas at Provecho are not only much better than the tuna tartare at Wolfgang Puck's—it's seven dollars less.

Ceviche at Provecho is a serious affair, and just so there is no surprise, Chef Gabriel's approach is more of a Crudo style. The highlight for me was the halibut prepared with a black truffle sauce, sherry vinegar, and red onion escabeche. I can't help but wonder what the Chef would do with the ceviche of my childhood; I imagine the cocktail sauce would have some kind of Chef Gabriel twist that would have me writing still more effusive words. Ah, ceviche for barbarians like I, but now I digress.

Because of more dietary limitations than I care to bore my dear readers with, I will just say that, while skilled in the kitchen, I am not a restaurant critic—I have Alec Silverman for that. But I am a lifestyle expert with considerable credentials, and I can tell you that Provecho is a great addition to all of our lifestyles. Atmosphere, food, and Jazz Wednesdays are all flawless. Perhaps the only challenge this restaurant faces is that it does not have the same visibility from the street as some of the other restaurants in the neighborhood—think Bottega Louie. But once found, Provecho, which means enjoy your meal, delivers a very enjoyable meal indeed.

And there is something to be said for feeling like you've discovered something—next time I'm going back for the Sea Bass.

POST 89

Society Café Encore

Foreword by Stan Lerner: it's a working vacation in Las Vegas, so while this is a dining piece on http://www.blogsincity.com it's a travel piece on downtownster—the job has its good points.

Because I was born and raised in Los Angeles it was only natural that Las Vegas became my second home. In 2003 I came for a weekend and stayed for a year—producing the "Night Tribe" show at the Rio Hotel and Casino—I love Vegas. So, when my writing career went on to encompass blogging, I started downtownster.com, I was sure that the next city after LA that I'd be blogging in would be Vegas Baby!

Now every good blog needs some regular characters, so let me take this opportunity to introduce Carlos Harper. I met Carlos when he was a young fellow working at the Rio's pool. He was arguably the best pool guy at the Rio, which meant I was sure to recruit him to do some promoting for "Night Tribe"—he was good at promoting as well. Carlos went on to college, graduated, worked in real estate, and became a VIP host with Pure Group—a star on the rise. As you can imagine he knows Vegas and even though I used to be the boss I've come to rely on him to keep me up on what's going in this great town.

The call went something like this:

"Hey little brother, you up for lunch?" I asked driving towards Desert Inn.

"Sure, where do you feel like going?" he responded.

"Up to you. But first stop Starbucks."

"Have you ever been to Society?"

"No. Where is it?"

"At Encore. Trust me you're going to like it."

"Starbucks?"

"Meet me at Las Vegas Blvd. and Blue Diamond."

Two cappuccinos in my blood, the top down, and Carlos riding shotgun I was on my way to Encore, which is one of my favorite hotels in the world—particularly the Eastside Lounge.

Funny enough I had noticed Society when I was at Encore's opening, I thought it was going to be a 24/7 café. As it turned out, it's not, and upon entering with Carlos I noticed that they added a bar.

"Mark, this is my friend Stan, he's the writer I told you about," Carlos said, introducing me to his friend Mark Steele who happens to be the Assistant General Manager... I remembered seeing Mark around when he worked for Pure...I might have even met him at the Grand Opening, but couldn't remember for sure, which given the bottle of Blue Label I drank that night, is understandable.

Mark sat us at a great table in the bar area and the bar itself does really add something to the place—a kind of excitement. Frankly, when I was at the opening I remember thinking that it might look a little high end to just be a café, so the bar is a good move.

"You have to try our Mojito—we have five different types."

"I'll take one of each." Carlos gave me that look. "Just make that one," I said changing my order to something more respectable.

Let me put this simply: go to Society and order the Strawberry Mojito. I could have put down four or five, but since I was on my best behavior I just drank one...and then finished off Carlos's pineapple version, which was also a winner.

The Mac & Cheese Ball appetizer went perfectly with the Mojito. And the chopped salad was light and tasty—I ordered mine without turkey. As for the entrée, I had it on good word that Steve Wynn eats the Fish 'n' Chips, and I had just written a blog that singled out Fleming's at LA Live and Chaya Downtown as having the worst Fish 'n' Chips I've ever eaten. If you browse the dining section on downtownster you can read this review for yourself. But to put it succinctly I stated that OPEC had to increase production to compensate for the amount of oil that went into these foul tasting things. So, on a quest for good Fish 'n' Chips I ordered.

A nice size portion landed on the table, enough for two people to share—and were clearly made on premise. I liked that they used a high quality Halibut, there was so little oil that they almost appeared to be baked. I asked Mark about this and he explained that they bread the fish and flash-fry it, then bread it and fry it again, which keeps the oiliness to a minimum. Hey I'm sold. I ended with a cappuccino made from a special blend of beans roasted in Seattle for Society. Now if they would just leave this place open 24 / 7 I'd be a happy man.

Blew out of Encore and headed back down to Starbucks. Ran into Dean from Elite Realty, but that's another story.

POST 90

Special Guest Barista

A FEW MONTHS AGO

"Another Jack and Coke," I said, ordering my fifth drink—I try to drink minimally at Lakers' games. "Look Ray, you have to have an espresso machine at the bakery," I urged.

"We're going to have coffee," responded Ray politely. He's from Denmark they're polite.

"That's great, but you have to have espresso." I wasn't taking no for an answer. "Look how busy the Starbucks right around the corner is." Referring to Starbucks at 11th and Grand. "You could take half their espresso business in your first month...They don't even make their drinks by hand...And they still get the orders wrong half the time."

"I don't know why I come to these games," chimed in Ed, as in Ed Yawitz our host. "Stan's right Ray, you have to have espresso drinks."

"Hell, I'll be your barista—no charge, if you're worried about the extra staff," I offered getting carried away in the moment.

Ed nodded. "Stan's a world class barista—I'll come every day."

Ray hadn't had as much to drink as I. "Okay, I'll put in an espresso machine, but you have to come in as our barista, not all the time, but..."

I held up my hand. "I'm there. I'll be your special guest barista and I'll train up some protégés."

A FEW MONTHS LATER

Ray opened Hygee Bakery (1106 South Hope St.) and if you've read my blog "Let's Hygee" you know that I was there crafting a very fine story, which I later wrote while on vacation in Las Vegas.

So on my way back from Vegas I received a text from Ray. "We've got the espresso machine." I texted him back, that I'd be in the next day.

And there shiny and new was indeed the espresso machine Ed and myself had tortured Ray for months to get.

"Are you ready to do your thing?" asked Ray.

I think there was some curiosity as to whether I was as good as my reputation had suggested. You see, in today's world it's strange to be competent, let alone good, at more than one thing. When I was growing up my father pounded it into me that no matter what a man does he should do it to perfection. So with this in mind I whipped up a few drinks for Ray, the staff, and myself.

"That's the best I've ever had," all agreed.

"I'll be in from 8 to 10 tomorrow morning. Tell everyone it's half off drinks when I'm making them," I said, heading off to finish my blog on how scummy it is for AEG to stick the city with the 1.4 million dollar bill for the Michael Jackson memorial publicity stunt.

"I'll send out an email," Ray's voice trailed after me.

I slept well that night, dreams of perfect white foam in my head. You see, foam must be stretched then textured—it should look like smooth white paint before being poured into your cup at a 45-degree angle.

I woke with a sense of excitement... Funny, it was almost exactly a year ago that my novel "Stan Lerner's Criminal" won the Grand Prize at the Hollywood Book Festival...This wasn't the same kind of excitement as hearing your name called out among a crowd of your peers, rather it was the excitement of being able to give people a great experience that they otherwise might not have had...I did my barista stretches and headed out the door.

Arriving a good half an hour before I was supposed to start there were already early patrons in need of espressos, cappuccinos, and lattes, so I wasted no time in suiting up—it felt good to have a chef's hat and coat back on my body. Soon came the constant motion of pulling shots, steaming milk, and the oh so important, steady pour.

Much is said about the bean, and I do enjoy working with a great bean, but the truth be told—the way your drink tastes is almost completely up to the barista. And ninety-nine out of a hundred baristas are not baristas at all.

And yes an 8:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. appearance became a 7:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. appearance, but "Hygee" does mean to hang out and be close. What better way to do this than over a real handmade espresso drink and pastry?

Wondering when I'll be back at Hygee? Wondering when you'll be able to get those espresso drinks at half-price again?

Okay, I'll be behind the bar tomorrow, Monday, July 20th, 8:00 a.m. but I have to be at the Marketing Round Table at 2:00, and I have a lot of writing to do, so get there by noon and we'll Hygee.

POST 91

Short Trip -- Long Beach

Some of my earliest childhood memories float through my mind like the fog that rolls toward the California shores, particularly Belmont Shores Long Beach, where my father procured a rental every summer for our family. I was too young to understand that this was not the most tony of beach resorts, but did take note that my father often told other adults that he preferred the weather in Belmont Shores to any other costal city. And my father did have an aversion to big shots and people who fancied themselves chic.

As years passed on, the family vacations came to an end. And as more years passed my connection to Belmont Shores, like so many of the great wonders of youth, became a distant memory relegated to an occasional visit.

I pause to think now about my dream of buying the beautiful brick house that to this day sits on a corner of an island called Naples, which juts into the bay at its most favorable bend. In my lifetime I earned the money many times over to buy this spot so beautifully balanced between the earth and sea, but the foolishness of still larger dreams caused this one to vanish like the sandcastles of children with the rise of the tide.

My friend Ed, EY, Big Ed, or Edward Yawitz, he answers to all cheerfully so, grew up in Montebello a few blocks from I. And his family too escaped the heat of August by family vacation in Belmont Shores—and many other neighbors did so as well, it was the Catskill's West. Even though many friends of my childhood kayaked in the bay in my company, and broke bread at my wooden table on the patio of The Beach Burger, or stood in line next to me at Woody's Goodies, it had never occurred to me that their dreams had taken the shape of my own. But unlike my easily corrupted, by greed and grandiosity, vision of existence my friend Ed bought a home on the shorefront of Alamitos Bay, Belmont Shores, Long Beach.

"Why don't you come down to Long Beach and spend the night? We'll paddleboard around the island," Ed suggested whilst we drove around the city smoking Cuban cigars in an American made truck he uses for work on occasion.

"Okay..." said I.

The home, built in 1903, was the first on the peninsula. Originally a Grand Victorian it was the sales office for much of the neighboring beachfront property. Later the first home on the bay laid claim to being the first brothel of the beach. And then came the remodel that converted the magnificent home to an apartment building—with three thousand square feet preserved ground floor, in front, for a hint of grandeur past.

And it is this valuable footage that my friend Ed has turned into a vacation rental. It warms me to think that other families are experiencing the summers as I once did. Ed is a wealthy man, he does not need to rent out such a special place—he won't admit this. But in his heart I see that he wants others to know what we know about this little part of Earth.

I paddleboarded up and down the bay, after an unfortunate moment in which I attempted to mount the surfboard like contraption—it slipped from underneath and I landed face first in the shallow water. "Warmer than I remember," I thought to myself, as Ed and several children accompanied by their parents had a great laugh. I chose to make it a teaching moment. And after failing so miserably the first time, I tried again and succeeded excessively.

Post paddle, I took a luxurious hot shower. This particular cascade of pleasure can only be experienced by walking directly from the sand to the shower bath—and even an adult must smile at the sand that washes down the drain after finding its way into the most inappropriate of places.

Ed took Frankie (another of his friends) and I to dinner on Second Street. We sat on the patio of a restaurant, the name of which I do not recall, and ate Mediterranean...it was good. The other direction and over the bridge is Michael's one of the best restaurants in California—I recommend dropping in for some fine Northern Italian Cuisine, but not dressed as our motley crew happened to be in beach shorts and flip flops. It was joyous to see that Second Street was still a lively place—many a pretty, blond haired, beach girl strolled by. "Too old for them now," I thought to myself. And admittedly this thought made me a little sad.

I slept the night, as I hadn't in many years. The warmth and safety of a family I no longer have, just a ghost now, comforted me...no cuddled me, throughout and I do not recall my dreams or if I dreamt at all. I woke up to an empty place, Ed had departed long before the sand in my eyes, but although normally I would have minded this absence of a friend—I didn't. I stood in the rear of the long hallway looking out the wall of windows that spied the sand and the water. And the warmth of my childhood and family returned.

I walked along the Bayshore Walk, which at some point becomes the Bayshore Drive toward Second Street. My motivation was black gold and a sense of excitement prevailed in my thoughts at experiencing my first cappuccino from It's A Grind. It's A Grind occupies the location where my mother took me for my first Fish 'n' Chips—at a place with a funny name "H. Salt..." The bay seemed smaller as I strolled, but of course I am much larger. I stopped in front of the apartment building my family had first stayed in—such old memories. "I'm glad they restored it back to its original look," I thought. It had for a decade or so been made to look French Quarter—truly awful! I gazed out at the water and watched as my father and I swam...

Woody's Goodies is now the Kayak Shack. The Beach Burger has become Barry's Burger. Gondolas, which are new to me, have been renting for twenty-five years...Rides through the canals of Naples Island departing from Leeway Sailing Club. But my own Sabot Sailboat departed that same dock many years before. And they still block off Bayshore Drive from traffic during the summer days to protect the kids, which have replaced my friends and I.

"Jerry Lewis had some great parties in that Penthouse," I almost said out loud, looking across the bay. I recall the lifeguards talking about this. What were their names? Rob something and Randy Davis. Rob was going to go to dental school... The library at the corner of Second Street and Bayshore stood behind me as I thought about these things. And I watched a beautifully formed girl emerge from the bay, walk to her bike, and leave. "I used to do that...I used to swim in the bay..." The library, forty years and I've never entered it—should have all those years ago. So I left it alone and kept walking.

Ed, knowing me since my sixth year on Earth, guessed I'd be searching out coffee and guided the Avalanche to the curb. He shouted something out of the window, but in my distracted state of mind I did not hear it—I know his drink, skinny vanilla latte. Upon arriving at the counter I was greeted by a creature so lovely I'm reluctant to call her a girl or woman or anything else so pedestrian. The skin is so fresh in the morning at the beach...Because I am a barista by nature I can be churlish in assessing coffee or espresso experiences, however the quality of the drink in my hand was equal to the Siren that had taken my order.

Ed took me to an elegant breakfast at Chuck's...No cell phones allowed and they don't accept plastic—I found this out when I tried to pay.

I spent the rest of the day on the large covered veranda that fronts Ed's vacation rental. I wrote, I spoke on the phone, and contemplated the difference between surviving life and living it. Ed worked around the place getting it ready for this weekend's occupants—lucky folks. If at this point you're entertaining the thought of a stay—call Ed 626 298-5444...He doesn't stand on formality, so just tell him you read this blog and decided to call.

When we left, late in the afternoon, the melancholy spirit of the day after Labor Day fell upon me. Not because it is September, to the contrary, I am not confused that the very moment I am speaking of is precisely the dead of summer. No the dark cloud of which I speak is now, too, a fond memory because it is the day every year that my family left that nice little place—only a few stone's throw, away, from Downtown.

POST 92

Is AEG Behind Michael Jackson's Murder???

In an explosive report delivered this weekend by Fox News's Geraldo Rivera...Rivera went well beyond implying that Michael Jackson's concert promoter, AEG, had an interest in the King of Pop's Death—he used context and comments by Michael Jackson's mother, Katherine, to accuse AEG of having the man killed whose comeback tour they were promoting. At the root of Rivera's allegation is an insurance policy for seventeen million dollars that he reports AEG wants to collect on. And adding a tanker truckload of fuel to the fire, is a deal between AEG and Sony to turn AEG's footage of Michael Jackson's preparations for his concert tour into two feature length motion pictures—GERALDO SAYS AEG IS TO BE PAID SIXTY MILLION DOLLARS FOR THIS FOOTAGE!!!

Of course AEG denies Geraldo's allegations...And I know for a fact that AEG President Tim Leiweke has said that this story is going away today—I assume he's pulling some of those power strings AEG has paid for or threatening Fox with legal action; take your pick. But what everyone has to be asking right now is why did this very same person say that AEG had no financial interest in Michael Jackson's funeral event held at Staple's Center? This lack of financial interest is how Mr. Leiweke justified sticking the city with a 1.4 million dollar bill for event related city services. Trying to dissuade ticket holders from cashing in 50 million dollars worth of tickets + 17 million in insurance money (according to Geraldo) + 60 million dollar movie deal = 127 million dollars of financial interest, if Rivera is right.

So, I've gone after AEG for a number of issues ranging from taking 300 million in tax credits from the public and not giving the community the events in the public space it promised to being a bad corporate citizen to being in the blogging business and not properly disclosing the obvious conflict of interest when making Tammy Billings the director of marketing for LA Live also the LA Live Examiner. But turning an enormous profit on the apparent murder of Michael Jackson? I write a pretty good novel every now and then and even I couldn't dream this one up.

I hate the corrupt corporate culture that AEG has brought to our town. They've taken our tax credits, involved themselves in our politics, brought nothing but outsiders to manage a project meant to vacuum money back to the Big Boss Phil Anschutz in Denver—and now everyone in Los Angeles has to suffer through the embarrassment of a report that accuses AEG of being in some way responsible for the death of Michael Jackson.

In the first blog I wrote critical of AEG LA Live I made it clear that I had been a supporter of the project and had hoped to have a business relationship with the project that would allow independent blogging 24 / 7 – this did not happen. And I went on to say that putting downtownster's own financial interest aside it was a very bad business decision by AEG not to have a media presence that demanded transparency and couldn't be bought—a bad business decision and a major red flag. However, when I consider all of the aforementioned, I've met and spoken to Tim Leiwke on several occasions and I can't imagine AEG / his involvement in this Michael Jackson fiasco being anything close to Geraldo Rivera's sensational allegations; and they are allegations even if couched in innuendo.

Even I, AEG's harshest critic, can't get on board with the report I watched this weekend. But I've been calling AEG out for months and they should have been listening. Tim Leiweke and gang need to seriously rethink how they do business and what their responsibilities are to the local community. That includes not getting involved in situations that are so murky Geraldo comes to town.

Twenty years ago the rag known as the LA Times did a hit job on me. So make no mistake about it, I know what a hit job is and downtownster will never be involved in this kind of storytelling. But because downtownster has never been given the access we've asked for I cannot defend LA Live from what's being alleged, but I can say this—Geraldo Rivera and the Jackson Family need to clarify their allegations and put some real proof on the table.

And then let the chips fall where they may.

POST 93

If You Build It They Will Come?

Because one can never truly know what lies beyond the next door I, on occasion, write about what was once reserved for my most personal of conversations—politics and business. You see, I admittedly have a passion for both subjects, but in the ideal sense—what people do in the reality of politics and business brings to my heart, darkness, and this is for me a source of great frustration. But in this moment of extreme egomania I can't help but to think that I may say something that will help others tread on a better path...Business in America has lost its way, and government intervention / artificial stimulus aside, it has fallen, appropriately so, on the members of the business community to be the causation of a now much needed, tectonic like shift in the business PARADIGM.

First, the context of my thoughts on today's downward spiral of business is from the vantage of growing up, born and raised, to do OLD BUSINESS—my father was a World War II veteran who opened a car lot on Whittier Blvd. and later or additionally an auto parts business—he was a straight forward businessman. Because of my age (44) I came to majority as a businessman in the 1980's the cradle of the commercial digital revolution, which much to my father's concern I embraced. The net effect being that I think about business today, as everyone should, in terms of what was, what is, and what will be. Or more simply put; did the old way yield a better result than the new way or is the inverse true and worthy of evolution.

"When times are good people drink. When times are bad people drink more!" an eloquent and insightful cliché. Do not step into the trap of thinking that clichés are myths in need of debunking, because more often than not a cliché articulates the most universal of truths. However, not all clichés are born from truth and great harm can come from such ideas.

"If you build it they will come," a line from a movie, now a cliché, but not exactly a universal truth. And be frightened, because this flaw of thought has permeated American business culture. IF YOU BUILD IT THEY MAY NOT COME!!! Please feel free to quote this humble writer. And because my vocation is telling people about things I am the first to divulge the obvious that it is in my interest to weigh in. That being said, business is as much about perception as it is product—you can have the best product in the world, but if nobody knows of its existence, financial challenge will be imminent, and that simple fact, AWARENESS, only broaches perception. A product can be great, people can be aware of it, and it still won't sell—

American Cars For Example:

Since the time of acquiring my license I've owned and driven a number of cars that rank on the level referred to as Dream Cars—especially in the days of my youth. Some of these cars were capable of extraordinary feats of acceleration and handling, but I drove them as much to impress others as I did for love of motoring—and I do love motoring. Yet, I can say with authority that several American made cars are better than all of the dream cars I've driven collectively. I grew up in the business, I've driven the cars people dream about, and a good Ford F-150 Truck or GMC Denali would be my choice today...But this fact contradicts perception—and the perception that foreign made automobiles are better than those made in America has been the ruination of the American Auto Industry.

Forgive me, but I would be remiss if I did not mention the "Beryl Wolk Factor". Beryl (late 70's) is a marketing guru residing in Jenkintown PA, "who can sell ice to an Eskimo." While I have marveled at Beryl's brilliant ideas and understanding of how to motivate people to buy—I have chosen throughout my career to focus on searching out great products and experiences to tell people about. I think it is an amazing talent to be able to sell anything to anybody, but to only sell what one believes in, raises business to a higher level. My father would never have sold a car he himself wouldn't have driven. Downtownster would never take money from a business that I myself would not be a patron of...Imagine if just a few years ago mortgage bankers hadn't processed loans for customers that they themselves wouldn't have lent money to...

In a more microcosmic sense I have noticed here in Southern California, Los Angeles, and Downtown LA, a disturbing trend among businesses, both owned by large companies and small alike, to think that owning a business or even a good business is enough to succeed—IT'S NOT! Remember the aforementioned cliché regarding the motivation to imbibe drinks of the distilled variety... "When business is good, advertise. WHEN BUSINESS IS BAD ADVERTISE MORE!!!" Or in this day in age with the help of advertising, marketing, and social media strategies, ENGAGE IN CUSTOMER ACQUISITION!!! Consumers are bombarded daily by bad news, often misreported, by 24/7 media sources. To counter act this, each and every business must overcome and take control of the conversation about who they are and what they do. A business must decide who their customer is and acquire that customer—and this should cost money.

A vital component of the disease infecting business with the idea that it is not necessary to acquire customers today is selfishness or in the worst cases greed. A business that is not eager to pay to acquire customers declares that it does not desire to be part of the chain that throughout American history has made the American economy the greatest wealth generator in the known story of mankind. In my father's generation neighbors rushed to give business to another neighbor when he or she opened a new business. It was a particularly great honor to be the very first customer. And the owner of the business always framed the first dollar, then put it on display for all to see, for as long as the cash register rang. Why such excitement? Certainly not because people perceived such a new business as an elaborate vacuum cleaner that would suck dollars out of the local economy, build a mansion for the owner in a far off city, and provide business to business revenue exclusively to friends and family of the owner. No, I suggest the contrary. People did and still should support businesses that are members in good standing of the community. Not that they just make the obligatory offerings to the local business organizations, but that they actually do business in the neighborhood and with the people that are putting food on their proverbial kitchen table.

Every month I attend a Marketing Round Table...I do not write about what is said there...But on occasion I will refer to procedure or purpose or in this instance a philosophical lesson:

All attendees of the Round Table are given a chance to stand and speak briefly about their business interest. And let me be clear, this is a great opportunity. However, the vast majority of those who speak simply tell the others in the room about what special or specials that the business they represent happens to be offering in the coming month. Because I live and work Downtown I get some benefit out of this, but the majority of the Round Table attendees, to the best of my knowledge, are not downtownsters. I can't help, but to wonder sometimes why one restaurant marketing specialist is telling twenty other restaurant marketing specialists about the new Happy Hour special at their restaurant. Do the marketing specialist all go to each other's places for Happy Hour?

Every reader of this blog knows that the purpose of a marketing meeting, BUSINESS TO BUSINESS, is to develop new ideas and strategic alliances. And again let me be crystal clear, the organizers specify during the course of every meeting that this is its purpose...

But assignment of blame in either the macro or micro sense is of no relevance beyond the philosophical. The origin of this state of egoistic, to the point of self-destruction, business practice shall make for fine intellectual chatter at the dining table many nights into the future. However, the pressing matter at hand is a profoundly needed major shift in PARADIGM. It is incumbent on all members of the business community today, to utterly reject the culture of "getting something for nothing." And it is urgent that business investment in product development, customer experience, and customer acquisition be the first and foremost priority of all members of the business community. It is once again time for investment before dividends. The pendulum has swung back to a need for many of the business principles of old. The customers have spoken. Are you listening? Do you have something to tell them?

I hope you tell them soon...

POST 94

Friday Light Blog "IN DEVELOPMENT"

July 2009 is gone, August now races towards conclusion and I'm thinking about my next adventure. But a haunting ghost of July continues to cause my mind and spirit to be restless. Perhaps more weakness than strength is my proclivity to be sentimental.

A comment on Facebook from my childhood friend Lisa was all that was needed to transport me back to age thirteen and our first game of ping-pong—I loved Lisa all those years ago. I could spend a whole day lying on the grass, staring at the sky, and thinking about her. What if? What if? Neil Young's voice is singing, "Old man take a look at my life..."

And to further cosset my self-indulgent emotions, July 2009 marked the first anniversary of two significant events in my life, not as significant and pure good as thirteen-year-old love, but significant nonetheless. A year ago, July 2008, my book "Stan Lerner's Criminal" won the Grand Prize at the 2008 Hollywood Book Festival. And to promote myself as a writer, at the urging of Todd Sims (founder of GrooveTickets and friend of the past), I committed publicly in cyberspace to become a regular blogger. Downtown Oliver Brown was not a thought at this time. In fact it was my blog Erin Brockovich's Daughter that was the impetus for Oliver. And it was Oliver's success on Blog Downtown (Eric Richardson's blog) that made downtownster.com and blogsincity.com inevitable progressions.

I had intended to go on in this vein and revisit the tragedy of "Stan Lerner's Criminal", Barnes & Noble, Borders and why an award-winning book is so hard to find or hasn't been made into a movie—I am often asked these questions. But it's the first Friday of August and we should all be having a goodtime in the sun...Of course there is more, as brevity is nowhere to be found in my nature—except when it comes to the soul of my wit.

Although much overshadowed by "Stan Lerner's Criminal", 2008 was also the year my novella "In Development", the story of Hollywood's most powerful and scummiest producer, was released. Recently, literally the last few days, I've finished what's called in the industry, "the polish" of the screen adaptation. So yes, "In Development" is on my mind and I'm thinking that a story of sex, manipulation, lying, betrayal, and murder—otherwise known in Hollywood as a story with a happy ending, might just set a superlative tone for the weekend.

So please read on and enjoy a few chapters of a book from the summer of 2008, "And the seasons they go round and round."

Prologue

Breakfast at the Peninsula

The Peninsula Hotel ranked among Beverly Hills' finest establishments. A modest four stories, its cream-colored exterior walls exuded European elegance. The motor court was paved with Tuscan cobblestone and it curved in a half circle around a spectacular yet understated fountain. Stan Peters arrived for breakfast like clockwork Monday thru Friday at 8:00 in either his black Rolls Royce Phantom or his diamond silver Mercedes Benz SL 500.

This particular morning, he was looking more impeccable than usual. The Ermenegildo Zegna boutique on Rodeo Drive had just taken delivery of its handmade suit collection for the fall season the day before. As always, Stan, the store's best customer and Hollywood's most powerful movie producer, had been there to pick up each of his 31 new suits. He would repeat this routine at several of the city's high-end boutiques; rarely did Stan need or bother to wear the same custom-made suit twice.

The hotel's bell captain, Rick Johnson, was a handsome young man of twenty-five—an aspiring actor. As always, he stepped forward to open Stan's car door himself, rather than delegate such an important task to a valet. Opening the great producer's door was not as optimal as being in one of his movies but it was a step in the right direction. Hollywood's most powerful producer had come to know him by his first name.

The door of the Mercedes opened, as it always did, not requiring any of Stan's own personal exertion. He never took this for granted. He appreciated not being bothered with such trivialities. It was certainly worth a twenty-dollar tip to not have to think about opening and closing the door of his automobile.

The air was just right. Not too warm, not too cold. Not too humid, nor too dry. Just right. Stan had no control over the weather of course, but he had chosen to remain in Los Angeles for exactly this reason—perfect year-round weather.

He stretched his six-foot-one frame as he rose from the 65-way adjustable, heated, and programmable leather car seat. The sound of the fountain filled his ears. Stan smiled the bright white smile of a man whose company was about to go public. A smile that said he was a man on top of the world. That he was talented. That he cared and wanted to encourage others to aspire to his greatness. Yet, he was confident that no man could really be his equal.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said Rick amiably.

"Good morning, Rick. It looks like we're in for some nice weather today. You have to love living in California!" Stan responded, already thinking about the healthy, delectable food he would soon be putting into his perfectly muscled body. A body that at forty was in even better shape than it had been in high school.

"It certainly looks like it's going to be a great day, Mr. Peters. Enjoy your breakfast...Oh, would you like me to have the car washed while you're eating this morning?"

Stan looked at the fine German automobile for a moment. It had just been detailed the day before but he thought it could certainly have gathered some dust not visible to the naked eye but was there nonetheless. "Yeah, better give it a rinse." And with that he turned and walked toward the large double door entrance to the five star hotel.

Again with no effort of his own, the door opened. "Good morning, Mr. Peters."

"Good morning," Stan replied. Other than Rick, he did not know the names of the ten or twenty people that managed his morning breakfast routine. If need be, he could always read their nametags.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said the gentleman next to the doorman.

"Good morning, good morning." And with just a few silent steps, he was at the entry to the Belvedere Room.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said the lovely hostess. "That suit is beautiful." Her dark hair was pulled back and her young eyes shone brilliantly with a nebula of possibilities. "It fits you perfectly. You always look so handsome, but that suit is even more perfect than usual."

"Well thank you...Mary," he said, quickly glancing at her nametag. "The Fall season just came in yesterday. I still have a lot of things to pick up."

"Well, I'll be looking forward to seeing all of it. The usual table or would you like to try the patio today?"

"The usual table would be superlative."

"Good morning, Mr. Peters," said Janet, the hostess' supervisor. "It's so nice to see you. I just noticed that the trades are not at your table. I'll bring them right over."

"Thank you, Janet," Stan said, taking the final steps to his table.

He sat down on the soft green cushion and slid over just slightly. The silver was all set correctly and the white tablecloth was blinding, which was what he expected. The hotel knew that he expected this, so only new tablecloths were used at his table. Stan's demeanor was always pleasant but there was no doubt that he would ask for his table to be redressed and set again if he detected even the slightest flaw in its appearance.

The room, which had the feel of a fine garden, blossomed with both Hollywood and business elite. Stan caught many of their gazes as he walked into the room and still more as he sat. When unavoidable, he would flash back a warm smile and give just the slightest nod of his head. He peered for a moment out the glass wall to the patio thinking that the star of his last movie was there having breakfast with her new husband. He had slept with her a few times and was strangely satisfied to see that she was now married.

"Your skinny latte Mr. Peters," said the middle-aged-Pilipino server as he set the large white cup and saucer on the tablecloth directly in front of Stan. Then, with a great deal of concern and concentration, the Pilipino latte server moved the silver sweetener container just to the upper right of Stan's cup and saucer so that he would not have to reach for it at the end of the table.

"And the trades," said Janet, handing Stan both the _Hollywood Reporter_ and _Variety_.

"Thank you, Janet." Stan ripped the small yellow package of sweetener, which he preferred to the blue or the pink packages of sweeteners, and mixed it into his latte and raised the cup for his first caffeinated drink of the day.

"Good morning, Mr. Peters. Will you be having the usual today?" asked the intelligent looking waiter in his late twenties, an aspiring writer of some type.

He had mentioned something about writing one day while in the course of telling Stan that he was a great fan of his. Stan recalled his own empty offer to read some of the young man's work. An empty offer not because Stan was being disingenuous but empty because Stan had observed that most people with aspirations were afraid to succeed. Meaning, no one really wanted their work to be judged by someone who could do something for them.

"Omelet, jack and cheddar..."

"Avocado, fire roasted salsa, Tabasco, and fruit on the side," the waiter said, finishing Stan's sentence. He pushed his round wire-rim glasses a little further up on his nose and smiled.

"No potatoes or bread," Stan added, although he didn't have to because everybody knew that he liked potatoes and bread but didn't eat them to keep his simple carbohydrate intake to a minimum.

All this ass kissing is really something. They do it because you're a powerful man in Hollywood. If they only knew what a lying, thieving, scumbag you really are. Maybe they do know and they don't care. Could that be?

He took a sip of his latte. It tasted better than most because it was made from a coffee bean that was eaten by a small rodent, which then excreted it out in its feces.

Don't be so hard on yourself. To be a successful motion picture producer you have to have talent. And you put in years of hard work developing that talent. Not that it mattered to anyone—fuckers. Be honest with yourself. You got to where you are because you have the most important ingredient—an inexplicable character flaw. Not the, I'm gay and my family won't accept me or I'll show everyone who should have been voted most likely to succeed. No, it's way beyond that.

An old timer with an attractive young companion waved to him from across the room. Stan smiled and gave a nod.

To really be fucked up enough to succeed at this level you had to have been born a nice guy with a good heart. Twenty years of being screwed over, lied to, used, and unappreciated. And one day you were lucky enough to wake up and be you. It didn't happen gradually. It just happened.

Janet returned with an apologetic look. Stan knew without her saying a word what the cause of her guilt happened to be. He handed her the green cloth napkin that had been stretched across his lap and then watched, quite pleased, as she laid the new black napkin in its place. "I'm so sorry about that," she said, the corners of her mouth turned just slightly downwards.

"Not a problem. Thank you, Janet." Stan watched her walk away. The well-fitted navy blue suit she was wearing left no doubt that her body, in spite of her being well into her thirties, was still in excellent shape. She had certainly been a dancer of some type in her youth, Stan imagined.

Sounds like a terrible existence the way you describe it. It's not. Your life is a dream life and you wouldn't have it any other way. I wish someone could just love me for me. Too late. You got the fancy cars, great food, the world-class pussy, the incredible houses in ten different countries, an amount of money in the bank that even you can't spend. So many women, so little time...Wall Street loves you.

"Your omelet, sir."

"Thank you. It looks wonderful."

"Can I bring you anything else?"

Stan looked lustfully across the room at the attractive blonde with the old goat who had been pleasant enough to wave. "No, this will be fine for now."

"Well then, enjoy your breakfast, sir."

Stan's fork cut through the well-whipped, triple grade A, cage free, grain fed, organic, brown egg with ease. The egg, cheese, avocado, fire roasted salsa, and Tabasco delighted his taste buds. And just as he swallowed it happened—a sickening moment of self-doubt.

The only thing that can fuck up the Peters Entertainment IPO is a bad project. In highly advanced industry terminology, 'A piece of shit movie'. Not to be confused with a shitty movie the manipulative scumbags in marketing can save with some kind of bullshit MacDonald's cross promotion. No—the kind of movie that gets fucked up by some tight ass, wanna-be- cool, college graduate, studio executive, a producer's worst nightmare, maybe even a career killer. What a terrible thought. It'll never happen to you. You're Stan Peters for fuck sake. You don't make piece of shit movies.

Stan decided it was a waste of time to let his mind continue to ponder the meaning of life. He reached for the _Hollywood Reporter_ and began to read the horrifying news on the front page.

CHAPTER ONE

Powerful Men

At age 86, Sumner Ballsworth III, ruled Ballcom's 450 diversified companies with an iron fist. At his command, the directors sat in the boardroom located on the 69th story of Ballcom Tower. A massive building that had long been an anchor of the Manhattan skyline.

Sumner sat at the head of the table; his younger brother and lifelong nemesis Nelson sat to his left, his close friend and vice chairman, Randolph, sat to his right. Sumner took his time as he let his eyes roam around the table, and then rubbed the deep creases of the skin that hung loosely around his jaw line. He cleared his throat, as he always did before starting a meeting, and the room fell silent.

"I now call to order a meeting of the Ballcom board of directors." Turning to Randolph, "Our first order of business is?"

Randolph, while the same age as Sumner, looked ten years younger. A stout man to begin with, his love of food had assured that his skin would always be stretched to a more youthful tautness. "Our fist order of business, is soaring profits in our Entertainment Sector," announced Randolph.

Sumner stared down the table at Michael Eisenfeld. "Can you explain why entertainment profits are up three hundred percent again? Our friends at the Security and Exchange Commission tell me that people who are not our friends are starting to take an interest in our remarkably good fortune. I trust there are no accounting irregularities."

Eisenfeld shrugged. "Entertainment is a different beast, Mr. Chairman. It takes individuals with unique skill sets..."

"I'm not going to tolerate this nonsense!" interrupted Sumner's brother, Nelson. He turned to his older brother. "Grandfather, would not approve of the types of people that we're dealing with in this business or the revolting product we're putting into the market place." Nelson pointed toward Eisenfeld. "He knows damn well that Mechanic is turning a blind eye to behavior that's not only unethical but immoral at the studio to make the kind of money that pads his bonus. "

"These people make us a lot of money," said Eisendfeld, in shock that he had to defend making a profit. Eisenfeld looked to Sumner hoping that he would reel in Nelson.

Sumner shook his head. "I have to go with Nelson on this. How the hell are they making so much money, Michael? Entertainment, was supposed to be a tax write off for us."

Eisenfeld had been successfully ambushed and knew it. "The Peters Entertainment deal has turned out to exceed all of our expectations."

Sumner's bushy gray eyebrows rose. "More explanation, Michael."

"Well, Mechanic lets Peters do what he wants and he seems to have a unique understanding of what the public's appetite for entertainment happens to be."

Sumner's demeanor warmed slightly. "I knew his grandfather. Name used to be Petersburg. Made fortunes in paint and auto parts."

"Well the grandson is making a fortune on crap. And we're paying for it." Nelson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"We don't pay for all of it," Eisenfeld said, knowing that the cat was out of the bag.

"Of course we do." Nelson had no idea.

Eisenfeld sighed. "Co-financing. Peter's has been bringing in a lot of outside money."

Nelson's eyes bulged. An alert assistant stepped forward with a glass of water and a nitro pill for his heart. "Other people's money! Ballcom doesn't have partners! We own everything!" The assistant pushed the pill and the water in front of him insistently. Nelson placed the white pill in his mouth and gulped some water. But before he could resume Sumner held up his hand.

"Michael, co-financing..." Sumner shook his head. "Is there anything else we should know?"

"Next week, Peters plans on going public. Initially, he'll pipeline money into the company but he'll go to work shortly there after setting up credit lines against his stock. He'll want a new contract guaranteeing straight distribution from us—for a reasonable fee."

"Get rid of him!" Nelson demanded.

Sumner, who never smiled, smiled and began to laugh. He looked down at the table and composed himself. "Get rid of Peters, for what? Being ambitious."

"I'm the second largest shareholder of Ballcom stock—heads must roll." Nelson looked toward Eisenfeld.

Sumner followed his brother's stare. "Well Michael, you made a profit but broke the rules."

The blood drained from Eisenfeld's face. He sat at the table, white as a sheet and speechless.

"Fire Mechanic and," Sumner continued after what had been a disturbing pause, "put someone in charge over there that understands our expectations." Sumner turned to Nelson. "Are you happy now?"

Nelson smiled. "I want all candidates for the job run by my office for approval. And I want to be the one to tell the new guy to clean things up."

Sumner looked at Eisenfeld, who had been spared only to spite his brother and because entertainment had earned billions. "Did you get that, Michael?"

"Yes, Mr. Chairman. I'll make the necessary changes. What about the Peters IPO?"

Sumner stared past the end of the table, out the window, seeing everything. "I'll take care of that personally."

CHAPTER TWO

Bad News

Stan sat restlessly behind his oversized, half-circle, stainless steel Pace Collection desk. His drive to the Peters Entertainment Building in Century City had been an almost unbearable five minutes. He stared down at the _Hollywood Reporter_ framed by the black granite inlay that served as the top of his desk.

"'From Harvard to Hollywood—Jones promoted to head of studio.' Can you believe it? Brad Jones, that no-talent East Coast cocksucker is running a studio!" Stan looked up from the _Reporter_ and across his desk at his short, corpulent, gray-haired, associate producer of many years, Iren Shmeklestein.

"Believe it, you shmuck! I told you we should have gone to Disney with this project."

"Disney? Are you insane? Do you think Disney is going to make a movie called "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho"? Whatever toes you were sucking on last night must have been laced with something."

"If you had just seen the feet on this chick." Iren smiled an obscene smile and continued. "They were beautiful. I can't understand why you're not attracted to feet. You don't even want to know what she could do with them."

"You're right, I don't want to know."

Iren ignored him. "After I sucked on them for an hour I had her massage my balls with her toes."

"Did she stick them up your ass and massage your prostate?" Stan asked, suddenly finding himself interested in Iren's foot fetish.

"No. My asshole is way too tight for that kind of thing. Oh, that would hurt. I'm puckering up just thinking about it. Would you let a chick do that to you?" Iren turned his head slightly to the left and his right eyebrow went up like a curious Vulcan. "C'mon, be honest with me."

"Yeah, why not?" Stan shrugged, "I mean, as long as her feet weren't like the size of Shaque's."

"You know I respect your honesty when it comes to these things. But seriously, what if it was Shaque's foot, would you take it up the ass for ten million dollars?"

Stan laughed. "I'd let Brad Jones stick his foot up my ass for ten million dollars."

A gruff voice emanated from the doorway. "You might have to," the always-perturbed Ray Delecrotch said as he walked into the room.

Stan turned his head toward his other longtime associate producer. Ray, at sixty-three, was ten years older than Iren and more than twenty years older than Stan. But despite his age, Stan had decided to keep him around. Ray did at least have the decency to dye his hair black. "Have you gained weight? It looks like you swallowed a bowling ball," Stan commented.

Ray ignored his boss's observation. "Because that's how much fucking money we're going to lose if that no class, talentless prick, shit-cans our movie. I'm sure the boys on Wall Street will love a fuck-up like this a week before our IPO."

Stan's face tensed slightly—a mixture of concern, disgust, and confusion. "We spent ten million dollars in development on a movie about two wacky Jew producers? You have to be kidding me. Who's the idiot that okayed that?"

"You did, putz face," Iren said, no longer able to think about the feet he had made love to the night before. "You paid yourself a million-dollar writer's fee and rewrote the thing nine times."

"That's only nine million, where'd the other million go?" Stan gave a disgusted wave. "Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"You rented a private island for a year as a writer's retreat," Iren reminded him.

"Writer's retreat? Then what were you doing there?" Stan asked sarcastically.

Iren pointed at himself. "You think you're a better writer than I am?"

"Iren, my second grade homework was better than the shit you come up with."

"Would you two focus. We need to make sure that the studio doesn't kick this fucking movie to the curb. By the way, do I want to know where we got the ten million from?"

Stan looked at Iren and then back to Ray. "Some old lady in Pasadena."

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" Ray asked, not believing that they could really be that fortunate.

"Iren befriended her husband just before he croaked," Stan assured. "It was actually pretty easy to get the money out of the old bag. All I had to do was tell her that we would dedicate the movie to her loving husband's memory. And, off the record, Iren agreed to suck on her old, shriveled up, callused heels."

Iren nodded his affirmation. "Let me tell you, she doesn't have bad feet for an old lady."

"You guys are being straight with me?" Ray asked, sounding just slightly less irritable. "You didn't get the money from one of your unsavory buddies?"

Iren swiveled the gray mohair chair in Ray's direction. "Define unsavory?"

Stan smiled at Iren. "Your sister."

Iren swiveled his chair back toward Stan. "That bitch would steal candy from a deaf, dumb, blind kid. Tell the truth—would you have sex with a deaf, dumb, blind girl?"

"Of course he would, he'd marry her if he was smart," Ray said, matter-of-factly. "If I wasn't so fucking old I'd be hanging out over at the Brail Institute myself. Where else are you going to find a nice girl in this fucking town?"

"I'd date a deaf, dumb, blind, girl. Assuming she's hot like that chick in "Children of a Lesser God"," Stan said, feeling that Ray might be on to something. Stan held up his right hand, opening and closing his fingers without saying a word.

"What are you doing?" asked Iren.

"Practicing my sign language."

"What's that mean?"

"It's Helen Keller having an orgasm."

"You guys always pull this shit on me," Ray said shaking his head.

Stan and Iren looked at him. "What shit?" Stan asked innocently.

"Changing the subject."

Stan held up his hand acknowledging the point. "This is definitely a different subject, but isn't your nose big even for an Italian guy?"

"Unsavory like—drug dealers, gangsters—criminal unsavory." Ray stared at Stan making sure he wouldn't be digressing any further.

"Absolutely not," Stan's tone was insistent. "I swear on Iren's hemorrhoids that we emptied an old lady's bank account."

"Did I tell you my hemorrhoids are killing me?" Iren asked, shifting his weight in his chair.

"Not like my back." Stan gave his lower fifth lumbar a gentle rub. "I think I have early-onset arthritis."

"You guys swear, no fucking around?" asked Ray, thinking that his ulcer might be acting up.

Stan pulled the gold Mont Blanc from his pocket and began rotating it across his knuckles. "I don't even know any criminals."

Marle's voice had a heavy New Jersey accent as it came through the intercom. "Stan?"

"Yes, Marle dearest. What is it?" Stan asked, his always-troublesome secretary.

"I have Carlos Escobar on the phone, he says he needs to talk to you about the Laundromat business. He says you know what he's talking about."

"I'll call him back. Thank you."

"The Laundromat business?" Ray was immediately suspicious.

"It's the next big thing," Stan said without missing a beat. Then, he looked innocently at Iren.

"In South America," Iren agreed, with a nod and a wink that Ray could not see.

"Anyway, let's forget about the whole criminal thing..." Stan suggested just as Marle's voice intruded through the intercom again.

"Stan?"

"What?" he yelled out the door rather than into the intercom.

"I've got Dominick Luciano on the phone. He wants to know if you can meet him in Vegas tonight to discuss your idea about forming a Teamster's Union Entertainment Fund."

"Tell him I'm just a little busy right now please." Exasperated, he looked back from the door to Iren and Ray. "The phone doesn't ring all fucking morning, Brad Jones is running a studio and now everything goes crazy. I mean who the fuck else is going to call during this time of crisis?"

"How about the Pope?" Iren smiled and nodded.

"Stan?" Marle's voice was even louder and more nagging than before.

"Tell whoever it is to fuck off!" Stan shouted loudly out the door. "This is just unbelievable," he turned and said to Iren and Ray.

Marle's hot, young, size zero body stood in the doorway. "It's the Pope—you can tell him to fuck off yourself.

Stan reached for the phone with haste. "Pope, it's always so good to hear from you...Yes, Iren is sitting right across the desk from me...Sure, I'll put you on speakerphone." Stan hit the button and shrugged as his co-producers looked at him uncomfortably.

The Pope's voice was a deep and raspy growl with a heavy European accent. "Shmucks, eight percent on our money—we can get that in the bank and not tie up our cash for eighteen months at a time. Stan, if you and that little putz you call a co-producer can't do better than eight percent this year, I'm going to pull the plug on you two. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"Listen, Your Majesty..."

"Excellency, not Majesty you thieving Jew prick." The Pope not so kindly corrected.

"Whatever," Stan rolled his eyes. "We're doing our best. Out of what little decency we have we've been putting the Vatican's money into our safest films. Mostly animated shit for kids."

"Fuck the kids shit!" screamed the Pope. "Have some balls and put us into something with some tits and ass! That's where the fucking money's at!"

"Well I was worried about the church's reputation," Stan said in his own defense.

"Who the fuck died and made you Pope? I've got priests banging little boys by the thousands. That means lawsuits up the ass, and that means settlements up the ass. Millions and millions of dollars paid to a bunch of fucking crybabies who can't take a little consecrated affection. So put some sex and violence on the fucking screen and get me my twenty percent. Do you fucking understand me?"

"Yes, Pope," answered Stan, feeling pummeled by the pontiff.

"Good!" was the last word they heard before the distinct sound of a phone receiver being slammed down.

Ray slouched down in his chair and shook his head. "You pissed off the Pope. That's fucking great."

Stan hit the off button, silencing the beeping phone receiver. "What a ball-buster he can be. That's what happens when you go eighty years without getting any pussy."

"We'll be going the next eighty years without pussy if that prick Brad starts fucking around with this movie and blows our IPO," Ray said with a sense of impending doom.

"I'm not letting that no-talent shmuck tell me how to do my job!" Iren said in a state of alarm.

"If you don't, he'll put the fucking thing in turn around," Ray said, making matters worse.

"Listen to me, that jackass isn't going to tell you how to do your job." Stan's voice was calm and reasonable. "And trust me, he's not putting our movie in turn around. Now that he's a bigshot, he won't give a shit about us."

Iren's fat cheeks had turned red. "You know I'll put the little prick in his place."

"I'll punch him right in the fucking face if I even think he's going to put us in turn around," Ray added.

"Just let me handle this Ivy League, creatively challenged cocksucker. And that's if he ever gets to us on his bullshit things to do list. I mean, come on, what type of loser would start poking his shit stuffed from too much ass kissing nose into our movie?"

"Stan." Marle's voice was filling the airwaves again. "I've got Brad Jones on the phone. He says it's very important."

Stan shook his head. "What a pathetic nebish."

"What a piece of shit," Iren said, then pretended to spit on the floor.

"Fucking lowlife," Ray said, making a fist with his right hand and slamming it into the palm of his left hand.

"Put him through," Stan advised Marle, then waited a moment to compose himself before speaking. "Brad, how are you doing? It's so good to hear from you. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Have you read the trades today?" Brad's voice was a mixture of good-cheer and serious business.

"No, I've been in an editing session for the last thirty-six hours," Stan said trying to sound as clueless as possible. " Is everything okay, I've been completely out of touch with the world."

For some reason Iren decided to hold up the _Hollywood Reporter_ that had been on Stan's desk. Stan acknowledged this with the hand job motion. Ray flipped off the phone then bit his own knuckles.

"Thirty-six hours?" Brad sounded incredibly impressed. "Goodness gracious man, I don't know how you do it."

"We never miss a deadline or a budget around here," Stan said, turning the confidence up just slightly. "When the studio does business with us, it's family. You know that we love you guys."

Iren commenced sticking his tongue through his fingers like he was licking a pussy. This encouraged Ray to start sticking his index finger through his other hand—the universal fucking signal.

Brad's voice became warm and generous. "Stan, that's so nice of you to say. We're very fond of you around here and you know I am personally a huge fan of your work."

The gold Mont Blanc fell from Stan's hand as Iren bent Ray over his chair and pretended to fuck him in the ass.

"Thanks Brad, that really means a lot to me. Someone with your education and talent, supporting what we do, you know I really don't even know what to say." Stan's face registered the revulsion of seeing that Iren had Ray down on all fours. He couldn't help but remember the day he passed on a script about two gay cowboys—a two hundred million dollar mistake.

Two cowboys fucking in a tent. Who could have predicted that one would be a hit?

"Honestly, one day if the board of directors is smart, they'll put you in charge of everything."

"Well Stan, actually that's why I called. It was just announced today in the trades—I'm the new head of the studio."

"Congratulations! It's about time, I mean good, you deserve it. I'm sure you're going to be super busy. But when things settle down in the next couple of years, I'd love to talk to you about what we're up to over here."

"Stan, things are going to be different. I plan to be very hands on."

"Even better." Stan's brow wrinkled as his cheeks retracted upward. "I mean, it's about time there's someone on top who cares about what's going on in the trenches."

"I care Stan and I'm really glad you feel that way. I had my concerns."

Stan couldn't imagine things getting much worse when he heard Marle scream. She had come to hand deliver his mail only to see Iren apparently humping Ray on the floor. It was shocking even for a Jewish girl from Jersey.

Stan rubbed his forehead. "I'm a team player, Brad, you know that."

"Stan, I have my concerns about this comedy you guys have in development. I know we're committed to production funding, but creatively speaking "Two Jews and A Blonde Psycho" just seems to be missing something. And Stan, I've given your cast list a very close look. For lack of a better word, I hate it."

Iren and Ray, prompted by Marle's scream, had returned to their respective seats. Iren began writing something on a notepad.

"Brad, if things don't work out for you as a studio boss you should become a psychic. I was just having this exact conversation with Ray and Iren. We're completely on the same page."

Iren held up the notepad, which read, "you miserable cocksucker" accompanied by a picture of Brad on his knees orally copulating a very well endowed man.

"Creatively speaking," Brad's voice was all business now, "I want you to make this movie more red-state friendly. Maybe the movie could end with the main characters seeing the light and converting to Christianity."

"Yeah, maybe something more like "The Passion of the Christ"." Stan sighed, thinking that he might wake up any moment from this nightmare.

"Now you're talking! And Stan, pull out all of the bad language and sex scenes. This thing needs to fly with a G rating. The profanity makes the whole thing feel too urban. I'm not interested in doing a Spike Lee movie here."

"Not a problem Brad. Anything else?"

"Well actually there is. I want you to cut the budget for the soundtrack in half and get Tom Cruise and Russell Crowe to play the leads."

Ray held up the notepad which now read, "Why not Mel Gibson since we're making the fucking "Passion"?"

"Mel Gibson?" Stan said, accidentally reading Ray's sign out loud.

"I like Mel. And a Jew movie might help him get past his anti-Semitic public image." Brad paused. "If you can't get both Tom and Russell, I'll let you substitute Mel for either one. But I really want Tom Cruise in this movie. For the blonde psycho, Renee Zellweger works for me. I liked her and Tom in "Jerry Maguire"."

"Why not Anne Heche? Playing a psycho wouldn't be much of a stretch."

Brad laughed. "Stan you haven't lost a step. That's hilarious, a lesbian in a Christian-friendly movie, you kill me."

Just then Iren held up a sign that read, "Let's really kill him."

Ray followed by holding up a sign that read, "I got someone who will do it for ten grand."

Brad returned to his serious tone and continued, "No, just stick to Renee or Nicole Kidman if you can get her. Nicole works for me."

"You know her and Tom got a divorce?" Stan immediately wondered why he had bothered to mention it.

"Oh, I didn't know they were married." Brad was clueless even for a studio executive. "Do you think it presents a problem?"

Stan rested his elbows on his desk and let his head sink into his hands for a moment. The stupidity of the conversation weighed on him like an aircraft carrier. "Problems are meant to be solved, Brad. Anyway, the guys and I are just raring to go on all of this! So we better get cracking."

"That a boy, Stan!" Brad shouted, apparently infected with Stan's insincere enthusiasm. "I'd like to see everything in place by the end of the day tomorrow. Can do?"

"Can do Brad. Not a problem," Stan said, flipping off the phone. "Oh and say hi to that beautiful wife of yours. I'd love to have you both over for dinner soon to celebrate your promotion."

"We'd love to come over," Brad gushed, "Binkie is an even bigger fan of your work than I am. When I told her about the promotion, she said I should make working with you on this project my top priority."

"Well that explains it," Stan let slip.

"Explains what?" asked Brad.

Iren and Ray looked at Stan hoping for a quick recovery.

"Our good fortune to have you so involved." Stan beamed with satisfaction toward Iren and Ray as they bowed that they weren't worthy in front of his desk. Stan put his hand to his ear. "I'll be right there," he shouted to nobody off in the distance. "Brad I have to jump, give my love to Binkie..."

"Talk to you tomo..."

Stan hung up the phone before Brad could finish... "That stupid, evangelical bitch wife of yours."

"You know we have to kill this guy," Iren said with complete resolve.

"He's right. I say we kill him," agreed Ray.

Iren, content that he and Ray were in agreement, turned to Stan. "Casting Tom Cruise and Russell Crowe to play two Jews is almost as ridiculous as casting Michael Jackson to play a babysitter."

Stan nodded. "That would probably work for Brad."

"Stop fucking around." Ray's voice sounded more exasperated than usual. "If we're going to kill this guy we need to get serious. We need a good plan."

"When Brad and that meddling bitch wife of his come over your house for dinner, we could poison them," Iren suggested earnestly.

Stan shook his head. "We're not killing anybody you lunatics. I mean, what type of scumbags have we become that we would resort to killing someone to save a movie from turn around...when we could simply resort to blackmail?"

Iren nodded. "Blackmail... I like it."

"Blackmail is good," Ray agreed. " But this guy is straight as a fucking arrow. He's the perfect family man."

Stan's brow rose, as his head tilted forward making him look positively sinister. "Not for long—but let me take care of that. In the meantime, we better cover our asses and do what he wants. Iren, get on the Tom Cruise / Russell Crowe thing. Ray, you get Renee Zellweger or Nicole Kidman. I'll swing into action on the whole blackmail situation..."

Marle's voice was once again coming through the intercom. "Hey it's me. We're celebrating my one-year anniversary as your secretary out here. You want to stop by or something?"

"Yeah, of course. We're on our way," answered Stan feeling satisfied that things were under control.

POST 95

Downtown LA Film Festival Begins

As my thirtieth year approached I sat in my building known as ARTGUILD LA, a building that hosted some of the world's best-known performance art and nightclub events. If I recall, it was Eden Night, ranked second in the world only to Ministry of Sound, and my friend David Besharat a truly extraordinary human being said something I've never forgotten. "You see Stan, at your age you've just starting to do everything twice. At my age, I've done everything three times—it's not the same. It's still good, but every time around it's a little less exciting." And the party raged on...

And now I'm David's age, at the time of his wise words to me, and I've done everything once, twice, and thrice. But unlike the last century there is another bugaboo in my dream party life—lack of originality. Has everything been done? The new generation could be called Gen Zero, for zero innovation. "And most disturbing, they seem to think that these watered-down knockoffs of what artists, producers and promoters of the past have done are actually cool. If they could have just seen the original," I think to myself so often when I'm out in the scene.

Enter the Downtown LA Film Festival. Did the world need another film festival? Surprisingly, at least judging by last night's screening of "Passing Strange" and Opening Gala at the AT&T Center—YES! I've lived in Downtown for almost fifteen years and had no clue whatsoever that the building formerly know as the Trans America Tower had an incredible theater, albeit vintage 1970's. And if for no other reason, introducing this gem of a venue to a thousand or so people, made this second annual DFFLA worth having. But there's more...

I dislike Spike Lee both as a filmmaker and (based on interviews) as a person. As a filmmaker I think he is overrated—relying on his never-ending insight into his personal blackness to create his art. And as a person, I recall wondering, years ago, why once he had made money he himself did not live in and improve "the hood" he was making his money on by making movies about. And for the record, when I'm not staying in my place Downtown, I still share a residence with my sister in East LA—I slept there last night. So premiering a Spike Lee movie for opening night—not what I would have done. And yet, even Spike Lee's directing couldn't overshadow the enormous talent on the screen.

The movie written and starred in by Stew, who as a writer, musician and actor is a national treasure, really only attached Spike Lee for name value—unfortunately this is nothing new. But again, the talent on the screen more than made up for the Spike Lee gimmicktry. Some will say that this movie is nothing but a filmed play—it is. So was the movie "Meet The Family", which I wrote, directed and produced. There's nothing wrong with filming a play, think "Glengarry Glen Ross" or "Death Of A Salesman". In the case of "Passing Strange" a good director would have shortened the film version to ninety minutes. That's right it's too long, and still HUGE CONGRADULATIONS to the festival committee for opening with this movie—BECAUSE IT'S NOT THE SAME OLD THING!!!

And thankfully the same old Hollywood people spared those in attendance their presence. In particular, thank you Spike for not coming and ruining a great opening night. There were some serious industry people in the room—I noticed Robert Dudelson at the screening and chatted with him briefly at the Gala. Getting quality people like Robert to attend is another very good omen for such a young festival.

The Gala, held on the thirty second floor, featured one of the best views on the planet, good music on both ends of the massive space, lot's of interesting / good looking people of the NOT HOLLYWOOD variety and, most importantly, an open bar. Two things to note: Coca Cola with the help of their Downtown people Ricardo, Bart, and Tony is everywhere. This is not new, but incredibly appreciated—kudos to Coke for sponsoring every event in town. And introducing pop chips! Bags of every flavor floated around—here's a downtownster prediction, keep in mind we're never wrong, this new brand of healthy snack is going to be a very big deal. They're the best tasting healthy potato chip I've ever had—NEW!

There is an LA Film Festival, which in the past I've attended. And last year, because of my book "Stan Lerner's Criminal", I participated. But frankly, if I were comparing opening nights, Downtown LA Film Festival, which is only in its second year, IS WHAT A FILM FESTIVAL SHOULD BE!!!

The festival is going on for the next eleven days, I urge you to take in as much of it as you can.

POST 96

Tasha Taylor Revisisted

The art era of the roaring 80's had come to an end and the last of a visual empire sat in the final throws of death on Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. The Rodeo Drive, of the time of which I speak, was a quaint place where a young man like myself could open a fine gallery and sell hundreds of millions worth of oil on canvas by the great ones of the past. I recall now the feeling of walking from the front door to the sidewalk, late at night, long past retail closing times, and staring at the beautiful tree of lights, which watched over the Drive from its nonexistent planter atop the Regent Beverly Wilshire—it was the month of December. So peaceful those final days were I could bring myself to do nothing, but stand on the street for an hour and enjoy the solitude—there was just the right chill in the air.

I no longer recall how it came to pass that Johnnie Taylor's kid came to wander the last of my galleries, but there was something special about her—black and lovely on the outside, a true Jewish Princess on the inside. And a touch of bitchiness that I was sure would make for her many forks in the road. Again, as all who have lived twenty-seven lives during the course of one, I have no recollection how or why Tasha Taylor came into tow, but she did. From galleries to clubs to dinners to my home she was around. The daughter of a soul legend aspiring, like so many young girls do, to become an actor.

And then there was the night at the Mondrian on Sunset, the old Mondrian owned by the Ashkenazy's, Severyn and Arnold, the first time it was cool—before the skybar. An open mic night it was that Tasha got up from the table and sang. The song still plays in my conscious, I do not recall all of the words, but humming the melody out loud is enough to utter, "these are a few of my favorite things"—"My Favorite Things" Tasha Taylor sang that night. "Forget about acting," I told her, "you should be a singer. It's in your blood."

The entire story, not worth telling, ends with the end of our friendship.

Almost fifteen years later the iphone received a most interesting text message. Rick Taub, a downtownster of many years and very good base player, was informing me that Tasha Taylor would be throwing down some serious soul at the Redwood on 2nd between Hill and Broadway—no cover! Life is so pleasantly interesting for those who bother to live it. "Yes," I thought to myself. "I will go see what happened to the girl from all those years ago. I could have made her a movie star, she would have been perfect in "Meet The Family", but this is so much more interesting. "

I said goodbye to my friends after enjoying a superb dinner of sushi at a restaurant that I will not mention because there is no remuneration for doing so and I am now curious about the fate of all people and establishments if left to fate...I thought about all of this a great deal as I walked toward 2nd Street. The Redwood Bar & Grill, for those not familiar, is an establishment of times past. And the thing about establishments of times past is that they are usually of a theme of a time further past—in this case of the Herman Melville nautical variety. Since I am fond of saying that things warm my cockles, an old bar that was built to look like an even older ship, featuring a soul singer the daughter of a legend, no longer with us, that is often described as the philosopher of soul, well it warmed my cockles.

Rick, Tokyo Mississippi, Lady GG and an extraordinary harmonica player named Dennis, who when not playing at night is one of the world's great chefs during the day, warmed up the crowd. My thoughts drifted to LA Live being out done, this particular night, by a bar that looks like a ship—but you see this bar has soul. And not in any ill spirited kind of way I wished Tim Leiweke the President of AEG could have been there with me knocking back a whiskey and seeing what real success and community are about. I watched Tasha, who sat in a booth next to the stage, be the hostess to people there who had come to wish her well. "She looks good. Not a kid anymore. I wonder what her life has been like the last fifteen years," I thought consecutively to myself.

Rick introduced her, she got up and sang and she was very good. I left in the middle of the set and walked the streets of Downtown by myself. The days past on Rodeo Drive seemed like a lifetime ago, but some of the serenity had returned. And I was happy about that.

POST 97

Road To Nowhere

Friday morning 4:30 a.m. the 1996, black, Chevy Suburban docked at the curb of my childhood home in Montebello, CA—Montebello is Italian for beautiful hills. And it is from this very spot, that I have departed for many an adventure. I am fortunate to, over an excessively well-lived lifetime, have developed a number of friends who are willing to embark on such journeys. And I should be careful to mention here that some of these individuals were mere acquaintances or even less familiar at the time of departures, but traveling and adventure make for far greater bonds than the songs of fraternity boys in their beer soaked homes.

This particular morning it was to be my old high school buddy Mike Munoz picking me up. Although he went to West Point and achieved the rank of Colonel I still refer to him as my Mexican—I find this term of endearment more special than he does.

"The 15?" he asked.

"Sure. Let's grab breakfast in Vegas and see if Andy wants to come with...No his mom is visiting...Let's grab breakfast in Vegas and stop by to see Andy anyway. Maybe he can meet up with us later... How many miles do you have on this thing?"

"One hundred and eighty-six thousand. Where do you want to eat in Vegas?" asked Mike, seemingly settled into our trip within minutes. Twenty-five years ago a trip in his yellow, convertible corvette took us from coast to coast...

"All these years I've been going to Vegas, working in Vegas, living in Vegas, and I've never eaten at The Egg and I. Have you?"

He shook his head. "No. Where is it?"

"On Sahara. Let's go there."

Forty minutes of good conversation ensued until... "Hey that's the 15," I said pointing at the exit. The Suburban swung across five lanes of traffic as can only be accomplished at such an early hour on the 10 Freeway. We could have wound up in Palm Springs or Arizona for that matter, but that's the point, it really didn't matter.

"Hey, let's pull off in Barstow I like the new Starbucks there—cute girl baristas."

Mike shrugged. "Okay."

The black Suburban rolled down the highway with the mean rumble of a venerated work vehicle. I raised the cappuccino, which I held in my hand, to my lips and took the first soothing sip. Given the distinctly not stylish clothing being warn by Mike and myself and the rugged "Road Warrior" appearance of our vehicle my choice of a cappuccino, as my early morning sustenance, seemed an odd one—black coffee would have been the appropriate beverage of such a portrait.

"But this is one of the strange facts about Stan Lerner that even you don't understand," I thought to myself. A profoundly civilized man and wild beast doing battle in the same being...I smiled at this thought, not because there was any humor to be found in it, but because it is this type of self-reflection that makes it incumbent on all us to travel the long and winding road of life.

Soon, the sun began its ascent above the horizon—its rays of light pouring over the sea of sand, so many grains—countless as the possibilities before us. The slope of Interstate 10 toward State Line still excites my body and soul, as I'm sure it does most. Funny and comforting to think that as time passes there are still sights that can excite even the most veteran of travelers—albeit now in a comforting way. Comforting, because there is a sense of freedom that comes with being able to move around one's own country with such a sense of anonymity. And with so many freedoms nearing extinction it's pleasant to know that there is still one left—I wonder if in the future children will understand what I mean by this. Or will they say, "A long time ago people used to be able to travel from state to state without being scanned."

Why take the time and effort to mention in PART I of Road To Nowhere my desire to eat at The Egg & I? Not because I was hoping to offer a micro blog / twitter account of my journey, quite the contrary, I wished to offer what should be a philosophical aspect of any adventure—things that have been waiting a long while to be experienced, should be ingested. There are many experiences to be had, but the experience that has been repeatedly at hand, yet not grasped, this creates a hole in the fabric of life, which can only be repaired, not by a patch, but by filling. And even something as mundane as a place to dine should not be ignored, because it is exactly the minuteness of this kind of hole, which causes such disproportionate damage—we are most damaged by what we do not know is missing!

Mike will now attest to the quality of The Egg and I's Egg's Benedict and I can see why this eatery is so converged upon by locals who are in the know. The Bellagio Café is still my favorite place to have breakfast in all of Las Vegas, but the Egg and I can now be listed number two on my list and if price matters, well we all have a new favorite place.

The phone rang; Andy had raised himself from a considerable slumber. "You're already here?" he asked, in a sleepy, not really too surprised kind of voice.

"Here? I called you an hour ago to see if you wanted to join us for breakfast...Hey I have some stuff for your new house, are you home?"

"Yeah, come on by," he answered, happy to know that his friend since the age of six was about to drop in accompanied by a good friend from high school (Mike). And a little irritated because I have that Cat In The Hat kind of effect on people, places, and things. Meaning I screw things up, tip the apple cart, think out of the box and generally cause a commotion...I like to think of this as helping people.

Shortly there after we arrived at the front of Andy's single story, which he had just recently moved into after sojourning for the last several months at Dave The Jew's house. And yes, for my longtime readers, Andy who prefers, now that he is an adult, to be called Drew is the same Andy known as Fat Andy in my more satirical blogs. I handed him a set of towels (Ralph Lauren), a bunch of canned goods, and a copy of my novella "In Development" for his visiting mother, Carol—this book is probably not appropriate for my friend's mother, but I didn't think about this until afterwards.

"The waters nice," I said trying out the new pool. "You want to roll with us?"

"I've got Jake til Monday and my mom."

"Oh. Well you can grab Dave The Jew and meet us somewhere."

Andy nodded indicating that he liked this idea. "I'll ask Dave...Stan, we generally swim with trunks on. The neighbors." He pointed at a curious couple looking on from their back porch. I waved and headed for the house.

"So where are you guys headed to?" Andy's voice trailed after us.

I opened the door of the big, black Suburban. "I think we'll go catch dinner with Richard!"

"Utah?" Andy shouted.

I nodded. "Utah..."

POST 98

Road To Nowhere Part II

Just as the Road To Nowhere is a time and place to relax in the present, it is also a time and place to have a blast from the past. The device I used to advance this objective, an ipod, was considerably different than the Eight Track player of my original road trips, ohhh, but the music was the same! "We are stardust and we've got to get ourselves, back to the garden...By the time we got to Woodstock we were half a million strong...Can I walk beside you? I have come here to lose the smog..." And I plugged in the ipod filling the cabin of the big, black Suburban with timeless music and memories.

The rock formations in the land somewhere between the states of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah, for those who have not traveled the 15 past Las Vegas, are mind tingling beautiful—cliffs, valleys, streams, escarpments of every kind. And there is no doubt to the thinking man who sets eyes upon this terrain that the Earth itself has a soul. These massive protrusions are not monuments, but a quest by the Earth to reach out and be close to God. The struggle is so similar to our own; the Earth like the body of man anchors the soul so desiring transcendence from the physical realm back to the spiritual reality of all creation. I cry at the sight of these mighty boulders stretched by such an epic struggle...And I feel sorry for myself because of the futility of my own struggle...Surely if the soul of the mighty Earth, which can shift tectonic plates and create mountains can't...

A stop for lunch in Cedar City, a nice little town with an abundance of Mexican food, a University, and a Wal-Mart—and up the road we continued. From Cedar City to Sandy the topography is that of an enormous, green valley, the surrounding mountains of which, are green as well, seemingly more content with their lot than those encountered earlier—there is a tranquility about them...Even the grazing cattle is happy. Yes, these cows that graze the natural grass are happy not mad.

And the conversation that transpired originating a few miles before St. George and lasting to a click past Beaver went something like this:

"I almost built a factory over there," Mike nodded the direction of Colorado City. "But when they told me I'd have to meet with the elders I decided not to."

I looked out the direction of the now well-known polygamist city and said nothing.

"What do you think?"

"What do I think about what?" I responded.

"Would you have done business with those people?"

"Of course I would have," answered I, with out hesitation. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because they're polygamist," Mike explained, as if this fact should mean something to me.

"Oh. Well so were most of my favorite forefathers of biblical times. I don't see anything wrong with polygamy, so I would definitely not have a problem doing business with polygamists."

"But they marry their daughters off when they're fourteen," Mike erupted. He has two daughters.

"I don't think they all get married that young. But who cares, my grandmother married my grandfather when she was thirteen and they were very happy."

"That was a different time. If you had a daughter would you let here get married at fourteen?"

"Yeah, if I liked the man that she was marrying. You realize that half the fourteen-year-olds in this country are sexually active anyway—I'd rather have mine sleeping with her husband than a bunch of horny boys that are just using her up. I don't like tattoos either by the way."

"But they're isolated..."

"So? You think they should all move to LA, dress like hookers and start smoking crack?"

"No, but I think they should all be getting an education."

"And you don't think that it's up to parents to decide how their children should be educated? Because schools in America are doing such a great job educating children. Under the premise of this being a free country I think parents should be allowed to decide what's best for their own kids...You know the two best presidents in this country's history didn't attend any kind of formal school for more than a few months."

"So you would just leave them alone and let them keep doing their thing?"

"I would offer them any kind of help that I could. Ronald Reagan called this constructive engagement. But yes, I would let our brother and sister Americans be free to live as they see fit. If not, maybe it's your door the government is knocking on next, telling you that you don't live close enough to school for your children to be adequately socialized...I wouldn't go for that either."

Mike thought about all of this and more that I did not write.

"I could have constructively engaged with them," he concluded.

Exit 9000 was where I recalled Richard Zinman, Richard, Turd, Zinman, RZ, living off of. And it should be noted that since the day that Ilene Rossoff introduced us on the big red fire engine at Camp Monticqa / Montebello Park some forty years ago Richard and I have been the best of friends. Imagine, I've been hanging out with Rich since I was four-years-old.

"Hey I'm in Utah with Munoz, let's meet up for dinner."

"Where do you want to eat?" he inquired. After forty years he's grown quite used to me dropping in—the wife would probably prefer a little more notice, but she tolerates my spontaneity reasonably well.

And there I sat having very good Indian food in Sandy Utah with two of my best friends—28 and 40 years respectively. I hadn't considered that Mike and Richard hadn't seen each other in twenty-seven years—I'm glad that the Road To Nowhere crossed for these two, as they are both exceptional human beings.

It's always difficult to say goodbye to Rich, however he has a wife, four kids, and a real job so there was no point in asking him to saddle up...But the Road To Nowhere is for everyone even if only traveling along in spirit.

California, Nevada, Arizona, and Utah in a day, it was time for some sleep in Salt Lake City—really one of my favorite cities.

"Motel Six?" asked Mike.

We both rarely sleep more than four hours a night and our purpose is to be on the road so the Motel Six would do. Funny though, the light at this particular location was burnt out—if you know what I mean.

"Hey, I need to pick up some heavy equipment in Driggs Idaho if you don't mind?" which is Mike's way of suggesting our next stop.

"I've never been to Driggs..."

"It's on the back side of the Grand Tetons."

I nodded my approval. "We can be there in time for lunch."

"We can be there in time for breakfast," insisted my friend, clueless to what I had planned for him.

"You can't come to Salt Lake and not have breakfast at Ruth's Diner, my boy. We'll be in Driggs for lunch."

My sleep had been deep and restful. But I awoke somewhat disappointed that nothing had come to me. No dream, no vision, nor epiphany that would change my course in life—I was hungry...

The big, black Suburban, with not even two hundred thousand miles on it yet, headed down 800 Street, Salt Lake City, towards the great mountains that make Salt Lake such a special place. On the right side of the road about two miles into the wilderness is Ruth's Diner. Mike who has seen much of the world nodded his approval. They had renovated since last I had been fortified there, but quite smartly they had restored, rather than remodeled—Larger kitchen and bathrooms had been the primary goal. The rear patio, where one can imagine what it might have been like to have coffee and biscuits in Eden—was untouched.

The ride to Idaho Falls featured my thoughts on the economy:

"The Gaussian copula function, which destroyed our economy, was written by a Chinese national named David X. Li—doesn't that bother you? He knew the formula was nonsense and he published it anyway..."

Mike turned his head toward me. "Stan, please tell me you wouldn't spew this kind of bullshit to anyone else."

My tone was even more resolved. "I'd blog about it...I don't play the game like you and your friends in Washington. I'm loyal to the people.... What type of country bets its entire economy on the mathematical rant of a communist? What understanding does a communist have of our economic system?"

"It took a lot more than a formula...You say this dribble and get away with it because you're an intellectual bully!"

"Of course it took more than a formula...I don't even care about the Guassian copula function, people a lot smarter than me warned banks not to consider using it years ago. A second grader knows that you can't couple debt variables and come up with a risk average. No, what is destroying our economy is a culture that would embrace not only such an idea, but the derivatives it was meant to enable. A credit debt swap, is by my definition, toxic at its inception—it's insurance against failure, there's no such thing. And there should be no such thing...What type of a people would rather make money through transactions than production?"

"Someone has to provide capital to producers..." said Mike, still more agitated with me.

"Credit debt swaps and collateralized debt obligations, otherwise known as the toxic assets choking our system have nothing to do with providing capital to producers...Nothing...They were instruments created for nothing other than sell in the financial sector. They were making and selling their own products out of nothing...And giving them a triple A rating. And then in the middle of the night our government gave these guys three hundred and fifty billion dollars and told them to work things out..."

"Stan, you don't understand how things are done..."

"You're right...I don't understand giving private companies the public's money with no accountability for it. In fact now that you've shed such light on the matter, I'm sure that the Fed will be issuing a check for ten billion dollars to downtownster tomorrow. And we could use the money."

"Are you done?" asked Mike.

"Yeah, sorry. It's such a great country I can't stand to see what's happening to it."

I wanted to see what was going on in Idaho Falls so we drove around the town for a bit. Suffice it to say that it's a nice town, but like all of small town American it is in need of capital for business and capital improvements.

Not long after, we pulled off of the road to do some shopping at an open-air produce stand. While Mike waited in line to pay for some sweet corn and peaches, which I had selected, I struck up a conversation with an old woman whose son had mortgaged her home to invest in the last several years of real estate scam.

Five hundred thousand he had borrowed on the home she had lived in for fifty years. And there is no government program to help this old woman because her home is still worth a little more than what is owed—and the banks have no problem foreclosing on little old ladies if there's a profit to be had. And the son? In jail for beating up his girlfriend who not only cheated on him, she was the genius who devised the plan of borrowing the money and getting into the real estate game. So, I took down this woman's name, address, and phone number and promised to get her the money she needed to live the rest of her life out in her home, which is all she wanted to do.

The rural beauty passed by my eyes for a few more hours as the black beast, whose back we rode on, continued to eat up asphalt. At a junction close to the Snake River I took the time, while Mike quenched the thirst of the Suburban, to find an old fashioned payphone—not easy to find in the modern age, but still useful for certain types of calls.

"I need half a million dollars that I can't pay back," I said to the person on the other end of the line, to whom I needed no introduction.

"Nice to hear from you Stan. How's the weather up there? How's the family? How's my family you ask?"

"I can't talk now...I just need the money."

"Where are you?"

"On the Road To Nowhere."

"Now you're kidding..."

"Somewhere in Idaho."

"Okay, but this better be good."

"It's for an old lady..."

"Pendejo..." was the last word I heard before hanging up the phone. Some of my old friends are still having difficulty accepting me as I am today.

Driggs Idaho, home of the now defunct, bank owned, Bergmeyer Manufacturing Company—until last year a fine maker of furniture. This would be the place where the blower motors, bought by Mike at the liquidation auction, needed to be loaded onto a trailer and towed from.

I leaned against the hood of the Suburban and stared at the back of the Grand Tetons off in the distance, letting Mike speak with Moritz Bergmeyer privately. Mr. Bergmeyer a tall, thin, man of seventy is the type of genius who used his hands and mind to build this country. His factory in this beautiful valley was far from what someone would normally think of as a factory—I found it to be the artist colony that I've always wanted to build somewhere, someday.

As Mike spoke with this fallen-giant of another generation I knew what he must have been thinking, it is what we should all be thinking, "Will this be me? Will I be honest, work hard, innovate, invest all of my time and money and still fail?" Mori now lives in his motor home. But Mori at least had his health and a motor home the old woman had neither. So I needed to help Mike load up, no small task since the forklift had already been carted off, and I needed to lose Mike for long enough to dig up some dough, quite literally, and deliver it to where it might do some good.

Mike approached. "C'mon, we need to find a forklift."

I slept in the belly of the black beast, the moonlit field aglow all around—Mike slept on top of the trailer next to his blower motors, which had been loaded with a forklift and crew whose requested remuneration was a half-rack. Because the request was so little for such a large favor I urged Mike to buy a full- rack and he did. And not to worry, Mike did not know that a half-rack meant a half-case of beer either, for those readers pondering what all this means. But once the trailer was loaded electrical problems curtailed any idea of a night journey. Good news, as I had required some time to myself to deal with the problem of the old woman and her soon to be foreclosed upon home.

As I pulled my jacket snug around me, Driggs Idaho gets chilly at night, I fought fiercely the desire to withdraw my trusty MacBook Pro and begin penning this part of the tale, but something about this felt wrong—very wrong. It seemed the Road To Nowhere needed to pause for me there, in the dirt driveway of the defunct Bergmeyer furniture factory, next to the expansive field growing something. I reclined in the front passenger seat and thought about why this might be. "Simple," I thought. "There must be at least one mourner for what had once been." And then terrified I contemplated my reason for existence. "I write about life. I want to write about life...Have I become a eulogist? Please let not my reason for breathing be to tell the story of a dying land..." And as stated previously I drifted off with these thoughts in the belly of the black beast, ironically called a Suburban, in the driveway of a place once called industrial—now a wilderness at the edge of a field...

A few hours passed and before the sun came up I relieved myself in the field, picked up a stick, and gave the sleeping bag heap a good whack. "Get up little girl it's time to go."

There was a moan then some rustling. "Why are you always lashing out? It's your own fault that you don't have a wife and kids..."

"Maybe so," I said getting into the beast and closing the door. "Maybe so," I said to myself before Mike opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.

The drive from Driggs Idaho to Missoula Montana is as beautiful as one could possibly ask for. Missoula, a scenic little wonderland, is the home of five valleys and seemingly as many rivers. The University of Montana elevates this isolated city of thirty thousand or so people above normal small town status...And thankfully it is not plagued with Hollywood's elite coming to express their California buying power—as they have done in other parts of the state. In all, Missoula can best be described as Santa Monica Beach California, at the base of some truly beautiful mountains.

As I traversed Main Street, which in Missoula is a street named Higgins, towards a coffee house known as Break Espresso I could feel the metaphorical waters of economic disaster nipping at my ankles. The prices of everything in the large, empty, state of Montana, particularly Missoula, are stratospherically high. It is troubling to see such a nice place, with such nice people, and know that the tsunami that came ashore in California, passed through Nevada, Arizona, and Utah is on its way to the high country—there's a lot of property for sale. And the industry of Montana is what? Timber and beef do not make for four hundred thousand dollar homes in the middle of town. So white flighters beware!

With the black beast in the shop for reshoeing, and yes I'm aware that there is no such word, and a new plug for the trailer—Mike secured us a quaint cabin on ten acres of mountainside up in one of the Valleys. I prefer the Suburban to the Motel 6 or cabin hideaway, but a hot shower and some of the world's best hiking trails are consolation enough.

It is pertinent to mention here, that humans seeking the great outdoors are not the only creatures that appreciate the loveliness of Montana. On contraire, wolves, mountain lions, and the mighty grizzly bear all frolic in nature's playground. In fact, on average, four people a year are mauled to death by ursus arctos horribillis (Grizzly Bears) in Montana. A male grizzly bear can easily reach a height of nine feet when it stands erect on two legs and a weight of eight hundred to a thousand pounds. The grizzly's claws are longer than other bears, such as the black bear, and they usually swipe at humans horizontally causing painful, life ending disembowelment—in the worst instances of encounter. Because death at the claws of a grizzly bear or any other type of wild animal does not appeal to me, I chose to venture out with two highly trained dogs—again supplied by Mike. Now while the dogs would stand little chance in the event of an attack, they would supply the distraction necessary for a safe getaway—basically they're meant to be bait.

The good news, after such and ominous foreshadowing, is that I did not come across a single grizzly bear in the thick woods of Montana my first afternoon on foot. The bad news is, I did encounter an extremely voracious mountain lion of seemingly prehistoric size. And while I'd like to report an easy escape or being saved by man's best friend—neither transpired. And so now I must digress and state a few sad facts for those who might have some recollection of the Stan of the past. Twenty-something-year-old Stan that stood six-foot-one and carried two hundred and fifty-seven pounds of mean muscle mass capable of bench-pressing four hundred and fifty pounds and squatting a thousand no longer exists...I ain't what used to be.

Now how or why the lion missed my fearless lead dog I have no explanation for, frankly I never saw it coming, but I felt a thud that literally launched a galaxy of stars before my very eyes, which luckily cleared about halfway down the steep embankment the mountain lion and I found ourselves tumbling down—over and over we rolled...As a youth I enjoyed fighting, never lost a fight, the FBI would not think of arresting me without a S.W.A.T team and even as an out of shape middle-aged-man I fear nobody, but my maker. However, a mountain lion trying to eat me had never even entered my thoughts as a reasonable possibility, and had it, I might have had some further contemplation as to what on this earth gives me pause.

For my readers who appreciate a good MMA fight, say of the UFC variety, you haven't seen anything, trust me, until you've seen someone go at it to the death with a wild animal—like a mountain lion! Forget about ground and pound, like a mongoose, a man's only hope against such a predator is to get its back and go for a choke. I can tell you from experience, now, that they don't choke out like a human because they have incredibly strong muscles in their necks and a nasty set of rear hind claws that they rip at your legs with in an attempt to sever your femoral artery. And even when the coveted artery alludes them, they leave nice long gashed in your quads that require hundreds of stitches. Oh, they also roar terribly and try to get their jaws around your choking arm in attempt to bite it off. If, as in my case, you suffer from a ripped left pectoral major, they will sense this weakness and use their front claws to mercilessly tear at your weakened left arm.

So I stood, bleeding profusely, and looked down at the dead cat and then looked over at the barking dogs, "What the f*ck?" I said out loud. "Now you bark!" They continued barking, but my mind was already on the long walk back to the cabin. Mike, having spent most of his life in the military, would be able to stitch me up, no doctors allowed on the Road To Nowhere, I just had to hope that I didn't bleed out before I got there. I gave Mr. Mountain Lion one last disgusted look, "Wrong hiker...C'mon dogs."

Two Hours Later

"What happened to you?" Mike asked, looking me up and down.

I smiled. "You should see the other guy!" And then I blacked out for twenty-four hours.

Sorry for missing a couple days of blogging, but I'm feeling much better now and I will be finding a nice place in Montana to rest for a few more days—maybe Flathead Lake.

Although I'd become accustomed to the forward motion of a life lived on wheels, a few days in Missoula were an extraordinary detour into the Land of Normal. True, this was not my idea; indeed it was Mike who thought it best to give my old-body a few days of healing time before moving on. And since I was finding it difficult to move without a variety of pains formerly unknown to me—I acquiesced.

Interestingly, as I settled into life in Missoula and watched all of the normal people go about their normal lives the pain of my spectacularly failed life began to hurt more than my body, cut and bruised from head to toe. Husbands, wives, and kids everywhere seemingly happy and content. Not a single one bothered by Osama bin Laden's still being alive and well, his hands dripping with the blood of our fellow Americans. The national debt? It doesn't exist for these people with bright eyes and warm smiles.

And I gasped for air, suffocated by this reality—that for a plan beyond my understanding is not my own. My escape, the written word, only because of this life source does my heart beat. And I sat at Break Espresso for as long as my body would allow the pen and I to do our dance. There are several stories, which spawned from these days, Heather the most interesting, but her story, quite involved it is, shall remain for another occasion.

Nightfall came on the fourth day, the black beast was saddled, and the comforting lines, which I fever for, passed at seventy-miles-per-hour.

"I'm worried about you, Stan," said Mike.

"I'll live...And if I don't..." I shrugged.

"You need to get married and have a family. I feel like I need to make this happen for you."

"Mike, knowing everything that you know about my life, who exactly do you think is going to marry me? And even if there was some incredibly understanding girl, who could overcome my age and the fact that I don't actually live anywhere or do anything remotely resembling a typical job or business—I don't think I could put her through my life."

"You could play the game, Stan. You don't have to always be the outsider. You don't always have to do things your way. And you don't have to always be right. Why don't you try being charming again, nobody does it better than you?"

I looked out the window at the blackness. "You don't understand how much the forces of mediocrity hate me."

Mike let out a single laugh. "I can imagine."

"I could walk into any failing Fortune Five Hundred company, guarantee them that if they did exactly what I said for a year that they would be twice as successful as they ever were and they wouldn't do it. Keep in mind, we're talking about people who know that I could save them, they don't doubt my ability...They'd rather fail without me, than succeed with...That's how much they hate me...It's frustrating because I don't care about the prestige or the money, I want things to be right—And that's what they hate most of all."

"You should disengage. Let them fail. Maybe even stop blogging," suggested Mike quite seriously.

I shook my head, although admittedly I had entertained such thoughts. "Downtownster could be a national media giant...Not that I really care about that, but it would be a shame to not continue to grow it—and there has to be somebody that doesn't just let big corporate America and government screw the people at will. They think their money can buy anything, especially votes; we're going to change that. And I don't mind sleeping in a Suburban, in every town in America, if that's what it takes..."

"Look, even I like that you stick it to the man..."

"You are the man..."

We both laughed at my timely theft of a line from an IBM commercial.

"Write something commercial and get an agent to represent you. Even if you keep blogging, move out of the city for a year and write something commercial—that corporate America can get behind...I just don't know if you can do both, blogging is a pretty big distraction. But I guess you can try."

"What if I just stop writing period? Maybe I could go back to business..."

"No, I've thought about that, you're skill set is too highly developed to be repurposed—

you're business is writing."

"I'm all in?"

Mike nodded. "You're all in."

Only an hour and half on the road had passed when the big, black beast pulled onto the gravelly trail. Mike wasn't sure how I would handle seclusion, but we agreed a cabin on Flathead Lake would be a good start.

As the early morning rays of sun caused the immense coat of night to recede into its closet somewhere on the opposite side of the planet, I stared from the balcony at Flathead Lake—forty miles long and twenty miles wide with at least three islands that I could count from my vantage point. And for the sake of full disclosure, this cabin on the Road To Nowhere is not typically what one might think of when reading such a word "cabin." Measuring five thousand square feet, it sits on thirty lakefront acres with a dock and several boats to choose from.

Two very commercial ideas in need of being committed to pen and paper floated through the air of Montana into my mind as I stood there in that spot.

"I'll need to take the big, black beast out for a drive and look around...I think I like it here," I thought to myself.

POST 99

Road To Nowhere—Big Mountain

The email from Tilly on facebook said something to the effect, "I think you may know Paula Greenstein. And if you're in Montana, anywhere near Whitefish, I think she owns a restaurant there called Wasabi—it's supposed to be really good." I read the email again, amazed at the Lord's hand in all affairs. I had just found a former Camp JCA counselor named Gary Rappaport on facebook and while I inquired as to the whereabouts of Eric "Rico" Abrams, I could not for the life of me think of Paula (Plunger) Greenstein's name—so I just asked about Eric and made a mental note to think of the name of that vivacious girl, who always wore green.

"Paul "Plunger" Greenstein, that's her," I thought to myself as I examined her picture on facebook. "It's been thirty-five years old-friend, I wonder what you've been doing. And how did you come to live in Montana?" I decided that I would do some writing in the morning at City Brew in Kalispell and then continue up 93 to Whitefish.

Perhaps a reader of this arranged assortment of letters is wondering why I could so easily make a plan to find Paula Greenstein? And this very question is a testament to inspired human thought. Because the human mind intrinsically knows that all of life is a story. Even creation is a story in which God used the power of letters, to make words, which in someway beyond human comprehension caused matter to continuously congeal into the world as we know it.

Three Days Earlier

Subsequent to taking in the beauty of Flathead Lake from my balcony vantage point I ventured down the staircase. The sound of rustling dogs reminded me of my valiant protectors, who apparently feeling profoundly guilty about the mountain lion incident, would not budge from my side unless locked up—in this case in the laundry room. So I freed Thing One and Thing Two, as I call them, since I did not and still do not know their given names. Happy, as only a dog can be at the sight of a master, we strolled across the lawn to the lake and sat. And this, after eight hours of sleep, would be the end of my seclusion. Leaving the dogs to guard the cabin I fired up the Black Beast (Suburban) and made a right onto 93 for Lakeside and then Kalispell.

Kalispell, a nice little town at its center, is the home of several well-run establishments. Norm's News is a must first stop for all travelers through this town—my father's name was Norm (a sign). The hundred-year-old building features a soda fountain counter manned by two adorable teenagers who are the kind of kids I hope my daughters might be one day, if I ever have children. And, although the residents of Kalispell are not aware of it, the ancient "Los Angeles style" bar behind their soda fountain counter holds mystical powers. The wood, carved in Italy two centuries ago, had originally been part of Xerxes the King of Persia's traveling throne. And because it has traveled so many lands its hand carved maidens have seen much. To the surprise of my young ice cream purveyors I inquired as to whether I could see the old opera house upstairs.

"There's an opera house upstairs?" they asked in unison. This building holds many secrets my dear friends.

"There is, and I'd like to see it."

"I'll take you up there," said the woman, who seemingly appeared from nowhere, clearly in charge of what goes on at Norm's. Now my reason's for sitting in front of the bar carved from the wood of Xerxe's throne and wanting to see the forgotten opera house upstairs are for another story, but suffice it to say that it was the woman who showed me this place who suggested I go to Whitefish.

"You need to see Whitefish," she said—exactly.

"What's Whitefish?" I asked.

"It's a small town up the road at the base of Big Mountain," she answered, a tone of satisfaction ringing in her voice, no doubt because she had for a moment traveled on the Road To Nowhere with me.

I thanked her and the girls for their hospitality and headed back to Lakeside...

The following day I traveled to Whitefish—and took a good look around. I made a mental note of all that was there and then I sat at the Montana Coffee Traders thinking that a girl that worked at this coffee house, named Amy, might have something to tell me, something, which I needed to hear—the name of Mike's wife is Amy. But this beautiful, hard working young lady seemed disconcerted by my presence...Also a story for another time. And I headed back to Lakeside, thumbed through my email, and read the message from Tilly, which begs the question, "Why the first trip?" but as I read the message I put this vexing thought out of my mind and resolved to drive back...

IN SEARCH OF PAULA GREENSTEIN

I stopped to write "Road To Nowhere" part something at City Brew on the south end of Kalispell. City Brew is a small Montana chain trying to emulate Starbucks—and in several ways doing Starbucks better than Starbucks. However, I can write anywhere and I am more than familiar with Starbucks and every variation thereof. No, I chose City Brew for a completely different reason...

The sign stated that Wasabi opened at 5:00 for dinner, it was 4:30—next door was a tea house and although past high tea I entered...After ordering, I inquired of the young tea maker, "Does a woman named Paula own the restaurant next door?"

"Yeah, Paula owns Wasabi."

"Does she own this place too?"

"No, this is a different owner...But Paula owns the building, she's our landlord."

"I haven't seen her in..." I told her the story until she interrupted me with, "That's Paula." She pointed at a woman who looked exactly as I would have expected Paula to look thirty-five years later. "Thank you," said I, to the tea maker.

Ignoring the fact that Paula was there to join some friends for their daughter's sweet- sixteen-birthday party I turned to stand in front of her. "Paula "Plunger" from Camp JCA?"

Stunned, she nodded and whispered, "yes."

"Stan Lerner," I continued, "Camp JCA 1972 to 1975, Eric Abrams was my counselor. I've come here to see you and find out what you've been doing with your life..."

She nodded again. "Okay..." we spoke for a few minutes. "Can you stay and have dinner? I own the restaurant next door...And I own the Haymoon Ranch Resort, I'd like to show it to you."

"I'm on the Road To Nowhere," I said, then explained the concept to her. "I can stay as long or as little as you like...I have nothing to do and no place to be—I'm all yours."

I spent much of the next twenty-four hours with Paula roaming around Whitefish. A perfect snapshot of the experience being my time, magically spent, at the Tuesday farmer's market. There was a girl there named Heather who grew flowers from seeds on the Purple Frog Farm—I could not take my eyes off of her as her beauty and that of the flowers had somehow melded together in a way most commonly described in fairy tails involving love in the enchanted forest. I wanted to touch her and see if she was real, but I refrained. An Amish man named Steve sold me some Kettle Corn; his business is masonry, but Kettle Corn is a family tradition that he enjoys involving his three young daughters in. And then there was Dora, who lured me to her table with homemade granola—Dora's Granola. I could have just stayed there with Dora until the sun went down or my stomach burst, whichever came first...I kind of miss Dora right now...Strange since we've only spoken a few dozen words to each other.

Later that night I sat across from Mike on the Woodsmith made alligator couch, the best couch in the world, and I said, "Take me to the airport tomorrow, I need to go back to LA and take care of some things."

"Why?" asked my old-friend.

"I know what I have to do now," I answered.

"And the Road To Nowhere?" he asked, after assessing my entire state of being for a moment.

"We're back on the Road To Nowhere in three weeks."

The corners of Mike's mouth tightened and moved upward into a smile and he nodded. "I like what you're becoming..."

The End...For Now...

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stan Lerner is an award winning-author whose diverse credits include the novels "Stan Lerner's Criminal", "Blast", "In Development," and the children's book "Stanley The Elephant." Stan Lerner is also the creator of the Las Vegas music spectacle "Night Tribe" and the writer, director, producer of the hit motion picture "Meet The Family." Mr. Lerner was born in Montebello CA and has lived in downtown Los Angeles for the last fifteen years.

For more information about Stan Lerner please visit his author profile at: <http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stan>

ALSO BY STAN LERNER

"IN DEVELOPMENT"

"In Development" is a hilarious account of a day in the life of Stan Peters—Hollywood's most powerful and scummiest producer.

The day begins like any other day—a superlative, five-star breakfast at The Peninsula Hotel. However, the shocking news that there has been a change at the very top of the studio means that the perfect world of Stan and his closest associates could come to a sudden end—especially with a movie like "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho" in development. The subsequent call from Brad, the new studio boss, confirms their greatest fear—their movie is in danger of being put in turn-around. A day of sex, manipulation, lying, betrayal, blackmail, and murder ensues -- otherwise known in Hollywood as a happy ending.

_To sample or purchase "In Development" please visit:_ <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/7633>

"STAN LERNER'S CRIMINAL"

HOLLYWOOD BOOK FESTIVAL GRAND PRIZE WINNER

An intense page-turner based on the author's true-life experiences.

"Stan Lerner's Criminal" is the graphic and shocking account of the rise to power of the world's most calculating and dangerous criminal...Sam Noah.

Sam Noah was handsome, intelligent, and charismatic. He came from a good family, had the perfect girlfriend, and attended UCLA where he ranked at the top of his class. Noah could have made anything he wanted to out of his life. But crime came naturally to him.

The story begins in 1984. The Cold War is at its height and the CIA is looking for still more funding for its covert operations around the world. Powerful men decide that there must be a go to guy. A man that will do whatever is necessary to finance the wars that Congress cannot be made aware of.

Sam Noah takes a job at a popular nightclub where he runs a smalltime ticket scam -- and he begins to recruit the ruthless men that will help him build a narcotics empire.

When the FBI becomes a gathering threat to Noah, he forms an alliance with the CIA. His innovations -- the crack house and the drive-by shooting -- not only bring an unprecedented level of violence to the streets of America. They assure the powerful men who have engaged his services that Noah is indeed capable of doing the unthinkable.

The sale of cocaine makes him rich. His willingness to commit murder ensures that he will remain so.

Not since Hannibal Lecter has there been such a horrifying yet engaging mastermind of evil.

"Stan Lerner's Criminal" transports the reader into the darkest of all places: the criminal mind. This is an unforgettable journey into the psyche of Sam Noah -- the man behind some of the most brutal sins against humanity.

By the end of this unflinching tale, what may shock the reader the most is how he or she will ultimately identify with and root for this ruthless but brilliant "Criminal".

To sample or purchase "STAN LERNER'S CRIMINAL": <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/7628>

OTHER TITLES BY STAN LERNER

BLAST

IMPACT

GET CHICKS 101

GET THE RIGHT GUY

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