And His Hair Was Perfect
It is raining in Southern California. But nothing can dampen my memories of our wild night of flaming debauchery at Trader Vic’s. Not even the soul-crushing pain at the base of my skull.
We at MTV News are strong advocates of team building excercises. And nothing says “team” like a night of flaming beef kabobs, coconut shrimp, and Polynesian beverages in ceramic skulls. Still, Robert and I were astonished that our supervisor bit when we proposed a team outing to Trader Vic’s, a kitschy throw-back to the era of Elvis’ “Blue Hawaii,” The Rat Pack, and the Hollywood studio system. It’s adjacent to the massive white elephant that is the Beverly Hilton, on the corner Santa Monica Boulevard of Wilshire. And it’s a trip. Three Fijian warriors greeted us when we walked in the door. It was game on.
I don’t remember much, except a whole bunch of laughter that grew more riotous as the evening progressed. I recall a grave enthusiasm for sampling as many drinks as possible, which I achieved with some success. Before last call, I downed two Zombies, a Scorpion Bowl, a Keimeia (in a souvenir ceramic coconut), and a Doctor Funk (which the waiter warned was “very strong, very strong” — and it was).
The rain began falling as we stumbled out into the warm California night. I vociferously suggested that we were driving the wrong way, but was completely turned around. I was bleary-eyed and out of my element. And so I moved to my strong suit: hip-hop. Me, my boss, and my old friend and colleague, Robert Mancini, in a rented Kia chanting, “Doheney! Doheney! I’m feelin’ kinda’ zany!”
Rum: it keeps the raindrops at bay.
Hello, America
It’s wind. It blows all over the place.
I wore a blue blazer today. I got a raise. And a bonus. I had lunch across from the Sony lot, got a colleague onto the “War of the Worlds” set (Speilberg! Cruise!), made a deal for a major Hollywood A-lister to blog for MTV.com, and saw a screening of Nic Cage’s next coming-of-middle age film, “The Weather Man” on the Paramount lot.
Driving west on Melrose after the screening, listening to the perfect slow-motion KCRW soundtrack, I stopped into a liquor store for a six pack. In the parking lot behind the store, I paused with my hands at nine and three o’clock on the steering wheel, stared out the window a minute, and wondered just who I’ve become, and just where I’m headed.
I’m not sure whether it’s geography or chronology or current events, but for all today’s highlights, I still don’t feel like myself. In fact, I’m not even sure who myself is.
I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in my rental car of late. It’s not impossible for a mile of car travel to take fifteen minutes here. So there’s been plenty of time for “Fresh Air” on NPR. Yesterday, Terry Gross interviewed “Housekeeping” author Marilynne Robinson. I loved “Housekeeping” in college. I remember the book’s distinctly feminine, slightly broken, almost ghost-like tone. It felt like home. Terry asked her if it was easier to imagine that she’s the character she writes, or herself. “It funny,” she said, “It’s seems easier to comprehend who other people are just by watching them do the things they do. But it’s pretty difficult to know yourself, to be yourself, even though you you’re in your own skin, and you can’t be anyone else.”
“The Weather Man” is a patient, little film, despite it’s Hollywood wattage (Michael Caine, Hope Davis, plus the kid from “How To Be A Boy”). In the film, Nic Cage doesn’t know who he is anymore. He spends a lot of time walking down snowy Chicago streets in slow motion. He looks forlorn, and sounds it in his voice over. He has a great soundtrack. And by the end of the film, he seems to have found some sort of clarity. The audience is left smiling, knowing full well that his tomorrow will be just a little brighter than his today.
But what about the day after tomorrow? My hunch is that he might stumble again. Then maybe figure it all out for a second more. Then fall again. ‘Cuz life is like that, minute to minute, day to day.
Like wind. There are prevailing patterns. But it’s impossible to predict where it’ll be from one second to the next. It just is.
So, heck, I dunno’. I’m 3600 miles from home, watching television alone in a strange hotel room. I’m crossing my fingers that I feel like I belong in my own skin tomorrow. But I don’t think I will, ‘cuz I don’t it works that way. I think there are times when we are becoming more than usual. There are times when the weather is less predictable than others. This is one of those times. I can feel it. And I can feel that it’s going to be ok tomorrow, and the day after, stumbles, falls, and all.
What A Life
Today will be different.
I woke early, tossing and turning in my bed until the sun broke through the windows. I jogged in Beverly Hills, taking in the blue sky, the soaring palms, and the waking birds. I turned down Carmelita Street, where I jogged so many years before (in the “Almost Home” era). I reminded myself to fight, to be strong and smart, then sprinted up Doheny to my hotel. I sat a minute watching CNN, ate my granola with strawberries, and read “Los Angeles Magazine.” I stepped out of #236 to tackle the day in earnest. I took the long way to work, the scenic route: Sunset to Bundy to San Vicente to 26th. And cranked KCRW the whole way.
Today will be different. Today will be great. I have willed it to be so.
Axel F
LA’s finest were parked outside the hotel tonight. “They waiting for you?” Robert joked. “I got five bucks that says they’re here for the hip hoppers across the hall from me.”
Today began auspiciously enough. A beautiful din rose from the clock radio’s tiny speakers. It sounded like Beta Band meets Talking Heads meets Franz Ferdinand. Energized, I jumped straight out of bed to look for the room service menu, but was sidetracked when I saw the sun rising over downtown.
My room in the tiny Le Montrose is on the second floor which, because we’re on the hillside below Sunset Boulevard, is barely above ground. So I had to jump up from my balcony to the floor above to take in the vista. And what a vista. The air, choked with exhaust, was a beautiful, burnt orange. I took it as a good omen.
It took me 30 minutes to drive six miles to my office.
I’d prefer to forget my day at the office.
It took me 45 minutes to the six miles back to my hotel.
When I finally stepped into the lobby, fully empathic to those Angelinos who have brandished a weapon on the freeway, Robert was waiting. Sway was in from L.A. and greeted my with his usual enthusiasm. MTV News was arriving in earnest.
We went for sushi on Sunset (probably a bad idea), then stopped through the Hustler shop so Robert could pick up some gifts. After awkwardly wandering around the t-shirts, lubricants, and DVDs, I opted to stand outside for a few minutes. In a heartbeat, a grizzled cowboy in blue shades was in my face, “Wanna’ buy some sunglasses?” He monologued on crystal meth, burglary, sobriety, boom boxes, and Texas, vaciliating wildly between rage and joy, when it occurred to me that it might be time to make myself scarce. “Don’t let the bastards get you down,” I said, practically jogging away.
I spotted the black and white cruiser as we stumbled down from Sunset. The lobby was quiet. But stepping out of the elevator, I saw a cop speaking with a woman, “Now, ma’am, you can’t be both victim and suspect.” Sure enough, the police activity was right across the hall.
At least they weren’t waiting for me.
It’s The Pictures That Got Small
It is always 1980 on Sunset Boulevard.
We just had dinner at The Rainbow, a tiny little dive wedged between The Key Club and The Roxy. Like CBGBs in New York, The Rainbow is famed for 80s-era hair metal debauchery. I overheard someone say, “Can you imagine how much of Motely Crue’s DNA is in this place?”. Bleach blonde, multiply-pierced, fully made up men still populate the red vinyl booths. Women who still get their fashion cues from Tawny Kitaen still troll the bar where the barteneder is a cross between Norma Desmond, Elvira, and that Star Trek race with a really high, really bumpy foreheads. Then there’s me, clearly the visitor in the dusty museum, more Weezer than Warrant in my striped Ben Sherman shirt, suede jacket, Pro Keds and thick glasses.
On the way out, I saw Shelby Lynn sliding into her royal blue Audi TT. A Glenn Ballard look-a-like ran over, “Shelby! Shelby!” She was all like “Oh my God!” But in her entire 90 second conversation with him, she never took the phone from her ear.
Where the f*ck am I?
I had to remind myself all day, “You’re in L.A. You’re in L.A. Your in L.A.”
My car came at 5 a.m. I was at JFK at 6. I nodding off to sleep in seat 36B next to the largest woman on the whole plane by 7. Six fitful hours later, I was at LAX. I went to bed in my Upper West Side apartment, and woke up 3600 miles away from home.
I used to volunteer to come to L.A. I used to relish this assignment. I love the ocean, and the mountains, and heck, I’ll admit it, the movie business. But tonight, checking into Le Montrose Hotel (kind of a bargain basement Mondrian), I sighed when the clerk said, “We have you for eight nights, Mr. Wagner.” Eight nights.
Sitting around the bar at The Rainbow earlier, Shaheem, Robert and I reminded each other that a whole bunch of people would kill for this kind of job. Robert still calls his best friend from second grade when he interviews, say, Ozzy Osbourne. Sha brought his best friend to meet Big Daddy Kane. I called my parents as I walked out of Warner Bros. offices after interviwing Michael Stipe. Still, I’d trade ya’ this for a frozen pizza and a beer at home.
But pay no mind to me. I’m tired and just a little bit cranky. My body thinks it’s 3:00 a.m. And I’m full from dinner. But I love the sweet, floral smell of this town. I love the cool air. I love that I’m not wearing a hat or gloves. I love that my job finds me at Sundance one weekend, the Grammy Awards the next.
If only Tawny Kitaen were here with me. Or at least Shelby Lynn. At least then I wouldn’t feel so lonely. And I’d definately sleep in tomorrow morning.
Super Sunday
Yes, I was supposed to be on American Airlines #801 to LAX in ten minutes. But I’m not. I’m home, two beers in, watching the Superbowl. And I’m blogging in real time.
5:25 PM – I pick up a six of Brooklyn Lager, a bag of Sun Chips, a frozen Mama Celeste and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough Ice Cream. Super, indeed. But what I really want is wings.
5:43 PM – The Fox / Radio Shack Pre-Show is themed, “Building A Bridge.” It’s really bad. “Trading Spaces” is much better. They’re running some kind of “best of.” It occurs to me that under that whole soccer mom haircut and wardrobe, Paige What’s-Her-Face is pretty hot.
6:02 PM – Who’s the “two-time Grammy nominated” country singer chick and why is her audio so bad?
6:17 PM – Alicia Keys is so lip synching. And all those deaf and blind kids are really bummin’ me out. Not ‘cuz i don’t think they’re cool, or probably psyched to be there, but because they look like they were trotted out like show ponies. And singing with dead Ray on the Jumbotron? Shameful. The clincher? The outro that reminds us that dead Ray has two albums out. (At least they didn’t say, “Visit NFL.com for more.”)
6:24 PM – This whole “Greatest Generation” thing is a bit much. Voiced by Michael Douglas? Oy, only one guy from Iwo Jima. Bummer. Those Tuskegee Airmen look pretty cool though.
6:28 PM – Ok, the nausiating, gung-ho nature of the pre-show notwithstanding, the Army/Navy/Air Force choirs do about the best job I’ve ever heard with “The Star Spangled Banner.” Those are some wack harmonies. Beautiful.
6:55 PM – Burt Reynolds for FedEx! Aaaaah!
7:13 PM – When that Harrison dude intercepted McNabb’s pass then was hammered by that Eagle? I actually made a sound a loud like, “Ooof!” My dad makes the same sounds when he watches sports.
7:17 PM – Did I mention that the last football game I watched, strike that, the last sporting event I watched, was last year’s Superbowl? I got called into work before it was over.
7:26 PM – The Tom Brady Grandmother Story: Truth? Or PR spin?
7:31 PM – I lived in just outside Philadelphia from the time I was eleven ’til I was almost 18-years-old. The Eagles always sucked. So I’m pulling for them. (In case you were wondering.)
7:32 PM – Touchdown Eagles! I think I’ll order my wings now.
7:42 PM – Superbowl: Not-so-super when you’re watching it alone.
7:45 PM – Prediction: I will finish the six pack.
7:51 PM – I’m a strong advocate of any programming or advertising featuring monkeys.
7:59 PM – Blondie’s says deliver will take two hours. I say no thanks. Firehouse doesn’t say, so I say two dozen wings please. Can’t wait. I bet it takes an hour.
8:05 PM – Man, this sport is laaaaaame.
8:15 PM – Ads so far? Suckin’. I’m gonna’ say it’s Burt Reynolds and the monkeys at the half.
8:19 PM – Ok, you know I’m a sucker for “The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow.” So the NFL Network’s ad with all the players from teams who aren’t in tonight’s game is now in the lead for best ad.
8:20 PM – Finally, my area of expertise: the musical half time. McCartney? Playing to track. What would John say? And where’s Ringo? The medly: “Drive My Car,” “Get Back” (He’s taking off his jacket! Close call.), “Live And Let Die” (Fireworks! Pyro!), “Hey Jude” (complete with faux-lighters). The red, white and blue cards in the audience are just a little bit too much. I think I just puked in my mouth. Well, at least there were no wardrobe malfunctions. Thanks Paul! Thanks Ameriquest! The airwaves are safe again.
8:42 PM – The pizza? Burned it. Hope those wings come soon.
8:48 PM – Uh oh, Pats score.
8:53 PM – I’m not anti-American, really. I mean, Wall Mart, strip malls, and freeways notwithstanding, I think it’s a pretty neat place, if not literally, at least conceptually. But man oh man, that Anheiser Bush ad where an airport erupts in spontaneous applause when all these soldiers walk through baggae claim. Puke. I dig soldiers. I mean, they have nothing to do with the politics of, say, Iraq. But shame on Anheiser Bush for milkin’ the shit for ad sales.
9:04 PM – First erectile disfunction ad.
9:05 PM – Wings are here!
9:11 PM – The computer sound Fox is using every time they update stats? Really annoying. The wings? Fuckin’ outstanding.
9:14 PM – Eagles score! Once again, I make some cheering noise which kind of startles me. I call my best friend Sibby in Albuquerque and leave a babbling, incoherent-but-enthusiastic message.
9:31 PM – Uh oh, hiccups. And the Patriots scored again. 21-14.
9:47 PM – Patriots intercept. I change the channel to TLC “Town Haul.”
9:55 PM – Three minutes remaining and the Eagles need to score 10 points. Now, I don’t watch football but once a year, but this doesn’t look so good. Which is too bad. Philly’s a pretty beat up town. Yeah, we had “Rocky” and Mike Schmidt, and we still have cheese steaks and Wawa hoagies, but to be honest, that’s about it. Sorry, but Philly’s not much of a town. As far as the eastern seaboard goes, I’d take New York, (duh), Boston, and DC prior to Philly. Anyway. Bummer.
10:03 PM – I just made the most absurd noise ever when the Eagles completed that touchdown pass. How pretty was that pass? I went, “Bahahaaaaa!” and jammed my right fist into the air. What the hell’s happening to me?
10:15 PM – Eeeeeeh. I’m layin’ low in my big red chair tugging on the last few ounces of my sixth Brooklyn Lager when the Patriots intercepts. Game over. Gotta’ pack. I have a car coming in six and a half hours. G’night, and Godspeed.
Just A Minute
I woke from a very short, very weird night of dreams at 6:45 this morning. If the sky weren’t so blue, and the buildings painted so brilliantly with morning light, well, then I might just have stayed in bed. But I didn’t.
Yes, I grabbed my camera. Yes, the results are above and to your left. And yes, the photographs demonstrate some degree vanity. But at least I flipped the script, I exposed the process, yunno’, by getting caught “self-timing.” And heck, it ain’t my best photo ever.
Anyway, I was up ’til well after two last night working on what, in Pro Tools anyway, I called “The Meeting Song” (see below). Fortunately for all of us, it ended up with a new title, “Leave Me Alone (For A While).” And while I should have retracked the vocals, and maybe tweaked the harmonies a little bit, well, if I made it perfect, what incentive would you have to be excited about the studio version I release some day? The Morning Mix MP3s are demos after all. But man, I have been surprising myself of late. The drums notwithstanding (I play them well-enough, but I only have a snare in my apartment, so I’m kind of limited), and the absence of bass notwithstanding, I think I’m gettin’ somewhere.
Anyway, like I was saying, I woke up early because my phone was ringing and I was worried it might be work but it wasn’t so I read a while and slept just a little bit more and now it’s almost noon, and I haven’t eaten anything, and I know it’s beautiful outside, and I leave for L.A. tomorrow so I really should stop blogging and start, I dunno’, living?
But I really wanted you to hear the new song. Do have a listen.
A Day Moment In The Life
It’s just before noon. I am in the third hour of a senior staff meeting. We are discussing The Next Big Thing, the sheer scope of which leaves me struggling for breath.
I am in a corner conference room on the fourteenth floor. Fifteen floors above, my voice mail remains unchecked since Wednesday. I lean back in my chair and stare eastward towards the St. James Theater. The conversation turns to workflow. I glaze …
Suddenly, the sound of conversation gives way to a melody. Soon I am strumming my guitar in my head. I know what key I’m in. I know what chords I’m playing. I know the drum part. And the words. There’s a great new song, almost fully-formed, playing in my head. I conceal my excitement, and gingerly begin writing down chords, time signatures, and lyrics.
Thirty minutes later, I sneak into my MTV Radio colleague Roger’s empty office. There, perched on a stand, is a Gibson acoustic guitar signed by Kelly Clarkson, The Offspring, Goo Goo Dolls, and more. I dial my number, wait for the beep, and carefully, as not to smudge the autographs, play the verse and chorus into my cell phone.
Before Roger returns, or any of my colleagues notice my absence, I step back into my office. One minute later, my phone rings, and I am called away to another meeting. The message light continues to blink …
This is my life.
In My Room
I have medical confirmation. It’s stress.
See, the corner of my left eye won’t stop twitching. You wouldn’t notice it to look at me. I look normal. Or whatever I normally look like. But I can feel it. And I can see it.
I have what my grandmother used to call “bedroom eyes.” She had ‘em too. I think the phrase has something to do with the “come hither” look inherent to them, like I’m kind of winking all the time. As far as I’m concerned, bedroom eyes are just squinty little slits. Coupled with the most-Germanic brow my father loaned me (you know, in terms of the gene pool), well, I don’t have a whole lot of space to look out of. And lately, everything I’ve been seein’ looks like it’s filtered through through a strobe light.
It started last week, pretty much as soon as I got back from Sundance. I got back at midnight Wednesday, and was in the office eight hours later. A new employee of mine was waiting at my office door. It was meeting, meeting, meeting, meeting … You get the idea. I thought that Sundance was insane and busy? Ha! The MTV is out of control right now. We’re launching a new (as of yet unannounced) project that is so stressful, well, it’s making my eye twitch.
Now, there is one place I can go where my eye doesn’t twitch: my bedroom.
I was reticent to move to my new apartment, primarily because it was $500 more a month than the apartment I already couldn’t afford. But (truth be told), my mother talked sense into me. I swear to God she said, “Benjamin, it’s a big boy apartment.” I swear to God.
And she’s right. For one thing, it’s within spitting distance of the Museum of Natural History. I can see the blue glow of the Rose Space Center from my roof. For another, it’s a block off Central Park. I can see trees from my bedroom window. Most importantly, though, it’s flooded with light.
Any New Yorker will tell you that quality of life in this city is in direct relation to the amount of direct sunlight one receives. And on that front, with an office 29 floors above Times Square, and a bedroom with more glass than plaster, well I’m lucky.
It hasn’t always been so. My freshman year dorm room at Syracuse had just one window that opened up on a ventilation shaft. No sunlight. No breeze. No clouds. And it was Syracuse, which was opressive to begin with. In an effort to not sink into complete and total soul-crushing despression, I got an ultraviolet glow bulb at K-Mart and put it on a timer over my bed. It kinda’ helped.
These days, waking up to the blue sky, and often, the pale moon dipping below the skyline, well, I can’t complain. I often lay there in my flannel sheets a minute longer just to take it all in: the sky, the clear, blue, promising sky. And then I climb out of bed, and begin twitching all over again.
Stacked Actors
I’m not much of an actor.
I was in a few high school musicals: Fredric in “Pirates of Penzance,” and Pippin in “Pippin.” I sang pretty well. But when it came to convincingly speaking words that weren’t mine, I fell flat. That and I kept breaking character by running my hands through my then-copious bangs.
I’ve done a few music videos — most notably “Jackie Chan” — in which I played someone other than myself. That was fun, but I’m not sure you’d call it acting.
I wrote a screenplay a few years called “Mo’ Hart.” It’s a (surprise) coming of age story about (surprise) a post-collegiate, singer/songwriter/senator’s son. Once upon a time, I intended to play the lead character. Being that I’m not so young anymore (I’m well past post-collegiate), though, I think someone else (Ben McKenzie? Joshua Jackson?) is going to have to play my part.
And I’m not sure the various women who’ve wandered in and out of my life would agree, but I don’t think I’m much of an actor in relationship. I’m pretty honest, so long as I know what I’m feeling. And I’m not much of a liar, so I don’t even try.
So the likelihood of appearing on “Inside The Actor’s Studio” is low. Nonetheless, due to a crush of MTV-related work, and a lack of time and inclination to offer a more substantive or relevant Daily Journal entry, I’m ripping off The Duck and answering the Bernard Pivot questionnaire. Enjoy. And have a nice day.
Q: What is your favorite word?
A: Yes.
Q: What is your least favorite word?
A: No.
Q: What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
A: Openess.
Q: What turns you off?
A: Small talk.
Q: What is your favorite curse word?
A: “Fuck.” And I’ve really been diggin “douche bag” lately. I just like how it sounds.
Q: What sound or noise do you love?
A: The ocean. And acoustic guitars.
Q: What sound or noise do you hate?
A: Traffic. Sirens. Subway brakes.
Q: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A: Film director.
Q: What profession would you not like to do?
A: Anything involving manual labor or numbers.
Q: If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
A: Oh man, I just hope there is a Heaven, and that I’m welcome there at all. For the sake of questionnaire, though, it’d be extra nice to hear, “Welcome. Nice job down there. Not perfect, but good effort. Oh, and Bob Dylan’s really been looking forward to hanging out. He’s over there with Janis.”
