All an actor has is his instincts. If you know anything about me you know I'm not an actor, which makes my own personal instincts a whole other matter.
"Are you an actor?"
As I said, no, but I had to answer this question for a second time at a local "Irish" bar. Times is rough and I sat, solo (my attorney was in jail, located in a town I couldn't even spell, never mind pronounce. His communiqué didn't shed light on anything other than a mule was involved: the animal kind). So this is what I've become? Slingin' back Malibu while NOT in Malibu, looking for good times?
Well, the first two hours had yielded nothing despite a crowd which all seemed to already know each other. I wasn't sure if I was stepping in to some other realm, that the reason I was ignored (save from the bartender) was that I didn't belong. And I was about to leave (as I finished some Jim Beam...remorse was setting in) as I was somehow dragged into a conversation about how getting married wasn't for them. At least, these two girls and one guy. This man claimed to have been a farmer for 10 years before coming to LA. He said it with pride, but later drunk ramblings lead him to admit he collected chicken eggs. Hmmm, not one in the same. Such admissions of truth lead these two ladies to me (they both had 10 years on me, supposedly). Despite having their guard up (insert NBA analogy) almost so high I could barely get to know them, the convo flowed. Nice folks, just drinkin, shootin the shit, talking LA. This is what I was after. And naturally, it came as quittin' time arrived. As we left out the back door, I heard surprising news as to why it was so hard to open.
"Yeah, it's locked. A lot of crime around here."
Uh...
There's no way around this god damned climb. We're talking upward skiing, no poles, nothing but grit. And these are the options. I've got a long way to go. But there are alternatives. And no, I won't use any. You don't like the James Beam, brown shades, or these pants...you might as well move on.
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