Showing posts with label Hollyweird. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hollyweird. Show all posts

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Luke Lagraff - Bum Master

This day feels rented
With morsels of blood
That flow through dented
Hearts wanting love

I get up with another
Quarter’s worth of will
He didn’t want to give
But I told him I kill

I look like shame
That question’s all the same
I guess I’ve learned that pain
Is inherent to the game

But I’m seen everyday
Paw-happy in rain
Managing my spirits’
And the famous nicknames

Do I think about tomorrow?
Do I give? I can make it there.
Will I make it by on sorrow?
Will I forgive? I’ll only bum air.

Luke LaGraff is a lover of sandwiches, egg nog, and one of a kind days. He used to forget them, but now has realized he shouldn't; they have more meaning than ever at this point of his life. He enjoys the sun in LA and watches hockey and funny things whenever he can. He listens to people. He's from Tennessee.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Mike Gamms - Another Night in Hollywood

Why am I even going to this party? I'm not going to like anyone here and they aren't going to like me. Especially if I keep drinking like I am now. We haven't even gotten to the door and I already want to leave. I see the person I can only assume is the host approaching us.

"Hey guys thanks for coming!"

He is as big of a twit as I imagined. The kind of tool who tells his friends back home he works in the film industry when in actuality he rips tickets in a movie theatre. Him and Roger have some pointless conversation about God knows what. I over hear him say he moved to Los Angeles for the weather. God, people are fucking lame. I'm not sure if I'm more pissed about what he said, or the fact that I've undoubtedly said the same lame crap before. I try to convince myself that it's different because I'm aware that I sound like a jackass, but I'm not sure if I really believe it.

I continue trying to forget what he says before he's even done saying it. If it's important enough I'm sure I'll hear it again. I don't even remember his name and hopefully in a few minutes I won't remember his face. I'll let Roger make small talk with idiots and hopefully I'll be left out of the conversation.

"Who's your friend?"

"This is Chuck, he's a writer-"

That's fucking great. There's already enough self proclaimed "artists" at this party, and now I'm one of them. I'm not sure what annoys me more, that people are going to think I'm one of them, or I'm actually going to feel like one of them. The host looks to me for some sort of conversation, but I don't even bother.

I am quickly on the move. Roger can handle this guy on his own. When I finally find the beer, they have nothing but a few dozen Mic Ultra Lights. Don't get me wrong, I'm no beer snob, but I'd prefer to have something with a little more kick than that. But I think the point of having such a sissy beer in such low quantity is so that people like me don't get drunk and make a scene. But considering the fifth I drank for lunch, that's all but unavoidable at this point. I complain about the booze selection to a woman at the bar but she doesn't see the problem.

"I like this beer. It's low calorie so I don't feel as guilty about skipping the gym tomorrow."

I debate telling her that her fat ass probably makes her feel more guilty than any beer could, but I'm feeling pretty lonely and the company of a woman doesn't sound like a bad idea at this point. And besides, pretending to be interested in her isn't going to make me hate myself anymore than I already do right now. I tell her I love Mic Ultra because I have to do twice the work to get half as drunk. She isn't smart enough to get it, but she's smart enough to know it's a joke and laugh. Some girls are so desperate for male approval its sickening.

Just as I'm starting to think today isn't going to be all that bad, the guy from the front door is headed my way again. Roger is no where to be seen, so I'm actually going to have to talk to him on my own. I can't remember his name or much of what he said, but that fedora hat and beard tell me he's a struggling artist. I'll just get him talking about himself while I concentrate on downing these beers. I ask him if he's working on any projects right now. This will keep him occupied for a while. Plus he really doesn't care what I have to say anyways, he just enjoys hearing himself say it.

"I've got a terrific script I'm directing. In fact, I wrote it myself!"

I tell him it sounds great. But really I just wonder if his girl blows him as much as he blows himself. I don't get how people like him can think so highly of themselves when there is clearly so much to dislike. Or maybe I'm just bitter that fools like him can find bliss in their own ignorance while I constantly drown myself in my own self misery. I can't take listening to this guy anymore, so I excuse myself to the bathroom, grabbing two new beers along the way.

This is where I find Roger. The only other person here foul enough to not only take a shit at the party, but to bring his beer with him. After we finish our respective business, Roger pulls out a bag of coke. Knowing Roger, this isn't surprising. Roger may pretend to be my manager, but it's mostly just a gimmick to trick girls new to Hollywood into sleeping with him. Not that he isn't still successful in his own right. Roger makes most of his money owning shady motels off the Sunset Strip. Renting out motel rooms by the hour, you get pretty familiar with the world of cocaine and loose women. I'm not saying I'm any better than Roger, I just can't afford as much as blow as he can. I have to skip meals to buy 3 dollar bottles of whiskey. But if Roger is buying, I'll gladly partake.

Coke makes me feel unstoppable. All the self hate seems to disappear. I stop destroying myself on the inside and start destroying everyone around me. Today's cut is pretty strong.

We wipe our noses, licking the last of the residue off our fingers as we head back to the bar for more beer. I stumble into some guy, spilling his drink. Unfortunately, he's the kind of guy who takes himself way too seriously.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole!"

His tight shirt and smug expression are a dead giveaway of an aspiring actor. The coke has me feeling powerful and fearless. I tell him I'm a talent agent at CAA and I want to sign him.

"Really?!?"

The look on his face says it all. It's almost sickening how quickly he changes his opinion when he thinks it might help his acting career. But he just as quickly realizes how foolish he looks. Making such an insecure little man look stupid only proves to make things worse. He takes a swing at me, but somehow in my intoxicated state, I am able to dodge his attack. I can't help but laugh.

Distracted by my own good fortune, I forget that the actor doesn't find this as funny as I do. The second punch doesn't miss. The haymaker to my jaw has me hard on the floor. I try to shake it off and get on my feet, but he clocks me square in the jaw and darkness fills my eyes.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Emily Idzior - Hollyweird Boulevard

Crazy ass bathroom broke into the coffee

ate all the stars and went home

Where did all the people go?

I counted the stars four by four through my breath

Broke into your heart and took it for myself

I still talk about the past

Buy something here buy something now buy something whenever

$2.99 for a memory of you and me

I’ll never remember you better

Cold and windy sunny and windy my hair is full of sand

I want to color inside the words

I took a picture

I held your hand on the beach

I took a picture

and laughed

When I went to Hollywood, I felt weird


and stiff like someone might see me

you saw me standing there walking away

the stars were outshone by the city lights

but they’re closer so why wouldn’t they

I broke into the coffee I broke into the stars

you broke into my heart

Emily Idzior is an aspiring poet and librarian who has to shush people poetically. She has a MA in salad making and wishes she loved tea without sugar but, alas, has a sweet tooth. She cannot quit waffles or coffee and writes in her personal blog once a year.

Also, she has a cat.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Damian Alonzo - Untitled

Whenever I’m in Hollywood, I always feel like I’m walking through the footprint of a giant dinosaur. The stuff in is interesting and all, but you find yourself wondering what it may have been like before its current, not-so-glamorous state. Personally, I’ve always been fascinated by the occult. The more “left-hand” and esoteric, the better. I guess I’d be turning over branches and rocks trying to find the ever-elusive “missing link” in that dino footprint. At least then I’d be putting my degree to some use, right? Well, in a way, my search for the occult kind of did (is doing?) that.

As you may or may not know, I am a practicing Heathen. Yes, put yet another tally mark on the anomaly that is Damian. Asatru, as you may find, has some curious history behind it. It was founded around the same time as the American Church of Satan (LaVey) and the “hippy” movement, and I believe it all came out of Berkley. So you have Wiccans, Satanists, and Vikings offering all kinds of alternative philosophy to the masses in the 60’s.

Wicca becomes mostly associated with women, especially with the Dianics getting out the strong, female voice of our pagan sisters. Satanism is almost theatrical right out of the gate, and weaves in and out of the media’s spotlight to this day, getting people to embrace the god within themselves. Asatru was easily the little sibling of the three, providing people of European descent a religion and philosophy to “return home” to. As you can see, this idea would be very problematic for many to accept with open arms. Indeed, not obviously “white”, I’ve had my own struggles walking the Odian path throughout the last five years or so from people within the community that I should feel comfortable in. But I’m stubborn, and will not be told I cannot belong or that I am not good enough (a little LOL for you- some paleoanthropologists think that unusual stubbornness is a trait left over from the Neanderthals of what is now Germany). So on to Hollyweird.

You always see this stuff in movies. The lights are off in some place that looks abandoned. You hear muffled voices carried off by the wind. Candles’ glow pulsates in a dark window. You take a few steps closer and swear you pick up the smell of something in the air. Sage, perhaps. Now you’re at the window looking in. Hooded figures huddle around an altar, their arms raising and lowering as they chant. There are a number of statuettes on the altar that you do not recognize, along with some odd looking instruments that resemble medieval weaponry. Then fear roots you to the floor as you realize there’s a (probably naked) young lady tied to the floor, squirming and trying to scream! You have just stumbled upon a cult ritual, no doubt! Probably…dun dun duuunnn…SATANISTS!* Or in my case, there’s just no naked people. Or Satanists. Just some silly Heathens up to their monthly moon worship, or seasonal welcoming.

The first time I was invited out to Hollywood’s Besant Lodge (a stone’s throw from the Hollywood sign) to do a ritual, I was flat out excited. I felt like a kid who was just promised a new toy or something. Occult Hollywood! Something was plucked out of the footprint that I never imagined I’d get so intimately close to. And what a place, let me tell you. It smells old, for starters. That’s the first thing I always do when I go to a new place like that…I take a big whiff. The paintings on the wall are something out of The Haunted Mansion at Disneyland, I kid you not; portraits of random people without titles, and a really awesome and creepy painting of a castle. To add to the strangeness and amazing energy of the place is a really small stage at the far end from where the door is. A fellow Gildie pointed out that they used to play silent movies at the Lodge, and that it’s actually a CHURCH on Sundays! The plain old good feeling you get when you’re in there is just something else.

With the lights turned out, it’s a different story. You quickly begin to feel unsure of your presence there as your friends become shadows, and the dagger in your hand feels more like a weapon for self defense than a ritual tool. But the chanting begins, and it takes the edge off. You harness those feelings of insecurity and use it to channel the essence of …Thor…or Vanaheim …or whatever or whoever you’re aiming to bring into the room. Neopagan ritual in a historical place like that is pure magic(k). Then we take down our banners, horgh (altar), and pitchers of mead…and just feast as a family around the hearth.

The joy that that little piece of Hollywood has brought to my heart in immeasurable. Looking at it now, I actually feel as though the Lodge was never touched by the menacing foot of a prehistoric beast. It’s a window of history that is largely undisturbed, waiting to be discovered by those lucky enough to be granted permission to enter its portal.

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I have purposefully omitted certain things about myself, the history and current state of Asatru, and the particular group I have associated with in the past, as I did not want to add too many unnecessary distractions. If you have any questions regarding Asatru, Paganism or Satanism, please contact me through Facebook via private message and I would love to chat about it!

*The iconic imagery of a female being sacrificed by a cult comes from LaVey. He was very big on using the nude female form as a living altar for his perverted rituals. Aleister Crowley was also into this sort of thing.


Damian Alonzo is an Anthropology graduate and a native of Los Angeles. His focus for the last ten years has been on folklore, with an emphasis on Germanic Heathenry, the supernatural, and youth culture. Most of his free time is spent playing too many hours of PC games, otherwise he might actually have more writing done.