I wake up in Tasha’s bed after a quick three hour nap that I wish was longer. The fan is blowing on me because it is hot as fuck in the San Fernando Valley, and ever since early May I haven’t been able to go to sleep without the sound of a fan blowing in the background for some reason. We have plans to meet our friend Dave for dinner, which was originally supposed to be lunch, but had to be changed because of the massive amount of sleep that I did not get the night before, coupled with the copious amounts of alcohol I ingested.
We’re supposed to meet him at 7pm, but of course it’s closer to 7:20pm when we finally arrive at Delancey on Sunset. We say hello, and I apologize for Tasha’s tardiness which always seems to surprise me even though the girl has made a career out of being late. At one point a few years back, we were headed to Jersey for one of my friends weddings. Our flight was set to take off at noon, but to make sure we got there on time, I had to lie and tell Tasha that the flight was taking off at 11am. Needless to say, when it was 10:15 and we were driving in the car to the airport, she thought we were going to miss our flight and was genuinely concerned.
“I’m sorry I took so long. Are we going to miss our flight?” She asked
“Nope.” I replied
“How are you being so calm about this?” she asked
“I lied. The flight doesn’t take off for almost two hours.”
“Asshole.” she says with a smile.
Asshole maybe, but I’m an asshole with good intentions.
Tasha and I sit across from Dave and we start to eat and drink and talk about the last few months. There is a history between the three of us that goes back to the Trent & Tilly days from 2012. After we wrote, shot, and edited our first webisode, our director quit on us because he was afraid of being sued cause we were using a Beastie Boys song in our opening credits. It made absolutely no sense to us because once we uploaded it to You Tube, it recognized the song and wouldn’t allow us to use it, so we had to change the music to something non-descript to avoid music licensing infringements. Instead of getting all upset (which we did) the next six episodes were directed by Dave Parker who is more known for his work in the horror genre than the comedy genre. We went on to make some really funny episodes and believe it or not Dave’s sick sense of humor really helped in the process.
I’m not impressed with my glass of Malbec, but the pizza and the penne alla vodka are delicious and as we stuff our faces we reminisce and talk about the last few months and what we’ve been up to. Dave is working on a new project, Tasha is starring in Clown Motel, and I’m slinging drinks 987 miles north of here. If you would have told me that’s what I would have been doing three years ago, I probably wouldn’t have acted surprised, but if you told me I’d still be friends with Dave whom I met on MySpace 12 years earlier, that would have been a shocker. I guess back then the internet was a little more safe and infested with less creepy people than today. Thing is, regardless of where I met him, Dave is a great guy who has helped me through some real difficult times during those 12 years. He is a true friend and he might actually be slightly more dramatic than me, if that’s even possible.
We pack up our pizza and we head outside to say goodbye. I finally feel a little more normal and Tasha and I head back to Beverly Hills to watch Boyhood and get some real sleep. Occasionally during the movie we hear the sound of ticking across hardwood floors of the apartment. It almost sounds like someone is wearing high heels and running through the house, but in reality it’s just Rocco who is in desperate need of getting his nails cut running back and forth between the living room and the bedroom and sometimes stopping to look out the screen door. I eat another slice of pizza, and head to bed.
Monday morning starts out with a trip to Starbucks for coffee, which if I can be totally honest I hate about myself. I hate Starbucks, but they have saturated the coffee shop market so much that I’d be an idiot not to buy into the convenience of having one on every corner in every neighborhood in the country. Where else am I going to go for coffee anyway? Congratulations corporate America, you won.
“Can you drive me into Hollywood this afternoon?” I ask Tasha
“Yeah, for what?” She asks.
“I want a new tattoo.”
I have gotten four new tattoos in the last 10 months. Up until recently, I hadn’t gotten any new ink since 2006. That’s like 10 years without getting a tattoo and that’s just too long. Why did I take such a sabbatical from the needle? Well I thought more tattoos would hinder me from getting any acting jobs in L.A., so when I finally decided I was going to leave, I ceremoniously went out and got a bunch more on my arms. In retrospect, I don’t know if more or less tattoos has anything to do with my acting ability but my mother must be soooo proud that I’m getting another one. (blatant sarcasm)
I’m actually really excited about this new one because it represents a mindfuck that Hollywood played on me. There is this constant pressure to stay young as fuck and to try your best not to age at all. I used to lie about my age on dating websites, but that’s just because although I may BE 40, I certainly do not LOOK 40, and what type of women are on dating sites looking for 40 year old men? Not the kind that I would date. I guess for awhile I wasn’t owning up to the truth about myself. Ever since I left L.A. I don’t really give a fuck about how old I am. Truth is I’ve been on this earth for forty years and only now am I ready to really own it, that’s why I got “Copyright 1975” on my wrist. No more lies.
I walk into True Tattoo on Cahuenga as they were playing an old punk song I like by Propagandhi. I know I picked the right day to do this. Tasha comes in and sits there while the needle buzzes my skin with permanence for what seems like the thirtieth time in my life, even though I only have sixteen, pardon, now seventeen tattoos. Maybe I’ll stop at twenty, or maybe I just won’t stop. It’s my body and this is what I chose to do with it. Oh my God, I sound like the title of an episode of some shitty day time talk show like the View.
The artist finishes up, swabs me with green soap and a paper towel and wraps up my wrist in a bandage. I’m simultaneously happy I got this tattoo and concerned that for the next hour and half when I’m wearing this bandage on my wrist, everyone who sees me is going to think I tried to kill myself. Oh well. People have probably thought worse about me before.
Tasha and I go to St. Felix a few doors down for drinks and a little appetizer. I hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, but I’m also going to meet my friend Rosanne in an hour for drinks and appetizers, and then later tonight I’m going to meet another friend, Abby for drinks and dinner. Pretty much all I’m going to be doing today is boozing and grazing. It’s at this point that I wish there were more than twenty four hours in the day and it’s at this point that I realize my time in L.A. is almost over.