Meeting My Birth Mother

Chicago. Winter '96.

It was that time of the year. 20 degrees below zero windchill factor. Black skies at 11AM. Walking from my parking garage to my office at 232 E. Ohio street. Walking on diesel soot stained black ice in whipping wind, hearing screams of "Fuck this shit", mother fucker! and so on. Every year I wonder why I stayed in this city. Why my family stayed so long. Why my friends stayed. Were it not for the weather, I'd argue that Chicago may be America's best city. Maybe I'm just nostalgic. Your odds of getting shot were lower in those days too. Many things kept me there. Friends, culture & family. Now I'd had enough.

I had recently returned from vacation with a childhood friend. It was one of those cheapie Cancun all inclusive packages that college students on limited budgets take.  He planned it and it was just what I needed. A week of sunshine, beer & tequila.

Our return flight had been delayed back due to weather til late that night. The good news was that we got a full extra day in Mexico. The bad news, we had to move our of our rooms and store our luggage with everyone else in a hospitality suite. Genius that I was, I left my passport in my bag with my original birth certificate inside. They were stolen together. This was pre 9/11 and one one only needed a driver license to return to the states.

Back in my office on that dreary frozen Monday, I contemplated a massive life change. I needed to move. It was time. First call of the day was to the Department of Vital Statistics to order a replacement birth certificate. They informed that since I was adopted, (and a closed adoption at that) it was a more complex process than normal. I first had to apply for this document called a "Gold Certificate", which would then enable them to release a newly censored birth certificate. I finished this process over the next month. I finally got the birth certificate back. It was more or less the same, save for one snippet of information at the bottom of the birth certificate. It had a lawyers name and law firm. It was around 6PM and I was in my office. I decided to call the number. A man answers.

MAN: Hello?

ME: I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number. I was trying to reach a law firm.

MAN: This is a law firm. My secretary went home for the day and I picked up. What can I help you with?

ME: I was adopted through this firm in 1965 and wanted to get some information.

MAN: Are you Judge Garbers nephew?

ME: Yes. How did you know that?

MAN: I went to law school with him at John Marshall. We were classmates. His sister needed a lawyer to do her adoption. I referred my father and yours is the only adoption we've ever done.

ME: Wow. Do you have any information about it? I want to find my biological family.

MAN: All I can tell you is that you were adopted via a closed adoption through the Jewish Children's Bureau of Chicago. Try them.

ME: Thanks so much.

I call the agency the following day and chat with a woman whose sole job is reuniting adopted kids and parents. She explained to me how it all works & not to get my hopes up. The odds are low that she will be of help. The only way these records can be opened is if there is permission in my file via a letter from on or both of my birth parents. She explain the storage records facility isn't unlike the final shot in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and may take her weeks to find paperwork & microfiche in a box. I thank her and I wait.

4 or 5 weeks later, she calls me back with an update. There were letters written to me by my birth mother. 5 of them. All Birthday notes beginning at age 13 and as recently as 2 years prior til this present time. They were all more or less the same message. Happy Birthday. Should you ever come looking for me, here's the contact info of where I am now.

The lady from the adoption agency said that, given the fact it had been two years, the trail may well I have gone cold again. She said she try & track her down at her last known contact info. 3 days later, she was found. Neither one of us wanted to give the other their phone number & neither one of us was willing to budge. We finally settled on a plan. My birth mother would go to the agency that Thursday and I would call in at 4:30PM. The conversation was awkward. She was emotional & I got the sense not entirely together. I could feel that she had a hard life and struggled with mental illness.  We chatted by phone a half dozen or so times over the next couple of weeks. During that time, I had moved to Los Angeles. I wasn't yet ready to meet face to face.

2 months later, I returned to tie up some loose ends. Get my old Harley Davidson out of storage and onto a truck to California and a few other things. I decided it was time to meet her.

Knowing this was my deep and personal journey & not wanting to risk hurting my parents, I decided to keep this all to myself for the time being. The weather was unchanged. A brutal, frozen hellscape. I decided to dress like a grownup for my meeting with her. I wore my navy Gianni Versace suit with an Hermes scarf tie (it was the 90's) a black, full length cashmere topcoat and scarf. I know my way around Chicago like the back of my hand, but had no idea what this area was. I asked my father.

ME: Dad, where is the intersection of X & Y?

DAD: I'll tell you where it is. It's where you're not going in your mothers new car. They'll kill you & steal the car. What's there anyway? A club?

ME: Yes. A new club.

DAD: Forget it. 

ME: I'll tell the guys we're going someplace else.

I had planned to maybe tell them eventually, but not then. I did however tell my thrice married, exceedingly botoxed Judas sister who waited all of 5 minutes to betray me. Nothing new. Just thought I'd give her another shot.

Off I went to the North West side ghetto in a blizzard to meet my birthing vessel.

At the time, I was an I.T. guy. I designed networks, produced websites and did concierge support for demanding clients. My main client was Nicolas Cage at the pinnacle of his career. He'd recently won his Oscar and Golden Globe for best actor and was just starting his rise to action movie star. He was a great client and a funny and generous guy. Between his office and a pile of houses, there were a lot of billable house to be had. Designing and building networks in 5 residences, lessons for him, his wife, babymama, kid, step kid and the above for his offices and exes. He was also not the guy you ever just call back. Day or night, when he calls, you pick up. I was very very nervous about this meeting with this strange woman who gave birth to me for the first time when Nicolas called. I was never impatient or short with him. Until this moment.

ME (answering) Hey Nic. REALLY bad time. Anything super urgent?

Nic is a lovely guy, but he's still a movie star with a sizable staff and I'm pretty sure hadn't been told no in a very long time. I caught myself & tried to soften it.

ME: Sorry, what do you need? I'm going through a thing at the moment.

NC: What's happening? Maybe I can help.

ME: I'm in Chicago driving to meet the woman who gave birth to me for the first time and I'm kind of melting down.

NC: I can help you.

ME: (rolling my eyes). How?

NC: First of all, do you have Valium?

ME: Yeah. Way ahead of you. Already on 5 milligrams.

NC: Perfect. OK. Here's what I want you to do. Are you listening?

ME: I am.

NC: Take yourself out of the first person.

ME: How?

NC: This is a tool I've always used to deal with stressful situations and it works every time without exception.

I pull the car over.

ME: I'm listening.

NC: I want you to picture yourself alone in a dark movie theater.

ME: Got it.

NC: Get specific. You're sitting in a red velvet theater seat. You're watching a black comedy. Like a Coen brothers movie. It's unfolding before your eyes. It's fascinating. Take it all in, but take yourself out of it. 

All of my stress instantly melted away and it wasn't the Valium. Nicolas Cage, you're different breed of cat, but you're a fucking genius. 

ME: OK. I'm going in. 

NC: Good luck. 

It's snowing hard. Those big, heavy & wet midwestern snowflakes. Nothing like that fluffy expensive Aspen shit. There is a group of vagrants standing around a burning 55 gallon drum. I find a parking space and pray this brand new, gleaming black BMW will be covered with snow quickly enough to mitigate it's chances of being stolen.

I enter a poorly maintained old brick mid rise building. Trying to breathe and take it in as Cage advised. A legless man in a wheelchair wearing a military jacket whizzes by, his eyes locked with mine in a long pan. The olfactory overtone was the smell of institutional gravy, pine cleaner and cheap cafeteria food fills my nostrils. The undertone was the putrid smell off old people.

I noticed the thick layers of dingy paint that may have once been white, but now is a greenish yellow bathed in F40T12CW. light. That is the code for a 4 foot, cool white fluorescent tube. How do I know this? My dad made a decent living selling these and it's 8 foot counterpart, the F96. They made that horrendous green light you never see anymore except in movies about the 70's & 80's.

Moving on, I see two kids that look like teenage runaways sitting on the floor and all manner of human frailty. I move toward the front desk, andnd make eye contact with a pie eyed, strange grinning woman in her mid 60's.

RECEPTIONIST: Praise Jesus! How many I help you?

What the fuck, over? What is this place? (I never exactly found out other than it was some kind of subsidized housing.)

ME: (at a rare loss for words) Hi, um, I'm here to meet... um.

RECEPTIONIST: You're Dora's son aren't you?

ME: (confused at how she knew) Uh, yes.

RECEPTIONIST: We've all heard about you for weeks.

Now my stomach is cramping from pressure. Listen to Nic Cage. Don't run. Keep going.

I make my way to the elevator area which is packed with a post dinner crowd. After 10 minutes, I realize that only 1 of the 4 elevator banks is working. Everytime one opens, the residents push and shove and pack together like sardines. I keep politely waving them through. "Go ahead. I'll get the next one" I'm beginning to sweat in my wool suit and cashmere topcoat and the dry radiator heat begins to suck the juice from my eyeballs.

Now it's been 20 minutes and enough is enough. I join the Hunger Games, shove my body into the car and take it to the 15th floor. Just like in a movie, she's the last unit at the end of a long, poorly lit hallway. The carpeting was a deep red & black pattern.Like a old west themed whorehouse or casino. I pause, then rap my knuckles twice on her door. I hear nervousness in her voice on the other side.


DORA: Oh... hel... hello?

ME: Hi, It's Scott.

She opens the door to reveal what appears to be a very tidy dorm room. A plywood sleeping loft over a sky blue thrift store loveseat in good shape. Across the room I see an old dresser in also good shape with a lot of prescription pill bottles on top. Nervously she asks...

DORA: So, what do you think of my place?

ME: It's nice.

DORA: (boastfully) It's one of the only units here that has its own bathroom. Can I get you anything? A cigarette? A percodan?

ME: (I giggle) Did you just offer me a percodan?

DORA: (shrugs) Yes.

ME: (I giggle again) You're my mom alright!

I really loved painkillers in those days.

This is the first time meeting any flesh & blood relative, so I was fastidiously studying her every feature. Over the phone, she sounded like my twin. 5'11", long curly red hair, pale skin, slim with green eyes. In person, I saw no similarity other than we had the same ugly, ruddy freckled hands. None.

I won't bore you with all of the details now, but I asked her if it's ok to interview her, and explain that my memory isn't great and ask if she'd mind my taking notes. She consents. I pulled yellow legal pad and peppered her with questions for an hour or so about how I came to be. It was difficult to keep her focused. She was cycling manic and I was learning more about her, and perhaps to a greater extent, my own genetic makeup.

The gist is, she was a teenager and got pregnant by a guy who was already married with a kid on the way. I met that kid 20 years later in L.A. and promise to tell you about it later. I told her that I had made a dinner reservation at The Pump Room. I was making a pretty living at the time & thought it would be a nice gesture. The Pump Room was perhaps Chicago's most famous old school “fancy” restaurant. It was name checked in Sinatra's "My kind of town". It opened in 1938 and closed 2017. It was rumored that Oprah had her own booth there with an actual TELEPHONE in it.

ME: We should get going. The weather is bad & we have an 8:30 reservation.

DORA: No, I couldn't possibly go there.

ME: (Sarcastically) You don't like The Pump Room?

DORA: No, I can't go to any restaurant. They will all just remind me of your father.

ME: Wait. So you haven't been to a restaurant since 1965?

DORA: Oh god no. They would all remind me of him. 

Fuck this is sad. But fuck, I'm also starving.

ME: C'mon, we'll have a great time. Let's stop thinking & just hop in the car.

She finally says she'll only eat at one place. The place where she'd had her last date with Joe my sperm donor. I'd never heard of this place. It's a deli that in these conditions would be an hour minimum in some far flung western suburb. I call 411 and pray it doesn't exist anymore so we can eat at the fancy place. Sadly it's still there. We get in my other mom's new car and without asking, with the windows closed, she lights a cigarette. It's so cold and wet out that even cracking a window would be an impossibility. I'm trying not to flip my shit, but she's refusing to put it out and it's just ashing itself all over the car. 

During the drive, out of nowhere, she asks...

DORA: Are you feeling any kind... of deep psychic, familial connection?

ME: Not really, no.

DORA: Me either.

It was quiet for awhile with the only sound being the car heater on max and the wiper blades sweeping the snow from the windshield.

We finally arrived at this empty deli lit with the same shitty cool whites that her building was lit with, replete with 70's fake wood paneling and faded photographs of Chicago celebrities on the wall. I'm trying to have a meaningful conversation with her and all she can talk about is the menu. I’m not exceedingly patient on my best day, but was doing my best and I was wondering if I had gotten what I needed from this meeting already.

DORA: Maybe the brisket? Or Chicken in the pot? Or a corned beef sandwich? Or the Kasha Varnishkas, Or the Latkes? What do you think?

I'm kind of already over it.

ME: (Irritated but patient) Get whatever you like. My treat.

The waitress makes her over and it's the same thing all over again. Maybe it's my character flaw, but I hate people who keep servers at the table and batter them with questions, flirt or start conversations. Shut up, order and let them get back to work. 

You know that sign in the airplane lavatory that says “Please wipe the basin as a courtesy to the next passenger?” That’s how I generally like to live my life. A basin wiper.

DORA: (to waitress) So, between these 6 things, which is the best.

WAITRESS: (On cue) Well, it depends on what you're in the mood for...

Another 10 minutes of deliberative babbling. I have a minor fit.

ME: (raising a hand) You know what? Bring us all 4 of those dishes. She'll take home the leftovers. Thank you and I wave the server away from the table.

I got through the rest of it, learned what I needed to and dropped her off. We spoke a couple more times by phone and that was that. She incubated me and for that I’m grateful, but she's not someone I needed to have a relationship with.

Johnny Williams

I met Sid Sheinberg shortly after moving to L.A. in 1994 through a friend. That friend was kind enough to invite me over for Passover dinner as I couldn't afford a plane ticket home. I had an old rangefinder camera loaded with black & white film. As a thank you. I sent some 8x10 prints of his grandkids seated at a piano lit by candles.

With those photos, he referred me to my first paid job as a photographer and later installed me as his CIO of his post MCA startup.

The stories are endless, but I'll share one.

I was sitting across from him at the end of the day in his office on the Universal lot when Marsha, his longtime secretary with a big New York accent shouted.

MARSHA: I have Spielberg!

I stood to give him some privacy and show myself out. He motioned me to sit back down and shouted back "Get Johnny Williams on the phone!"

"Johnny" Williams was of course the legendary film composer John Williams who had just won an Oscar for their latest film "Schinder's List" which had also won best picture a day or two before.

The call connects and I'm gleefully listening to these 3 giants on a call.

JOHN WILLIAMS: Guys. We've done a lot of work together and I'm proud of it all, but this. This is my life's most important work and I thank you both.

SPIELBERG: You weren't our first choice.

Dead silence for 10 seconds.

WILLIAMS: Um...

SHEINBERG: It's true. Mozart wasn't available!

They all erupted with laughter like the big kids they were.

Sid was without peer the smartest man I've ever known. He was also the most charitable. Tough as nails with a heart of gold. Godspeed Sidney. You made the world a better place.

Pandemic Porn

In March of 2020 at the height of the Coronavirus Pandemic, the world had become a different place. 6 continents had just shut down. I like millions of others around the world was burning money with little savings and was trying to think of some way, any way to keep the lights on and some food in the fridge.

Now I had been training at Social distancing for quite some time. I'm quite certain that were it an Olympic event, I could take at least silver were it held in summer.  I've been more or less living like Howard Hughes without the jars of urine (or money) since 2011. 

One afternoon I was catching up with adult film star Ivy Wolfe, Ivy and I met through mutual friend Sam Phillips a veteran radio personality and now, an executive at Penthouse Magazine. Coincidentally a few months after we met, I was booked by Penthouse to shoot her cover & Pet story. 

I did it under a pseudonym, because I was worried about my advertising and fine art career, but have decided fuck it. I've never had any secrets anyone could blackmail me for. Why start now? My superpower is not giving a fuck what anyone thinks anymore. I've been watching porn since I was 10 years old and stole my dad's Beta tapes of "Deep Throat" and "Behind the Green Door". This generation similarly learned about sex from PornHub. Fortunately all millenials and Gen-Zers have been programmed to believe anal is 2nd base. This is perhaps their most redeeming feature.

We're all dead soon anyway and that's the truth. 

Ivy and I were talking about how we were dealing with the pandemic. And how neither of us could work. 

I had just done my first video conference meetin and asked... 

ME: What if we could create a series and new genre of porn centered around social distancing. 

IVY: What would that look like?

ME: I'm not sure. You're an A lister. What if we wrangled a few more superstars, invited them to a video conference and you all had virtual sex? We'll then all sell it on pay per view. . 

IVY: Sounds fun. If you organize and cast it, I'll be there.  

Our first episode was a 4 girl lesbian orgy. Each one of them at home with their ring lights and webcams. It got press around the world in dozens of outlets around the world reaching 10's of millions of pepole. The press was no accident. I learned how to be my own publicist through a woman I briefly dated who worked at The White House under Obama.  She imparted some simple principles. 

1. Journalists are inherently lazy people. Write the story WITH the headline AS the press release.  

2. Never make it about your product. If you do, no one will help. Create a tailor made story that gets easily approved by their editor and gets them paid. The pitch to the Wall Street Journal is different than the same pitch to Esquire. The headline at very least. is. 

3. Look up journalists that have written about anything in your space before, then find them, stalk them, pitch them. 

4. Subtly tailor each pitch to the particular writer or media outlet.  

Headlines varied from writer to writer, but the gist was "How the Adult Film Industry not only surviving thriving during Quarantine". The pitch was interesting, clickable and not too dirty. It opened us to many media outlets. I pitched a dozen writers. Got 4 stories that got picked up around the world by news aggregators around the world and reached more than 100 million readers, then it 

We're now on episode 7. The first one did well. All the performers were bored and basically did us a favor but all made thousands of dollars off of it for 40 minutes work.  

It remains to be seen if it will make the pain go away, but for the moment, it's slowing the bleeding. 

Malibu Anal Barbie

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Thong bank robbery

2001. 2PM. A cocktail waitress/actress friend called frantic.

ME: What's wrong? What happened?

CARLY: I was just in a bank robbery at the Bank of America on Fairfax!

ME: Like an armed robbery? With guns and masks?

CARLY: Yes!

ME: Jesus. That must have been harrowing. How long was the ordeal?

CARLY: I'm not sure, but it seemed like forever.

ME: I'm sure. I can't imagine being face down and in fear of getting shot.

CARLY: That wasn't even close to the worst part.

ME: What could've been worse than that?

CARLY: I was wearing a miniskirt and a thong and it got hiked all the way up over my ass when we were all ordered to the ground. I really wanted to pull it down to cover mysel, but was afraid they would kill me.

All I could think about was all of the cops and FBI laughing at my bare ass in a pink thong in the surveillance video and laughing at me. That's still all I'm thinking about.

Morphine Suppositories.

1995. West Hollywood, California.

A rock star friend, invited me over to his house to to hang out, catch up and bang on some guitars.

KEITH: Hey, man. Can I get you anything to drink?

ME: Yeah. Do you have any scotch?

KEITH: Naw mate. I have Rye.

ME: Anything else? Vodka? Tequila?

KEITH: Oh. I just remembered, someone gave me some morphine suppositories. They're pretty good.

ME: I don't know man.  I'm just not a lucky person.

KEITH: What does luck have to do with anything?

ME: As much as I love a  narcotic analgesic, I just don't want my parents to read in the newspaper that I was found dead of an overdose with my pants around my ankles, slumped over a sofa with a musician covered in tattoos.  They deserve better than that.

KEITH: I get it mate. Gin?

The Wedding Shoes

BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWNUPS

The Wedding Shoes
May 2012
Los Angeles, California

I had just wrapped a meeting where I learned I was awarded the job to shoot some print and outdoor ads for the California Milk Advisory board. It was a new installment for the iconic series "Happy Cows come from California". As always, I was excited to work, but also to spend a few days working with animals and their wranglers at Sony Pictures. 

This was a job where I had to share the day with the crew shooting the commercial. Typically the stills guys are treated like 2nd class citizens, but this wasn't unit or BTS photography. It was for lots of print ads and I needed to get good shots.

As I left the meeting, the producer said "You'll be working with Fred Savage".

ME: Wonder Years Fred Savage?

PRODUCER: Yes.

ME: I didn't know he still acted.

PRODUCER: He's directing it. He's a big commercial director and directs for Modern Family.

ME: Cool.

Shoot went well save for unwelcoming cunt of a D.P.

At wrap, we get the obligatory photo together and posted it on Instagram.

Image may contain: 2 people

The next day, I get a call from actor and friend Jason Biggs.

JB: Looking at your Instagram. Are you with Savage, now?

ME: No. Worked with him yesterday.

JB: If you talk to him, would you please tell him to pick up his wife's wedding shoes?

ME: Why are his wife's wedding shoes at your house?

JB: This used to be his house and they left them behind. We've tried to get other people to let him know, but never heard back.

ME: I doubt I'll see him, but if I do, I'll tell him.

A few days later, I'm having lunch at Soho House West Hollywood.

I look up from my meeting and see Savage sitting at a round 6 top. He was gesticulating and seemingly pitching something.

I text Biggs.

(Jokingly) Hey. I'm at lunch and I see Savage is here. Get your dick hard, put it in his wife's wedding shoe and take a picture. I'll text him that in the middle of his meeting.

1 minute later, Jason sends his red penis in this tiny satin wedding shoe. Either that or Jason has a really big penis. (I'm working off the small shoe theory)

I looked up Fred's cell off the call sheet in my phone and text him the photo. It takes a good 30 seconds until he breaks to pick up the phone, looks confused by the number not in his contacts and opens the message.

TEXT: This is from Jason Biggs asking for you to pick up your wife's wedding shoes.

His was was one of the all time great WTF faces I've ever seen.

His eyes dart around the room until he catches my wave from a few tables away. He isn't smiling. On his way out he comes over with a big grin on his face and leans in.

SAVAGE: Tell him we're never picking up the shoes. This has become my favorite game.

Sports & Psychedelics

BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWNUPS.

"SPORTS & PSYCHEDELICS"

Summer of '84. 2 of my childhood friends Marc & Eli were looking for something to do on a hot sticky Chicago night. We decided to each take an eighth of liberty caps and go to the batting cages. We were quickly disappointed to learn that it was over an hour wait for every cage... except one.

We bought a plastic pitcher of Old Style with our fake ID's and sat at a picnic table covered in green cracked paint.

The mushrooms kicked in hard. That moment where the pressure in your skull is released, but just before the fulminating laughter. I narrowed my gaze at this one cage with virtually no wait and watched one person after another attempt and fail at the 100 MPH fastball. I looked at the guys and said.

ME: Guys, I can hit the hundred.

ELI: Dude. If you go into that cage, you're going to DIE.

ME: I'm telling you, I can see it in slow motion. I can count all 108 of those red laces on that ball.

ELI: Please don't go in there. I really don't want to be tripping in an emergency room.

I was doubtless. I went to the counter and bought a few 25 ball tokens. I missed the first ball clean. Chipped the 2nd, then proceeded to pound the next 73 clean like I was peak steroid Barry Bonds. That feeling where it doesn't hurt your hands. Where you hit it so pure, it just goes "Click".

I could hear the murmurs behind me as the crowd grew. By the end, roars and applause.

At the end of 75, I had proven my point and was sweating, tired and my hands were chewed up from batting without gloves. I put the bat down and my friends were screaming laughing and bug eyed. A group of people followed us to the parking lot.

BIG CONTRACTOR LOOKING GUY: (Mike Ditka dialect.) Hey! You're awesome! You should join our city softball team.

ME: Hey thanks, but nah.

GUY: C'mon. Gimme your number! You're one of the best hitters I've ever seen.

ME: Thanks dude, but I don't like team sports.





















x

"Russell Crowe" & the Sex Workers in Mexico

NOT RUSSELL CROWE & THE SEX WORKERS IN MEXICO

Winter 2014. A group of us flew down to a friends home in Costa Careyes, Mexico.

"Careyes" as it's known, is a beautiful little town of colorful & architectural vacation homes owned Hollywood stars, wealthy Americans, European expats and it seems... a few fun loving international criminals. I had visited a handful of times over the past couple years and stayed at a couple different homes.

It's a real community. Everyone knows everyone. So much so that I wouldn't want to live there for that reason. There are no hotels or resorts that I know of. Every night there's a dinner party at a different house and it's the same 30 or so people at each of them. One interesting tidbit about Careyes is that almost everyone owns the same car. A white Chevy Suburban. After a few visits, I finally asked someone why.

As it turns out, the Narcos all drive black Chevy Suburbans. The white ones signify "Civilian". The agreement is that drug traffickers can keep their trade routes, but if anyone in a white Suburban gets fucked with, the deal is off.

This visit was over the Christmas/New Years time of year. A couple of pretty millennial influencers/ sex workers had been invited by someone on this trip. Not to "perform", but more as pool & party decor and tart the place up a bit. We met on the plane ride out. They were perfectly nice, despite snapchatting their every move and talking to their phone screens like psych patients.

On the night of New Years Eve, there was a party with 400 or so guests. The finest tequila, molly and uncut cocaine flowed. I stuck with the booze and was chatting with a French couple when the girls come over to me in their tiny bikinis.

GIRLS: Oh my God Scott. Did you see? Russell Crowe is here.

Behind them in the crowd maybe 30 feet away, I see Gerard Butler. I had met him a few times in L.A. via mutual friends and had already said a quick hello.

ME: Where?

They gesture to Gerry talking to a few people. I'm tipsy and feeling a bit naughty.

ME: Oh good. He made it. Yes. I invited Russell.

GIRLS: Will you introduce us?

ME: Of course, but if there's one thing I know about Russell Crowe, it's that he loves when people compliment his work. Here's what you do. Walk up to him and tell him you loved him in "A Beautiful Mind" & "Master & Commander".

GIRLS: Really? Are you sure he won't just think we're creepy fans?

ME: Definitely not. You're hot girls, he's a down to earth Australian & he will LOVE it.

They walk over. Gerry's smiling and turning on the charm. That smile quickly faded to a "What the Fuck?" head shake.

Pleased with myself, I walk away.

Sorry Gerry.

The 21 year old neighbor Pink Floyd and Mushroom Chocolates

The 21 year old neighbor girl knocked on my door after taking mushrooms for the first time and asked if I knew any good shrooming music. I recommended PInk Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon". She called an hour later and squealed...

HER: This music is AMAZING. Do other people know about it?

ME: Yes.

HER: Do they have other albums?

ME: Yes.

HER: Are they good?

ME: They're actual proof of something greater than us. Proof of the divine.

HER: OK, so to be clear Is the band called "PInk Floyd" or "Dark Side of the Moon?"

ME: Pink Floyd. Do you have any idea how jealous I am of you right now?

HER: Why?

ME: Because you get to experience both psychedelics and PInk Floyd at the same time for the first time.

The Dealbreaker

Tinder date #1 ends with her asking me to read her screenplay. Same girl, date #2 asks me to go to an out of town wedding. Time of Death: 5:38PM.

BEVERLY HILLS BMW

I just dropped my car off at Beverly Hills BMW service. I asked the guy some of the weirdest things he's ever found in cars. He said three came back with bullet holes and the customers claimed they had no idea how they got there. Lots of guns in center consoles & trunks too.

The most memorable was a woman whose X5 had the same airbag recall mine is in for. The service technicians found a massive, 10 pound bag of cocaine or heroin in the dash.

Just after they discovered it, the woman called in a panic to cancel the work and that she was going to pick the car up immediately. I asked if they called the police.

The service manager said "Nah. We put it back where we found it and let her pick the car up".

WHEN YOUR PLANS CANCEL, BUT SHE HAS A LEGIT EXCUSE

THE TWO TIMES I MET IVANKA TRUMP

BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWNUPS

THE TWO TIMES I MET IVANKA TRUMP

The first time I met Ivanka Trump was at New York Fashion Week Late 90's.

I was with a friend who was modeling agent. We were backstage at Marc Jacobs at the Armory. All the biggest supermodels, past & present were there. Mostly wearing nothing but heels, smoking cigarettes and sipping from splits of Veuve Clicquot through black straws so as not to smear their lipstick. I was shooting 3200 speed B&W film through a Contax rangefinder. She motioned for me to come to her.

GIANNA: We have to go see another one of my models for a meeting. She's in another show and has her own private tent.

ME: Who's bigger than these girls? Who gets a private tent here?

GIANNA: Ivanka Trump. She doesn't want to change with photographers around.

ME: Oh ok. Hey. Why do you manage her? Why isn't she repped by Trump Models?

Rolling her eyes and exhaling a plume of silver cigarette smoke.

GIANNA: Please sweetheart.

This was her pure Italian way of telling me that Trump Models was a joke. A Junior Varsity operation.  This was common knowledge, but I was still surprised she wasn't the face of her fathers agency.

We make our way into Ivanka's tent. She's on the phone. She's wearing nothing but a pair of silver heels. She waves and gave us her trademark big veneered smile and points to her phone articulating she'll be right with us.

Now, I know the rules in this sort of situation. Keep your eyes upstairs. Act natural. She looked great. Pre breast augmentation and in great shape.

She was gracious. The meeting was maybe 15 minutes and was mostly about scheduling for the next few days.

The second time I met Ivanka Trump was after a day of golf with my friend Bruce at Bel-Air Country Club.  It was an early tee time and I of course managed to dribble some coffee on my white polo. I'll play with a dirty shirt at a muni dog track, but not here, so I headed to the pro shop to buy a new one.

I was headed home when I got a call from a musician friend of mine who asked what I was up to.

AARON: Where are you?

ME: Coming down Stone Canyon. You?

AARON: Swing by. Having a few friends over for a BBQ.

ME: En route.

I was sweaty, but still looked good in my best golf clothes. Black tailored trousers, white wing tips & black glove. I headed across town & up Beachwood Canyon in Hollywood Hills East.

As I walked into the house, I saw one of the guys in Aaron's band. Next to him is Ivanka.

JAY: Hey Dude. Do you know my girlfriend Ivanka?

ME: (Shaking her hand) Yes. We've met before.

IVANKA (smiling) Yes! Where?

ME: I almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on.

Now I don't know why these things slip out of my mouth. It's like tourette's. I've always been this way.  I tease. I kid, but I care. The look on his face was not amused. Her brow furrowed. But before it went south, I needed to reel this back in.

JAY: You've seen her naked?

ME: As the day she was born.

IVANKA: (Thankfully laughing) Where have you seen me naked?

ME: Backstage. Bryant Park with Gianna.

IVANKA: Oh my god. (to Jay) He's totally seen me naked. (to me) I totally thought you were gay!

ME: I totally thought that you totally thought I was gay.

We all laugh...

She notices the logo on my shirt and homes in.

IVANKA: Are you a member at Bel-Air?

ME: No, but I play there once a month.

IVANKA: What's your handicap?

ME: 11

IVANKA: I'm a 2 from the mens tees.

I'm going to assume most of you don't know what this means, but a 2 handicap means her average score give or take, is 2 shots over par. Most club pro's probably aren't two's. Most club champions probably aren't 2's. To be a 2, you need a lifetime of practice, loads of natural talent and the time to play several times per week. Tiger Woods in his prime was a +4. Only 3 shots a side better than Ivanka Trump? I don't think so.

ME: (irritated) No you're not.

IVANKA: (laughing sarcastically) Yes I am.

ME: If you were a two, I would know it.

IVANKA: You know everyone's handicaps?

ME: Not everyone's, but if you were a two, I would know. Everyone would know.

I know I'm being an asshole and maybe a bad guest, but golf is one thing you should never EVER lie about. It's the only pro sport where players call penalties on themselves. It's a game of civility and manners. We take off our hats when we shake hands.  She had to be called out.

She changes the subject.

IVANKA: Have you ever played my families course in Palos Verdes?

ME: Yes I have. A few times.

IVANKA: (honest to God she said this) You know, a lot of people say it's better than Pebble Beach.

Fuck. You. You have got to be shitting me.  The only thing Trump National and Pebble Beach Golf Links have in common is that they're both situated on the Pacific Ocean. Pebble is a legendary U.S. Open course. Trump National is 18 holes on a piece of land big enough for 14. It's in good shape, but it sucks. No architecture. No style and it has never hosted a single PGA Tour event. It's just a really average, narrow resort course.

ME: (smiling) Nobody has ever once said that that.

She's being a pretty good sport considering I just called her a liar to her face.

IVANKA: (laughing) You think I'm a big blowhard don't you? We should play sometime.

ME: Let's play tomorrow.

IVANKA: Sure. Want to play for money?

I'm not a gambler. I didn't have much money to bet or lose at this point in my life, but there was no way I was going to lose to her with 9 shots. I was playing 4x per week. My swing was grooved and short game was surgical. Above all, I saw the bullshit in her eyes.

ME: Sure. Your course. You give me 9 shots. $1,000 a hole?

IVANKA: Give me your number & if I can make it, I'll call you in the morning.

She never called.

And scene...

THE DWARF AUDITION

THE DWARF AUDITION One of my dirty little secrets for the past dozen or so years is that, time permitting I audition and occasionally work as a commercial actor. I've done around 40 spots over the years and had some fun. I consider myself to be a uniquely untalented actor. But in a narrow space (usually playing nerds) I can, on occasion get a good joke or slice of improv off. Given the fact that I mostly work as an advertising photographer and commercial director and the talent pool is so small, these auditions are rarely without an awkward exchange. ACTORS & MODELS: Hey Scott! You're shooting this? I really hope we can work together. ME: Hey no. I'm auditioning. They always look at me like I'm fucking with them until they realize I'm rattling a cup for change and health insurance just like they are. One of the funnier auditions was a same day casting email. It was for a Christmas car commercial. I was driving and quickly scanned the email for the time and the casting studio. I entered the studio and saw a sign that said "Volkswagen - Room 3". I sign in, grab a copy of the sides (script) and sit down and begin to learn the lines. As the area began to fill up, I noticed that everyone else in the waiting area were little people. Dwarves. It's not that unusual for multiple categories to be going at the same time, so I ignored it and went back to the dialogue. I felt some stares, but ignored them. Fuck em. Learn the shit. Book the job. Finally I heard a womans voice under her breath say... BIKER CHICK DWARF: Motherfucker... I look up and 10 or 12 little people were staring at me. The one vibing me was clearly the alpha. She had long dyed black hair. Bitch bangs. Pale skin. She wore tiny black leather pants, a chain wallet, sleeve tattoos, motorcycle boots, a white tank top with a black bra underneath and big breast implants. She's giving me the death stare. Unafraid, I looked her square in the eyes. ME: Um... problem? BIKER CHICK DWARF: (muttering and shaking her head) Oh fuck you... Then one of the little guys walks over to me. He seems cool. LITTLE GUY: Hey man. Sorry about my friend. I know you don't mean anything, but Christmas spots are the one time of the year that all of us little people get to work, and ever since motherfucking Lord of the Rings, they've been taking people your size and CG'ing them down. I didn't even know what to say... ME: Hey. My agent told me to be here, so I'm here. I went in, did the audition. Felt ok. Cut to 8PM that night, my phone rings. AGENT: Hey. Asshole. When you confirm an audition, I expect you to be there and not embarrass me. ME: I was there! Volkswagen. Did they say I didn't go? AGENT: Volkswagen? This was for Hyundai. ME: Fuck. I was wondering why I was the only person that wasn't a dwarf. We both started laughing hysterically. Next day. AGENT: You have a callback for Volkswagen. AND SCENE...

THE CON WOMAN

"THE CON WOMAN"

Four and a half years ago, I received a friend request on Facebook. Normally, I don't accept these from strangers. This woman shared 54 mutual friends and most of them not your traditional friend hoarder types. I accepted, and over the course of several months we would chat at night with no mention or plan to ever meet. Just passing the time & joking around.

Four or five months in, she messages me just before 10PM midweek.

MARY: Hey. I'm in your neighborhood. Want to meet for a drink?

ME: Sure. I'll meet you at The Pikey on Sunset in 15.

We both sipped Hendricks & Tonic with cucumber and chatted for a couple of hours.

MARY: Let's go to your place & play.

ME: Good idea.

So we did. No sleepover. She had her dog at home & took off at just after 2AM. Fine.

This continued periodically & by periodically I mean, she would rarely text me back but would hit me up when she had the itch. Typically three times per year. Fine. The last time I saw her it was at her place. A rustic home nestled deep in Nichols Canyon in the Hollywood Hills. A-Frame construction, a big stone fireplace, a small kidney shaped dipping pool with a waterfall. The kind of home I'd hope to one day own. During that last slumber party, I'd asked about her business, which from all outward appearances must be pretty good.

Her business, as she described it was a well organized dog walking agency. She claimed a small fleet of suburbans, many clients and many dogs. Knowing half this town's dogs eat better than I do, it seemed plausible. No red flags, but I didn't really care anyway since we weren't what I'd call dating.

5 months had gone by before I'd hear from Mary again. When I did, it was on a Monday afternoon.

MARY: (flustered) I just had a falling out with my landlord and had to move out. Can I come stay with you for a few days?

ME: I'm kind of seeing someone and it wouldn't be appropriate.

The truth was, that despite sleeping with her a handful of times, she was dodgy. She hadn't done anything overtly suspicious, but I just didn't trust her or want a multi day houseguest with a pit bull.

MARY: Scott. I am literally on the street with no money, my suitcase and my dog. I have nowhere to go!

ME: Where are you?

MARY: Chatsworth.

ME: Chatsworth? Are you doing porn?

MARY: Why does everyone keep asking me that?

I once read that 77% of the world's pornography is produced in the San Fernando Valley and half of that in the city of Chatsworth.

ME: Where exactly are you? What intersection?

MARY: De Soto & Devonshire

Typing into Google Maps.

ME: Do you see the Travelodge?

MARY: Yes but I have no money.

I wanted this off my plate and was willing to pay to minimize brain damage.

ME: I just booked you 3 nights there. On me. You don't have to pay me back. Good luck.

Drama avoided. I'd blown $300 bucks faster than that in my life.

I neither expected, nor desired to hear from Mary ever again. If you have to move out at a moments notice, I don't need to hear the rest. Chances are, you aren't what I'm looking for.

My first rule in dating is you must be less fucked up than me in every way. A low bar I know, but It's a start.

To my surprise, 4 days later I got an email PayPal notification that she had reimbursed me for the motel room. Pretty stand up.

30 minutes later, she called.

MARY: Did you get the money?

ME: Yes. Thank you. I said you didn't have to pay me back though.

MARY: I know, but I wanted to. You were there for me when no one else was. I want to do something nice for you.

As I mentioned above, I was now wary of this one...

ME: Totally unnecessary. Just take care of yourself.

MARY: No really I want to. Now that my trust fund came through, I'm all set. I have a patio suite at the Hotel Bel-Air. I'm going to be living here until I find a house to buy.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? How does a woman who couldn't swing a motel in Chatsworth a few days afford a nearly $3000 per night suite at the best hotel in Los Angeles? Seemed like bullshit.

ME: Great hotel. Great spa.

MARY: Come visit. Stay as long as you like. Eat whatever you want. Get some spa treatments. My treat.

I'm thinking this HAS to be bullshit, but I live only 15 minutes from the hotel. I could use a swim, massage and a meal. If it turns out to be B.S. it's no great time investment.

I throw a few things in a duffle & get onto Sunset Blvd and drive west to the lush wooded canyons of Bel-Air. This is my favorite part of Los Angeles. Some people like the beach. I like old growth trees. If you've seen what I look like, you'll know I prefer shade.

I head to reception and to my surprise, they're expecting me, hand me a key and walk me to the suite. She texted that she was out running errands but to enjoy the place. There was a fruit basket and a bottle of Veuve in an ice bucket.

I called the spa. They were able to take me right away. I got a two hour aromatherapy massage and a facial followed by a turkey club by the pool while reading Captick's "Death in the Long Grass". I headed back to the room for a nap only to be awoken a short while later by everyone's favorite alarm clock. A blowjob.

I stayed for 2 more days, then got bored. I missed my cat and it was all too relaxing and I couldn't get any work done. Champagne problems I know. Mary & I were square.

Another few days went by before I heard from her again.

MARY: It was so great having you! Have you spent anytime in Montecito?

ME: Yes. I love Montecito.

Montecito, if you're unfamiliar is a stunning seaside enclave on the south end of Santa Barbara. It is geographic valium. Idyllic. It is so devoid of stress that not only is there parking everywhere, they don't even have parking meters. All the restaurants are great and none of them are chains. No one ever asks you for change and unlike Malibu, they had the forethought to not build a freeway on the fucking beach. If I had ceaseless money & nothing whatsoever to do, it's about as good as you can do in Southern California.

MARY: Do you think I should buy here? My attorney said I can spend up to $10,000,000 on a home.

I'm still kind of rolling my eyes, but whatever...

ME: I think it's a great place to live.

MARY: Do you want to come house shopping with me?

ME: Nah. I can't. I have too much work to do here. Editing photos.

MARY: Have you been to Bacara resort?

ME: Yes. Many times. Golf. Weddings.

MARY: How about this? I'll get you your own suite. You can stay as long as you like & focus on your work. If you have time to see me for a breakfast or a dinner, I'll be here.

ME: You don't have to do all of this.

MARY: Scott. I have an almost unspendable amount of money & I want to do nice things for you.

I told her I'll let her know if I can make it.

My next call was to my friends who live in Montecito explaining the situation and if, for whatever reason it didn't work out could I stay with them that night so I wouldn't have to drive to Santa Barbara & back. They said of course & that I was always welcome.

So off I went. North on the Ventura Freeway. Past Montecito proper and Downtown Santa Barbara to the less desirable Goleta to the quite desirable Bacara Resort & Spa. Like the Bel-Air, it was "Welcome Mr Nathan" and I was driven in a golf car to my massive suite in the front row. Footsteps from the glittering Pacific. Increasingly more comfortable with being spoiled, I open the chocolate covered almonds and a mini bottle of Jameson's and take a walk on the beach. I text Mary that I had arrived & checked in, but hadn't heard back in a few hours. Fine. Even better.

I stayed there for a couple of weeks to the tune of god knows how much. Long enough to be almost tired of being fussed over. I didn't want another massage and had eaten almost everything on their restaurant and room service menus. I ordered a bottle of Yamazaki 18. A Japanese whisky that supposedly rivaled all but Scotland's very best. I then downloaded the SpeedWeed app and had a couple of joints delivered. Because why not? I'd had enough. I was going to head home tomorrow. I called my Montecito friends and invited them and their kids to come have a pool day. We had smoothies, swam and got crispy in the sun. At sunset, I took some Yamazaki & ice in a paper coffee cup with a plastic lid from the room and one of the conical pre roll joints from the delivery girl and we walked to the pier.

I woke up early the next morning. Around 8. I rang the front desk and asked them to wash my car and have it ready by 10:30. Plan was to be back in L.A. by lunchtime.

I was happy to be home. The next evening, my friend Charlotte from Montecito calls.

CHARLOTTE: Where are you?

ME: Back in L.A. Had enough of robe life.

CHARLOTTE: Did you hear about Mary?

ME: Hear what? I haven't spoken to her since the night before I left.

CHARLOTTE: Dude. She was just tackled by a phalanx of FBI agents at the bar at the Four Seasons Biltmore. They arrested her and took her dog away.

ME: You're full of shit. For what?

CHARLOTTE: Google this name.

I did as she instructed and sure enough, there were dozens of articles about Mary. One was a listicle of the most notorious con women in American history. This list included women dating back to the 1800's. Mary had been in & out of prison since 1994.

Holy shit. Now I'm in a full blown panic. I'm thinking about this whole trip. They know who I am. My car was at their valet. I gave a copy of my driver license on check in. I'm expecting the feds at my door any minute. I set Google alerts with her name and the arrest and wait. When the articles began to pour in, I called my lawyer and told him this whole story.

ME: Phil. Do I need to get ahead of this? Should I call the FBI agent that did the news conference?

PHIL: Scott. The FBI are not your friends. If you call the FBI on yourself, I'm going to come to your house and kick you in the balls. Don't call anyone. You didn't do anything. If they arrest you, don't say a word. If they call, we'll meet them together. And remember, every syllable you utter to law enforcement without me severely handicaps your ability to do anything. I didn't sleep well for a week.

My friend Gwen produces a national network news show on crime and I told her about it. She sent a camera crew down to Marys arraignment, then texted me a photo of her in a royal blue inmate uniform. Mary had a black eye and a split lip.

Gwen is southern lady and then texted "Looks like someone had some sass mouth at the jailhouse" (With the obligatory laughing crying emoji of course.)

I never heard from Mary, the cops or the FBI. Mary was sentenced to 6 years in prison for identity theft and a slew of other crimes. She was released early a few months ago. Thankfully, I haven't heard from her.

I now run background checks on every date. I don't care who you know.

ORGASMIC MEDITATION

Last year, an actress friend of mine asked if I wanted to join her at her meditation class. Sure. I'm onboard. I like classes in just about anything. Give me something to do. I once even took a cheese class when I was lactose intolerant.

She referred to it as her "OM" meditation class, which I presumed was the vibrational mantra one performs at the beginning and end of a yoga class.

Turns out I was wrong. "OM" in this case is O.M., an acronym for "Orgasmic Meditation".

She instructs me to meet her at 8:30 PM, but not to arrive any earlier. Had she just told me the time, I would have arrived as instructed. Actually, I'm never late and probably would've still arrived 10 or 15 minutes early.

The space on North Fairfax avenue was a storefront. The windows were blacked out with Duvetyne. I'm surveying the space and notice a small gap in the draperie. I peek in, and at first glance it appears to look like a yoga studio, which is what I was expecting.  On closer inspection, I saw there were two person teams, like what I would expect a Lamaze class to look like.

Squinting, I notice that all of the women are either not wearing pants or have their dresses hiked up. Their legs were splayed open. The soles of their feet touching and the men over them were wearing a single latex glove and touching their vaginas with a single outstretched index finger.

My phone rings. It's Sophia,  the actress that introduced me to this actress. She's Latin, Catholic and conservative.

SOPHIA: Hey. What're you up to?

ME: Hey. I'm about to walk into Salma's (No, not her) meditation class. Do you know anything about her... practice?

SOPHIA: She's a hippie. I'm sure it will be nice.

ME: Um, I'm looking through the window and these women are all naked from the waist down and appear to be getting fingerblasted by guys.

SOPHIA: Scott Nathan, what the hell are you talking about?

ME: I'm telling you. This is what I'm looking at with my own two eyes.

SOPHIA: That is DISGUSTING! What kind of sick, degenerate thing is this?

ME: I'll let you know...

The clock strikes 8:30. The door unlocks and a few people walk out to the sidewalk. Out walks Salma looking... dewy.

SALMA: I'm so glad you made it. Come in. I'll introduce you to everyone.

She makes some introductions and asks me to help her assemble some folding chairs into a circle.

The room smelled like a sex shop. Latex, water based lube and (sorry) pussy. 15 or so people form the circle. Most were there before I arrived. A few were newcomers like me.  The women were mostly 40's & 50's. The men were awkward. 20's & 30's. A strange, rather horsey looking blonde woman was staring at me intensely. I looked up a couple of times and finally gave her a pleasant smile back.

I won't go into a lot of detail about the practice, but it's basically edge play. The men, collectively referred to as "The Strokers" are taught to, with the tip of their index finger, gently rub the upper left hand quadrant of the woman's clitoral hood. Only that spot. The women are known as "The Strokees". The explanation is through this high, sub orgasmic vibration benefit both parties and everyone else in the room. This organization has events globally. Sometimes with as many as a thousand people taking part. I try not to judge, but have little interest in further exploring this, nor touching (gloved or not) a sea of middle aged, divorced office manager vaginas. Still, I politely listen.

After the talk, the blonde equine woman with the disquieting stare approaches me. She's wearing a black, ill fitting dress with pet hair all over it. She's unkempt with messy hair and bad skin. She's late 30's.

EQUINE: I couldn't help notice that you were trying to get my attention.

If by trying to talk to get your attention, you mean avoiding eye contact, then yes. 

ME: Um. I thought you were trying to get MY attention, so... Anyway. I'm just here with my friend Salma.

EQUINE LADY: (aggressively) Would you like to sign for our mens introductory class or not? It's $375.00 for 3 hours and you'll get to stroke someone at the end.

I'm uncomfortable and at a loss for words. When people try to aggressively sell me anything, I  shut down.

ME: Um. No thank you.

EQUINE LADY: (Rolling her eyes) Ugh!

She storms off in a clippity cloppity clumsy canter and I can't wait to get the fuck out of this thing.

I didn't know what to say to Salma. My tendency is to joke about anything that makes me uncomfortable.

SALMA: So, what did you think?

ME: It's... interesting, but if you wanted a handjob, all you had to do was ask. Not sure if you know this, but Nathan means "Giver" in Hebrew.

SALMA: Funny, but it's not about sex or orgasms. It's about connecting with people and reaching a higher vibration.

I couldn't care less. I don't even like groups of people who are dressed. I'm just not a groups person.

ME: I'm gonna walk up to Canters and get some average soup. Talk to you soon.

And scene...