It's going to be a week of conflicting crisises for me.
The big humdinger is that I sent off all the materials for the new Deposit Man book off to Brenner Printing with fingers crossed that it will be completed on time. The bad news is that I'm hoping that they don't cash the biggest check I have ever written in my entire life until Thursday- because if they do cash it between tomorrow or Wednesday- I'm going to be close to $200 in the hole! I'd rather that this check goes through than my rent check which, now matter how I slice it- there's going to be an overdraft - but if it's only my rent check which I have to write on Wednesday night- it'll only be short $7.00! I guess from here on, it's a race against time of the two lesser insufficent funds evils. Now I've got people who I owe money to calling me up or sending collectors' notices. My Columbia tape club sent my name to an agency saying that I owe 31 and change for a lousy Batman tape that I didn't pay for. My storage unit jacked up my rent again and I can't give them a penny for another two weeks. AND on top of that I have to send out show merchandise to my dad's place in Vegas and I'm can't imagine how much that is going to set me back. And I still have to pony up $200 for my plane reservation. It's a never ending soap opera with me. But I keep telling myself that the pain and tribulations that went behind the production of this book has been worth it even though I'm set not to profit off the initial 500 copies I'm printing in time for this convention.
Crisis No 2.
When Oliver came over to drop off the materials, my cat, the Ferocious Nikita came by over to check out how everyone was all doing. She's been going out on little jaunts lately that keeps her away for days at time- although she has been coming in at night to see what's been left on her plate (she has a special entrance to the house through one of the bathrooms and you tell by when her weight hits the toilet tank when she decides to come home. No one worries that anyone will break in the house because only she is small enough to fit through the window). Well, this was the first full view I've had of her in a few days, and let me tell you, I was mortified- she looked like she went through the wringer with a coyote or something because nearly half the left side of her face has been gnawed off. There's a shitload of fur missing and she's has gashes on her ears and near her eyes. I freaked out in front of Oliver and immediately took her and locked her in my bathroom upstairs. When business was concluded between Oliver and I, I took wet tissues and some Neosporin and cleaned up her wounds despite her protests. I then took her back downstairs, closed every goddamn window in the house, including her entrance, and locked her in the den at night with a litter box and some food and water. Damn cat needs to start staying in at night- because before we know it- the vermin will start getting the message that she isn't around protecting the premises anymore.
Crisis No 3.
Goddamn it- if the MTA goes on strike at midnight tonight (again? The last one was three years ago)- I'm going to be up shit creek without a paddle and I don't have the spare change lying around to take taxis in the morning or to rent a car. There are two co-op operating lines in Sherman Oaks- but they will only take me as so far as to the main lot and I will have to take an extra hour to walk up to the Burbank Airport close to where I work.
This, is of course - FUCKING BULLSHIT! The last strike (which cost me a temp gig working for a nail polish manufactor in Chatsworth) was geared towards drivers not getting compensated for overtime and not enough hours- this one is geared towards the mechanics and their bullshit problems. I wish when they negotiated the last strike, it would be sunny shit spectacular if they took care of everyone's fucking needs while our then erstwhile mayor, Richard Riordin was out fucking bicyling in France.
I need this now like I need another fucking crazy straw enema. The timing couldn't be more perfect.
Anyway, the conclusion of my story in San Diego. To sum it up- I basically flat out said to Matt's face after inviting me in read his tough guy screenplay in a sort of polite way that he needed to write another draft for all the right bullshit reasons. Matt was actually lucid enough to listen, although I'd hazard a guess of how many tequila shots he was mixing up with his suppressents, but I took our conversation to a different level...a very dangerous level and it was a very dangerous hand for me to play. I kept harking back to all the times where Matt would fall under this spell of disillusionment that someone was vandalizing his car when in all the time it was Matt himself that was setting off his own car alarms. I said something along the lines, that I peeked through the blinds one night and I saw someone touch his car. Upon hearing this, Matt's deep baggy eyes near popped out of his sunken sockets- it was as if seven years of sobriety was suddenily putting in a cameo appearance in this strange movie of life of- he immediately demanded that I cough up the info.
I baited him.
I hunched down close to him and said quietly ' I don't think you'd want to know'.
Then he grabbed me by the throat and started to throttle me.
I played possum- I conceded that I'll tell, I'll tell- just stop with the choking already.
He let go- I clutched for breath in my throat and I just belted it out.
I told them they were cops.
He then told me to get the fuck out of his house.
No argument from me.
No sooner than I walked into Dave's front door, was the belligerence once again in full gear. He was on the phone yelling at somebody, making death threats, and throwing stuff through windows again. Surrounding people were going berserk again, and let me tell you this time, there was a mob of fifteen or twenty who had had it to their needlemarked chins were poised ready to break down Matt's door and were prepared to deliever the coup d' grace until three cops cars with their sirens wailing came screeched to a halt in front of the complex. The uniforms came storming past the mob, told them all to stand back and then they proceeded to kick in Matt's door themselves and before anyone knew it, Matt was the one being pushed handicuffed into the back seat. One cop grabbed Matt's face and yelled that he was going to be singing a different tune behind a jail cell when he started threatening police officers...OVER THE PHONE!!
Then they sped off. One of the neighbors who saw me go into Matt's place looks over to me and asks me what the hell did you do? I shrugged and said, I simply used his psychology against him. I told him what he wanted to hear.
Matt was finally let out after stewing off in a jail cell for two weeks- by then he was evicted and there was some beautiful blonde waiting to help him move stuff into a van. He saw me and came over to me and apologized to me for the way he went off that night and admitted to himself that he needed a lot of help. I couldn't help but ask, 'with what- your screenplay?' . He laughed and then both him and the buxom blond drove off in his black stingray off towards the direction of LA- I called out to him that I'll probably be joining him soon - and sure enough, it was another two months after this incident that I would find myself back in LA.
But I couldn't help but wonder- where or what was the real Al Pacino doing at this time?
P.S. I may have to do entries for this blog from my work- considering that I do get to work that is- if the MTA strike becomes a dreadful reality.