Age 22. I had planned on a cheap beach vacation with a friend in Cancun Mexico at a resort said friend was great.
2 days before the trip, said friend had to cancel due to his tyrannical boss who threatened to fire him if he took the trip.
I paid for my plane ticket and room. I was going, he agreed to pay his share of the resort.
If you know anything about me, it’s that I’m like a cactus. I need very little care & feeding. I’ll find fun if I want it and I’m fine solo as well.
So I’m in my little seaside Mexican villa when there’s a knock at my door. Housekeeping?
Me: Hello?
Marta: Hola. Escott?
Me: Si
Marta: I am Marta.
Me: Hola Marta
Marta: I’m a friend of Mark.
Me: Oh. No way! Cool. He’s not here. He couldn’t make it.
Marta: Si. He tell me. He tell me to come see you.
Me: Oh. OK. Come in. May I get you something to drink?
Marta was around my age. Maybe a year or two younger. Very pretty. Nice. Dressed like a tourist. Red & white tank top, white shorts & sandals.
She nods. I pour her a tequila on the rocks and open a beer. I practiced my Spanish, on her, which in previous years was much better, but mostly broken by 3 semesters of college Italian. Whatever the case, we had a good time. We ordered room service, listened to music, laughed and ultimately had sex most of the night & the following morning. I ask if she wants to go to breakfast
Me: ¿Quieres desayunar?
Marta: No gracias. I gotta go.
Me: OK. That was really fun. What’re you doing later?
Marta: Si. Canjusigndebeezaaleeep?
Me: Huh?
Marta tries a few more times to get the point across and I still have no clue what she’s saying, then I see it. It’s a a credit card receipt. She was trying to say “Can you sign the Visa slip”?
Mark had gotten me a prostitute as a thank you gift for my understanding for his bailing on the trip.
While I’m no choirboy, I had never paid for sex before (and still haven’t) I was kind of shocked. I tipped her well with his money.
I really thought I was doing well with her too.
And scene...
Dispatches and notes from the battlefield.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Saturday, July 26, 2014
GUNS, MARIJUANA & THE TEXAS STATE POLICE
2003.
I was visiting a friend at his ranch in Independence Texas, between Houston & Austin. There wasn't much around his place other than Walmart, Chili's and a gun shop, I decided to borrow his Suburban and head to Austin.
Texas roads are long, flat & remote. I was humming along at around 90 MPH, when I got tagged by a Texas State Trooper.
Trooper: License & registration please.
Me: Yes, sir officer. Here's my license. This is my friends truck. Mind if I look around for the registration?
Trooper: Go ahead. California huh?
It was no mystery that Texas cops hate California & Californians like Hamas hates Jews. OK, maybe not that much, but it certainly wasn't helping the proceedings.
Me: Yes sir, officer.
I didn't see the registration in the glove box and had just peeked into the center console to notice my buddies loaded .357 Magnum & quickly closed it before the cop saw it (Hopefully).
Trooper: I don't understand you people in California at ALL.
Me: What's to understand? I think we all want the same things. Be happy. All that. No?
Trooper: I don't understand a state where you can smoke all the marijuana you want, but you don't have a right to defend yourself or your family.
Me: Officer, I can't say I disagree with you there. I've been an NRA life member since I'm 13 years old.
Trooper: Do you have any drugs or weapons in the vehicle?
Then I got nervous, but was afraid to lie to the cop and he was obviously a 2nd amendment advocate, so I decided to fess up.
Me: Definitely no drugs, but I did notice that there's a loaded .357 Magnum revolver in the center console. Belongs to my buddy who must've left it in there.
Trooper: May I see it please?
Me: Sure. (I open the center console and point to it).
Trooper: Would you please pick up the pistol & hand it to me?
Me: I'd really rather not. Do you mind if I just hop out and you grab it?
Trooper. Do not exit the vehicle. Hand me the pistol please.
Me: Where I live, cops who kill people ask them to pick up their gun & hand it to them.
Trooper: (Laughs) I'm not going to kill you.
I couldn't be less comfortable, but... no choice.
Me: OK, so I'm picking it up with 2 fingers... by the muzzle & handing it to you... ok?
Trooper: (rolling his eyes) ok... Wow. Nice pistol. Colt Python. Fancy friends huh?
Me: Yeah. Very nice.
Trooper: How much ammunition do you have?
Me: Just what's in the gun I believe.
Trooper: Traveling a little light aren't you, California?
(He smiles & hands me back my license). Slow down & drive safely.
I was visiting a friend at his ranch in Independence Texas, between Houston & Austin. There wasn't much around his place other than Walmart, Chili's and a gun shop, I decided to borrow his Suburban and head to Austin.
Texas roads are long, flat & remote. I was humming along at around 90 MPH, when I got tagged by a Texas State Trooper.
Trooper: License & registration please.
Me: Yes, sir officer. Here's my license. This is my friends truck. Mind if I look around for the registration?
Trooper: Go ahead. California huh?
It was no mystery that Texas cops hate California & Californians like Hamas hates Jews. OK, maybe not that much, but it certainly wasn't helping the proceedings.
Me: Yes sir, officer.
I didn't see the registration in the glove box and had just peeked into the center console to notice my buddies loaded .357 Magnum & quickly closed it before the cop saw it (Hopefully).
Trooper: I don't understand you people in California at ALL.
Me: What's to understand? I think we all want the same things. Be happy. All that. No?
Trooper: I don't understand a state where you can smoke all the marijuana you want, but you don't have a right to defend yourself or your family.
Me: Officer, I can't say I disagree with you there. I've been an NRA life member since I'm 13 years old.
Trooper: Do you have any drugs or weapons in the vehicle?
Then I got nervous, but was afraid to lie to the cop and he was obviously a 2nd amendment advocate, so I decided to fess up.
Me: Definitely no drugs, but I did notice that there's a loaded .357 Magnum revolver in the center console. Belongs to my buddy who must've left it in there.
Trooper: May I see it please?
Me: Sure. (I open the center console and point to it).
Trooper: Would you please pick up the pistol & hand it to me?
Me: I'd really rather not. Do you mind if I just hop out and you grab it?
Trooper. Do not exit the vehicle. Hand me the pistol please.
Me: Where I live, cops who kill people ask them to pick up their gun & hand it to them.
Trooper: (Laughs) I'm not going to kill you.
I couldn't be less comfortable, but... no choice.
Me: OK, so I'm picking it up with 2 fingers... by the muzzle & handing it to you... ok?
Trooper: (rolling his eyes) ok... Wow. Nice pistol. Colt Python. Fancy friends huh?
Me: Yeah. Very nice.
Trooper: How much ammunition do you have?
Me: Just what's in the gun I believe.
Trooper: Traveling a little light aren't you, California?
(He smiles & hands me back my license). Slow down & drive safely.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Monday, July 21, 2014
MY SINGLE DUMBEST/SMARTEST CAREER MOVE
in 2005, After a lifetime a passionate enthusiasm, I began my professional photography career. I was encouraged by a friend who was a veteran pro himself.
I began as a digital tech, possibly the first one in the business. Pro digital cameras were still an emerging technology & given that I was an technology consultant at places like Universal Pictures and The Walt Disney Company, I was suited to learn the workflow.
The deal I made with my friend was, I would work on set with him & run the cameras & the computers and in the process, learn to navigate the waters of commercial celebrity & fashion photography as well as studio lighting.
About 6 months into the job, one of the executives from Smashbox Cosmetics whom I had worked with on set numerous times, pulled me aside & asked if I was capable of doing similar types of images we had been doing with my friend at the helm.
I said yes & she asked if I’d be willing to put together a creative brief for a baby brand called Too Faced Cosmetics. I was familiar with them to the extent that they had always used cutesy illustration & never photography. She admitted that she was overseeing change & looking to grow the brand up a bit. I accepted the challenge & put together my brief.
Now mind you, beauty was nothing I ever set out to do. It was something my friend did, but wasn’t particularly interesting to me. I wanted comedy, color, irony. Big fun stories. That said, you take what you can get & I didn’t even have a portfolio to speak of at the time.
The bones of the brief was playing off the name "Too Faced" 2 faced. 2 models. One good girl. One bad girl. Yin/Yang. One blonde. One brunette. More or less like every James Bond film.
I asked for 2 casting days.
Casting day 1 was blondes. I saw approximately 225 models that day. When Lyndall Jarvis walked through the door, I knew she was my girl. Icy blonde, exotic, sapphire eyes, bee stung lips, South African & with an inaccessible & intimidating presence.
Day 2 was brunettes. Again I saw maybe 200 brunettes & didn’t really remember a single one. I just wasn’t feeling anyone. I needed another casting day.
Me: (To client) I didn’t find our girl. I need another casting day.
Client: You saw 200 models in L.A. and you can’t find a single brunette that will work for our brand?
Me: Nope. This is important stuff. One more day. Please?
Client: OK.
We see another couple dozen girls the following day. Now I’m nervous. I call the CEO.
Me: Listen. There’s no one here. Can we look at girls in New York?
Client: Scott. We don’t have the budget to fly and house New York models.
Me: I have an idea. I have this friend of mineI want you to meet.
Client: Which agency is she with?
Me: She doesn’t have an agency. She’s not a model. She’s not tall enough to be a model & she’s not thin enough to be a model, but I think she’s going to be a big star.
Client: Actress?
Me: No. Singer.
Client: That’s an interesting idea. Who is she signed to?
Me: She doesn’t have a record deal.
Client: Are you a crazy person? Do you really want to put your balls on the chopping block on your first campaign? Are you willing to risk everything on someone who isn’t a model & has never modeled for anything?
Me: Yes. Definitely.
Client: What’s her name?
Me: Katy Perry. Will you meet with her?
Client: (Nervous). Sure. Bring her in. If it doesn’t work, I’m picking someone we’ve seen from the tape.
Later that night on phone:
Me: Perry.
Katy: Hey Nathan.
Me: I’m picking you up at 11AM.
Katy: For what? I’m writing with this guy tomorrow.
Me: Reschedule it. Look fun & festive. Trust me on this one. It'll be fun & there's money involved.
Katy: OK. I trust you & god knows I need money. See you then.
As expected, Katy managed to charm the pants off everyone in the room. We listened to a demo CD and took a spin through her MySpace profile and the 2 of us managed to sell it in the room.
Didn’t turn out half bad. The pink ballerina dress was something Katy had already owned. I had art department make up some wallpaper to match the color & pattern and rented the famous Brigitte Bardot bed from a prop house.
Shoot highlight - The CEO was a flamboyant gay guy with bleached blonde hair & very orangey foundation. Trying his best to help, he said…
CEO: OK! So, Katy. Just relax & be yourself. I want you to do whatever you’d be doing at home in bed right now.
Katy: OH! OK! (Arches her hips high in the air & shoves her hand into her panties). CEO runs away shrieking. Katy looks over & gives me a wink.
After another year of struggle, things ultimately worked out for Katy. The campaign was a hit & I went on to shoot 4 years & 16 seasons for Too Faced. That led to shooting for The Sephora Book of Beauty, Urban Decay Cosmetics (which got me fired from Too Faced) and ultimately to beauty becoming my specialty.
AND SCENE...
I began as a digital tech, possibly the first one in the business. Pro digital cameras were still an emerging technology & given that I was an technology consultant at places like Universal Pictures and The Walt Disney Company, I was suited to learn the workflow.
The deal I made with my friend was, I would work on set with him & run the cameras & the computers and in the process, learn to navigate the waters of commercial celebrity & fashion photography as well as studio lighting.
About 6 months into the job, one of the executives from Smashbox Cosmetics whom I had worked with on set numerous times, pulled me aside & asked if I was capable of doing similar types of images we had been doing with my friend at the helm.
I said yes & she asked if I’d be willing to put together a creative brief for a baby brand called Too Faced Cosmetics. I was familiar with them to the extent that they had always used cutesy illustration & never photography. She admitted that she was overseeing change & looking to grow the brand up a bit. I accepted the challenge & put together my brief.
Now mind you, beauty was nothing I ever set out to do. It was something my friend did, but wasn’t particularly interesting to me. I wanted comedy, color, irony. Big fun stories. That said, you take what you can get & I didn’t even have a portfolio to speak of at the time.
The bones of the brief was playing off the name "Too Faced" 2 faced. 2 models. One good girl. One bad girl. Yin/Yang. One blonde. One brunette. More or less like every James Bond film.
I asked for 2 casting days.
Casting day 1 was blondes. I saw approximately 225 models that day. When Lyndall Jarvis walked through the door, I knew she was my girl. Icy blonde, exotic, sapphire eyes, bee stung lips, South African & with an inaccessible & intimidating presence.
Day 2 was brunettes. Again I saw maybe 200 brunettes & didn’t really remember a single one. I just wasn’t feeling anyone. I needed another casting day.
Me: (To client) I didn’t find our girl. I need another casting day.
Client: You saw 200 models in L.A. and you can’t find a single brunette that will work for our brand?
Me: Nope. This is important stuff. One more day. Please?
Client: OK.
We see another couple dozen girls the following day. Now I’m nervous. I call the CEO.
Me: Listen. There’s no one here. Can we look at girls in New York?
Client: Scott. We don’t have the budget to fly and house New York models.
Me: I have an idea. I have this friend of mineI want you to meet.
Client: Which agency is she with?
Me: She doesn’t have an agency. She’s not a model. She’s not tall enough to be a model & she’s not thin enough to be a model, but I think she’s going to be a big star.
Client: Actress?
Me: No. Singer.
Client: That’s an interesting idea. Who is she signed to?
Me: She doesn’t have a record deal.
Client: Are you a crazy person? Do you really want to put your balls on the chopping block on your first campaign? Are you willing to risk everything on someone who isn’t a model & has never modeled for anything?
Me: Yes. Definitely.
Client: What’s her name?
Me: Katy Perry. Will you meet with her?
Client: (Nervous). Sure. Bring her in. If it doesn’t work, I’m picking someone we’ve seen from the tape.
Later that night on phone:
Me: Perry.
Katy: Hey Nathan.
Me: I’m picking you up at 11AM.
Katy: For what? I’m writing with this guy tomorrow.
Me: Reschedule it. Look fun & festive. Trust me on this one. It'll be fun & there's money involved.
Katy: OK. I trust you & god knows I need money. See you then.
As expected, Katy managed to charm the pants off everyone in the room. We listened to a demo CD and took a spin through her MySpace profile and the 2 of us managed to sell it in the room.
Didn’t turn out half bad. The pink ballerina dress was something Katy had already owned. I had art department make up some wallpaper to match the color & pattern and rented the famous Brigitte Bardot bed from a prop house.
Shoot highlight - The CEO was a flamboyant gay guy with bleached blonde hair & very orangey foundation. Trying his best to help, he said…
CEO: OK! So, Katy. Just relax & be yourself. I want you to do whatever you’d be doing at home in bed right now.
Katy: OH! OK! (Arches her hips high in the air & shoves her hand into her panties). CEO runs away shrieking. Katy looks over & gives me a wink.
After another year of struggle, things ultimately worked out for Katy. The campaign was a hit & I went on to shoot 4 years & 16 seasons for Too Faced. That led to shooting for The Sephora Book of Beauty, Urban Decay Cosmetics (which got me fired from Too Faced) and ultimately to beauty becoming my specialty.
AND SCENE...
 |
| Katy Perry "One Night Stand" ©ScottNathan.com |
Monday, July 14, 2014
SO... ONE TIME... I COMMITTED THIS FELONY...
1994. I was a new arrival in Angel City. No job. No money. Couch surfing. Getting work of any kind was proving significantly tougher than I thought.
Trying to meet some people, I went into an AOL chatroom one night and started talking to this woman. She told me she was a comic performing at the Improv on Melrose avenue that night. There were no jpgs back then. No digital cameras. It was a B&W digital classified ad. Friends, fine. Date, fine, nothing, fine. Don’t care. Just get me out of the house.
I showed up having no idea what she'd look like. Without going into too much detail, it wasn't really an aesthetic not personality fit. Oh, and she wasn't really a comic either. She was "The Fluffer" or announcer there to warm up the crowd. She was neither attractive, not in any way talented. Nevertheless I saw magic in a just starting out Sarah Silverman.
I’m walking east on Melrose Avenue. Pehaps a block and a half away. While Melrose appears at first glance to be, a series of interconnected, mud & chicken wire, no civic pride, sub-Tijuana architecture, some of them have narrow spaces between them.
Man with knife steps out sideways from building gap:
Robber: Your watch & your wallet Señor.
This nervous looking, late 20’s, diminutive Mexican man with the half assed mustache, didn’t seem like a scary felon. He looked like Jorge, my house painter. Nevertheless, I’m on edge.
Having been carjacked at gunpoint less than a year earlier in Chicago, I was quite traumatized and on edge. A jumpy crackhead asshole who shoves the barrel of a gun in your mouth while wearing Groucho Glasses tends to do that to you. It took years before I’d get into someone’s convertible or allow windows open in a car.
I wasn’t nervous. I was ready.
Me: Whoa! OK. I’m just reaching for my wallet, ok?
Robber: (nods ok)
Me: I reach for the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out my pocket pistol. A Sig Sauer P230 packed full of Federal Hydra-Shok JHP’s.
Me: Your watch & YOUR wallet.
Guys drops his Chinese, liquor store knife, which clatters onto the sidewalk. He takes a step back & raises his hands with his elbows at his side.
Robber: Ma Señior, I only have a few coins.
Me: I’ll take them.
He hands me a quarter, 2 dimes and 2 pennies. Turns and begins to walk away.
Me: Where do you think you’re going?
Robber: I gave you everything.
Me: No you didn’t. Give me your wallet and your keys.
Robber: (Showing me his wallet) See. No money.
Me: Give it to me. Part of your punishment is going to the DMV and getting a new drivers license. And your keys.
Hands me his wallet.
Robber: You can’t take my keys man, I’ve got a family. I gotta get home.
Me: Or I can blow a hole in your face. Up to you. Walk home. You’re a terrible parent.
Drops the keys into my open hand, then turns to walk away again.
Me: What are you doing?
Robber: Man. What do you want? I gave you everything.
Me: No you didn’t. Give me your coat.
Robber: You’re gonna take my coat?
Me: I’m letting you keep your shoes. That’s about it. Any problem with that?
(Silence)
Me: Now apologize.
Robber: Huh.
Me: Tell me you’re sorry and you’re never going to do this to anyone again.
Robber: I’m sorry.
He walked away. I threw his keys down the sewer, his coat and his wallet into the trash & felt at the time like I’d somehow done some good.
AND SCENE.
Trying to meet some people, I went into an AOL chatroom one night and started talking to this woman. She told me she was a comic performing at the Improv on Melrose avenue that night. There were no jpgs back then. No digital cameras. It was a B&W digital classified ad. Friends, fine. Date, fine, nothing, fine. Don’t care. Just get me out of the house.
I showed up having no idea what she'd look like. Without going into too much detail, it wasn't really an aesthetic not personality fit. Oh, and she wasn't really a comic either. She was "The Fluffer" or announcer there to warm up the crowd. She was neither attractive, not in any way talented. Nevertheless I saw magic in a just starting out Sarah Silverman.
I’m walking east on Melrose Avenue. Pehaps a block and a half away. While Melrose appears at first glance to be, a series of interconnected, mud & chicken wire, no civic pride, sub-Tijuana architecture, some of them have narrow spaces between them.
Man with knife steps out sideways from building gap:
Robber: Your watch & your wallet Señor.
This nervous looking, late 20’s, diminutive Mexican man with the half assed mustache, didn’t seem like a scary felon. He looked like Jorge, my house painter. Nevertheless, I’m on edge.
Having been carjacked at gunpoint less than a year earlier in Chicago, I was quite traumatized and on edge. A jumpy crackhead asshole who shoves the barrel of a gun in your mouth while wearing Groucho Glasses tends to do that to you. It took years before I’d get into someone’s convertible or allow windows open in a car.
I wasn’t nervous. I was ready.
Me: Whoa! OK. I’m just reaching for my wallet, ok?
Robber: (nods ok)
Me: I reach for the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out my pocket pistol. A Sig Sauer P230 packed full of Federal Hydra-Shok JHP’s.
Me: Your watch & YOUR wallet.
Guys drops his Chinese, liquor store knife, which clatters onto the sidewalk. He takes a step back & raises his hands with his elbows at his side.
Robber: Ma Señior, I only have a few coins.
Me: I’ll take them.
He hands me a quarter, 2 dimes and 2 pennies. Turns and begins to walk away.
Me: Where do you think you’re going?
Robber: I gave you everything.
Me: No you didn’t. Give me your wallet and your keys.
Robber: (Showing me his wallet) See. No money.
Me: Give it to me. Part of your punishment is going to the DMV and getting a new drivers license. And your keys.
Hands me his wallet.
Robber: You can’t take my keys man, I’ve got a family. I gotta get home.
Me: Or I can blow a hole in your face. Up to you. Walk home. You’re a terrible parent.
Drops the keys into my open hand, then turns to walk away again.
Me: What are you doing?
Robber: Man. What do you want? I gave you everything.
Me: No you didn’t. Give me your coat.
Robber: You’re gonna take my coat?
Me: I’m letting you keep your shoes. That’s about it. Any problem with that?
(Silence)
Me: Now apologize.
Robber: Huh.
Me: Tell me you’re sorry and you’re never going to do this to anyone again.
Robber: I’m sorry.
He walked away. I threw his keys down the sewer, his coat and his wallet into the trash & felt at the time like I’d somehow done some good.
AND SCENE.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
MODELS, HEROIN, DEATH & THE L.A.P.D.
2004. I was living in a nondescript pink stucco apartment building in Hollywood.
It was a modern but somewhat generic 2 bedroom 2 bath place. During more prosperous times, I'd use the 2nd room as an office or gear/guest room. When things got slow, I'd have roommates, usually friends between 1 month & a couple of years.
A few months went by and I couldn’t find anyone I knew to move in short or long term, when a modeling agent friend of mine suggested the agency rent the room from me for their “Better” girls who wouldn’t stay in the “Models Apartment”.
“Models apartment” It sounded glamorous. Sexy anyway. What an out of towner might think the Playboy Mansion would be like, but with better genetics and style.
The apartments were usually in decent buildings. Usually 3-4 bedrooms with sometimes 3-4 twin mattresses on the floor per bedroom. Overflowing ashtrays, burned & red wine stained carpeting and rotting food. Kids running amok and no shortage of drama. "I know that bitch stole my underwear". "Someone left a used tampon on my bedspread” “Movie star “X” had sex with underage mormon girl "Y"”. And so on.
My rules were simple. No parties. No drugs. No being late on rent. Oh. And don’t knock on my door if it’s closed.
For a handful of years, it became a revolving door for a lot of friends I have to this day & a lot of great memories
This is not one them.
I was introduced to a girl, we'll call "Stephanie" several years before. Everything about her was big. Built like a racing greyhound. Olive skinned brunette, 5'11". Big eyes. Big smile. Big personality. And from all reports, big drug problem.
Her agent was a good friend of mine & came to me with the idea of her moving in. I expressed my concerns about the drugs and she assured me Stephanie had been clean for ages.
I met with her, we talked & decided to give it a go. She knew the stakes. If you fuck up, you’re out & I will dispassionately throw you & your shit into the street.
Everything was pretty smooth until month 7 or so. The first sign of erratic behavior was her walking in on my girlfriend and I with the lights off naked & I asking if she could sleep with us because she had heard a noise and was afraid to be in her room. . As you can imagine, my girlfriend was rather displeased with this idea which turned into her suspicion that something was going on between Stephanie and I. I assured her I'm wasn't a cheater and even if I were single, I'd never get my tail where I get my mail.
We returned from a weekend at Korakia in Palm Springs to discover a shopping cart full of things in the living room. Fuck. Many of them mine. The energy in the place felt black. Wrong. I open her bathroom door and There is was...
Jackson Pollock. Meet Dexter. The Dark Side of the Spoon. A filthy, black, soot covered stainless steel utensil, a few broken off, unused camel cigarette filters & a near empty blue lighter. I look up to the ceiling & there it was. Horror. An expressionistic work made by Squibb U100 hypodermic needle squirts containing a mixture of brown dried blood and west coast, Mexican Black Tar Heroin on the ceiling. Something I'd heard inmates on TV call "The Gravy". It was sickening.
I ran to survey my bedroom. Yep. Camera cases gone. 2 Leica Bodies. 2 Mamiya RZ bodies, my Linhof 4X5 camera, a pile of lenses, my ’63 Stratocaster & my Franck Muller watch. A first gen Sony digital camcorder Nic Cage had given me with some homemade porn in it (mine not his). All gone. Blood is boiling.
I call an emergency locksmith and got the locks changed. And I put what little she had into white plastic garbage bags & placed them in the hallway.
She arrived back at the apartment & the drama began right on schedule. LAPD is here. Banging on my metal door with a metal baton. Wanting to know why I locked my roommate out and telling me it was illegal to do so. I explained that I had no roommate. The lease was mine. She was briefly a guest and was a drug addict & a thief. A neighbor who had just moved here from Alabama was charmed by her beauty and sympathetic to her situation & agreed to put her up. Poor hayseed bastard. She holed up in his place like a squatter and refused to come out. Welcome to Hollywood, kid.
There’s a lot of yelling & histrionics in the hallway. I stick my head out to see what’s going on.
Stephanie: I have fucking rights. Don’t come near me I have RIIIIIIGHTS.
I’m wondering why the 3 cops look so freaked out over a scrawny model. They’re wearing blue nitrile gloves and are exercising extreme caution. Then I notice it. Stephanie had forgotten to remove the syringe from the vein in her arm. It’s just bouncing up & down as she's pacing, ranting & raving. Blood is running down the forearm, and drip drip dripping from her fingertips onto the dove grey hallway carpeting.
Stephanie: Don’t you come near me. I have RIGHTS, fuckers!
I went back inside & deadbolted the door. She was removed and thankfully my life got quiet again. For 5 minutes anyway. My girlfriend let me have it with both barrels for being too nice, too trusting and too hopeful with broken people.
I never saw Stephanie again. A few months later she was found dead a bath tub full of frozen vegetables left there by a guy whom she was getting high with and made a half assed attempt to save her.
But, like many junkies, the fear of getting busted outweighed any clear thinking or sense to call 911 from a pay phone.
I later found out who the guy was. Just a few weeks ago, I met him by chance at a store on my corner. He’s a somewhat well known actor and strangely after 10 years, I felt no resentment toward him. He didn't kill her. Dope did. As Elvis Presley's friend Lamarr Fike once said “How do you save a man from himself”? As the Marines say. “Marines die. It’s what we do”. Same goes for junkies.
I was sure a guitar player she was also seeing that I knew in my 20’s had the missing guitar. He didn’t. But he too died 6 months after her.
Not my funniest story, but...
It was a modern but somewhat generic 2 bedroom 2 bath place. During more prosperous times, I'd use the 2nd room as an office or gear/guest room. When things got slow, I'd have roommates, usually friends between 1 month & a couple of years.
A few months went by and I couldn’t find anyone I knew to move in short or long term, when a modeling agent friend of mine suggested the agency rent the room from me for their “Better” girls who wouldn’t stay in the “Models Apartment”.
“Models apartment” It sounded glamorous. Sexy anyway. What an out of towner might think the Playboy Mansion would be like, but with better genetics and style.
The apartments were usually in decent buildings. Usually 3-4 bedrooms with sometimes 3-4 twin mattresses on the floor per bedroom. Overflowing ashtrays, burned & red wine stained carpeting and rotting food. Kids running amok and no shortage of drama. "I know that bitch stole my underwear". "Someone left a used tampon on my bedspread” “Movie star “X” had sex with underage mormon girl "Y"”. And so on.
My rules were simple. No parties. No drugs. No being late on rent. Oh. And don’t knock on my door if it’s closed.
For a handful of years, it became a revolving door for a lot of friends I have to this day & a lot of great memories
This is not one them.
I was introduced to a girl, we'll call "Stephanie" several years before. Everything about her was big. Built like a racing greyhound. Olive skinned brunette, 5'11". Big eyes. Big smile. Big personality. And from all reports, big drug problem.
Her agent was a good friend of mine & came to me with the idea of her moving in. I expressed my concerns about the drugs and she assured me Stephanie had been clean for ages.
I met with her, we talked & decided to give it a go. She knew the stakes. If you fuck up, you’re out & I will dispassionately throw you & your shit into the street.
Everything was pretty smooth until month 7 or so. The first sign of erratic behavior was her walking in on my girlfriend and I with the lights off naked & I asking if she could sleep with us because she had heard a noise and was afraid to be in her room. . As you can imagine, my girlfriend was rather displeased with this idea which turned into her suspicion that something was going on between Stephanie and I. I assured her I'm wasn't a cheater and even if I were single, I'd never get my tail where I get my mail.
We returned from a weekend at Korakia in Palm Springs to discover a shopping cart full of things in the living room. Fuck. Many of them mine. The energy in the place felt black. Wrong. I open her bathroom door and There is was...
Jackson Pollock. Meet Dexter. The Dark Side of the Spoon. A filthy, black, soot covered stainless steel utensil, a few broken off, unused camel cigarette filters & a near empty blue lighter. I look up to the ceiling & there it was. Horror. An expressionistic work made by Squibb U100 hypodermic needle squirts containing a mixture of brown dried blood and west coast, Mexican Black Tar Heroin on the ceiling. Something I'd heard inmates on TV call "The Gravy". It was sickening.
I ran to survey my bedroom. Yep. Camera cases gone. 2 Leica Bodies. 2 Mamiya RZ bodies, my Linhof 4X5 camera, a pile of lenses, my ’63 Stratocaster & my Franck Muller watch. A first gen Sony digital camcorder Nic Cage had given me with some homemade porn in it (mine not his). All gone. Blood is boiling.
I call an emergency locksmith and got the locks changed. And I put what little she had into white plastic garbage bags & placed them in the hallway.
She arrived back at the apartment & the drama began right on schedule. LAPD is here. Banging on my metal door with a metal baton. Wanting to know why I locked my roommate out and telling me it was illegal to do so. I explained that I had no roommate. The lease was mine. She was briefly a guest and was a drug addict & a thief. A neighbor who had just moved here from Alabama was charmed by her beauty and sympathetic to her situation & agreed to put her up. Poor hayseed bastard. She holed up in his place like a squatter and refused to come out. Welcome to Hollywood, kid.
There’s a lot of yelling & histrionics in the hallway. I stick my head out to see what’s going on.
Stephanie: I have fucking rights. Don’t come near me I have RIIIIIIGHTS.
I’m wondering why the 3 cops look so freaked out over a scrawny model. They’re wearing blue nitrile gloves and are exercising extreme caution. Then I notice it. Stephanie had forgotten to remove the syringe from the vein in her arm. It’s just bouncing up & down as she's pacing, ranting & raving. Blood is running down the forearm, and drip drip dripping from her fingertips onto the dove grey hallway carpeting.
Stephanie: Don’t you come near me. I have RIGHTS, fuckers!
I went back inside & deadbolted the door. She was removed and thankfully my life got quiet again. For 5 minutes anyway. My girlfriend let me have it with both barrels for being too nice, too trusting and too hopeful with broken people.
I never saw Stephanie again. A few months later she was found dead a bath tub full of frozen vegetables left there by a guy whom she was getting high with and made a half assed attempt to save her.
But, like many junkies, the fear of getting busted outweighed any clear thinking or sense to call 911 from a pay phone.
I later found out who the guy was. Just a few weeks ago, I met him by chance at a store on my corner. He’s a somewhat well known actor and strangely after 10 years, I felt no resentment toward him. He didn't kill her. Dope did. As Elvis Presley's friend Lamarr Fike once said “How do you save a man from himself”? As the Marines say. “Marines die. It’s what we do”. Same goes for junkies.
I was sure a guitar player she was also seeing that I knew in my 20’s had the missing guitar. He didn’t. But he too died 6 months after her.
Not my funniest story, but...
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
JOAN RIVERS & MY BALLS
Last year I did a shoot with Joan Rivers & appeared on her show. So smart. So funny. I had to stop shooting every few minutes because I was laughing so hard. Here’s a snippet.
Joan: Scott. How old are you?
Me: Legal
Joan: Shut the fuck up. How old are you?
Me: Cut me in half & count the rings.
Joan: You asshole. How old?
Me: I’m 46.
Joan: Do your balls sag?
Me: What?
Joan: What? Do you have shit in your ears? Do your balls sag?
Me: Well, more than they did as a teenager… yeah.
Joan: My vagina sags so much that when I got out of bed this morning in my hotel room, I stepped on it. It looked like I was wearing one of those grey fuzzy rabbit slippers.
AND SCENE.
Part 2.
We're having breakfast in the morning while my crew is setting up.
Joan: I've seen your work. It's very good, but it's not why I requested you.
Me: No?
Joan: No. I heard you were funny & Jewish.
Me: I'm both.
Joan: You don't look Jewish. How do I know you didn't lie to get the gig?
Me: Everyone named Nathan is either black or Jewish. I'm Jewish.
Joan: I'm not so sure.
I stand up, unbuckle my belt & start to unbutton my pants.
Me: Ok ok. I believe you!
Joan: Scott. How old are you?
Me: Legal
Joan: Shut the fuck up. How old are you?
Me: Cut me in half & count the rings.
Joan: You asshole. How old?
Me: I’m 46.
Joan: Do your balls sag?
Me: What?
Joan: What? Do you have shit in your ears? Do your balls sag?
Me: Well, more than they did as a teenager… yeah.
Joan: My vagina sags so much that when I got out of bed this morning in my hotel room, I stepped on it. It looked like I was wearing one of those grey fuzzy rabbit slippers.
AND SCENE.
Part 2.
We're having breakfast in the morning while my crew is setting up.
Joan: I've seen your work. It's very good, but it's not why I requested you.
Me: No?
Joan: No. I heard you were funny & Jewish.
Me: I'm both.
Joan: You don't look Jewish. How do I know you didn't lie to get the gig?
Me: Everyone named Nathan is either black or Jewish. I'm Jewish.
Joan: I'm not so sure.
I stand up, unbuckle my belt & start to unbutton my pants.
Me: Ok ok. I believe you!
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Language Barrier in Rome
Me in Rome in Piazza Farnese after a fashion business event with an Italian model, 2 editors & 2 designers. I'm the only American. Lesson: Don't pretend to proficient in a language that you aren't.
Italian girl: Amore, do you need me to help you with the menu?
Me: Um. No. I took 3 semesters of Italian in College. I think I can handle ordering dinner.
We finish dinner and one of the designer guys says to me.
Him: "EhScott, that was a very adventurous order for an American".
Me: You think? What was so adventurous?
Him: Tell me what you theenk you order.
Me: (In what I believed to be a perfect Roman accent) Bisteca di Cavallino Tartufo Bianco.
Him: And thees ees?
Me: Steak with white truffles.
Him: Eh... you meess a word.
Me: Doesn't Cavallino mean "With white truffles"?
Him: Eh. No. Eet means a baby horse.
Italian girl: Amore, do you need me to help you with the menu?
Me: Um. No. I took 3 semesters of Italian in College. I think I can handle ordering dinner.
We finish dinner and one of the designer guys says to me.
Him: "EhScott, that was a very adventurous order for an American".
Me: You think? What was so adventurous?
Him: Tell me what you theenk you order.
Me: (In what I believed to be a perfect Roman accent) Bisteca di Cavallino Tartufo Bianco.
Him: And thees ees?
Me: Steak with white truffles.
Him: Eh... you meess a word.
Me: Doesn't Cavallino mean "With white truffles"?
Him: Eh. No. Eet means a baby horse.
GOLF WITH O.J. SIMPSON
GOLF WITH O.J. SIMPSON (almost)
Late 1995. Encino, California.
My friend & fellow Chicago native, Bob Wagner & I decide to play golf at a San Fernando Valley Park District course called Encino/Balboa. We pay our fees, collect our cart & head to the first tee.
On the tee is a mid 30's & very fit African American cat in running gear and a black, sun faded, generic lightweight carry bag. Royal blue Nike tank top & matching short running shorts.
We introduce ourselves & shake hands.
Me: Is there a 4th or are they just sending us out as a threesome?
Running guy: I'm a single.
Me: OK, let's tee it & if someone gets here before we take off, they can join us. Otherwise, we'll go out as a three.
Bob & Running guy nod in agreement. As I'm pulling a worn Titleist Tour Balata 100 & a blonde long tee from my pocket, I see a guy approaching us. I elbow Wagner.
Me: (Whispering) Hey! and I nod.
It's O.J. Simpson, whom, nearly a year earlier was exiled from L.A.'s fabled Riviera Country Club before his murder trial ever began. (Evidently he wasn't really The Riv's look anymore). He was just recently acquitted in the criminal trial, but hadn't yet started the civil trial.
As he's walking up, I notice he's looking more like his former $300,000+ country club membership than this cow pasture we're playing. Perfect, snow white & brown, leather soled Foot Joy saddle shoes, tailored tan trousers, a matching, cashmere sweater vest, white polo & a khaki unbranded visor.
Wagner: (whispering) Nathan. There is no fucking way I'm playing with that murderer
Me: (Whispering) Oh YES you are.
Wagner: (Still whispering) No fucking way.
Me: Fine, then take a cab home. I drove & I want the story.
Wagner: Fuck you.
O.J.: (All smiles. Loud & enthusiastic) Hey Fellas! How you doing?!
No one says shit at first. I put my hands in my pockets. I'll play a round of golf with a pariah, but I'm not shaking his hand.
Me: Oh. Hey.
O.J. to running guy: How you doin, brother?
Running guy refuses to make eye contact. He looks pissed & quietly mutters while rifling though his bag.
Running guy: I'm not YOUR brother, motherfucker.
O.J. goes from all smiles to super scary. He is PISSED.
O.J.: (Booming) SAY WHAT???
Running Guy stands & takes 3 or 4 giant strides, steps to O.J., and leans in, nose to nose with him.
Running Guy: I SAID. I'M NOT. YOUR BROTHER. MOTHERFUCKER.
Things are what you might call awkward at this point.
O.J. picks up his tour sized, white vinyl Cleveland Golf bag. The kind of golf bag that you could fit a catholic family into. The kind of golf bag only touring pros and other guys who never have to pick one up would own. His name was embroidered in shiny black thread. He picks up the bag & starts to walk away. Except, when he gets maybe 40 feet away, he 180's on his heels, puts his bag down & shoots running guy a physically aggressive look. He may be ready to fight.
Running guy puts his arms out like Jesus, (only palms up), his eyes widen and he quickly slaps both of his pectoral muscles HARD, outstretches his arms again, looks O.J. squarely in the eyes and says...
Running guy: SUP???
O.J., knowing his bluff had been called, walks away fuming.
Running guy: (muttering to no one in particular). Fuck that motherfucker.
Our first few holes were pretty quiet. No one brought him up for the rest of the round & we saw him here & there on neighboring fairways playing with another group.
And scene.
Late 1995. Encino, California.
My friend & fellow Chicago native, Bob Wagner & I decide to play golf at a San Fernando Valley Park District course called Encino/Balboa. We pay our fees, collect our cart & head to the first tee.
On the tee is a mid 30's & very fit African American cat in running gear and a black, sun faded, generic lightweight carry bag. Royal blue Nike tank top & matching short running shorts.
We introduce ourselves & shake hands.
Me: Is there a 4th or are they just sending us out as a threesome?
Running guy: I'm a single.
Me: OK, let's tee it & if someone gets here before we take off, they can join us. Otherwise, we'll go out as a three.
Bob & Running guy nod in agreement. As I'm pulling a worn Titleist Tour Balata 100 & a blonde long tee from my pocket, I see a guy approaching us. I elbow Wagner.
Me: (Whispering) Hey! and I nod.
It's O.J. Simpson, whom, nearly a year earlier was exiled from L.A.'s fabled Riviera Country Club before his murder trial ever began. (Evidently he wasn't really The Riv's look anymore). He was just recently acquitted in the criminal trial, but hadn't yet started the civil trial.
As he's walking up, I notice he's looking more like his former $300,000+ country club membership than this cow pasture we're playing. Perfect, snow white & brown, leather soled Foot Joy saddle shoes, tailored tan trousers, a matching, cashmere sweater vest, white polo & a khaki unbranded visor.
Wagner: (whispering) Nathan. There is no fucking way I'm playing with that murderer
Me: (Whispering) Oh YES you are.
Wagner: (Still whispering) No fucking way.
Me: Fine, then take a cab home. I drove & I want the story.
Wagner: Fuck you.
O.J.: (All smiles. Loud & enthusiastic) Hey Fellas! How you doing?!
No one says shit at first. I put my hands in my pockets. I'll play a round of golf with a pariah, but I'm not shaking his hand.
Me: Oh. Hey.
O.J. to running guy: How you doin, brother?
Running guy refuses to make eye contact. He looks pissed & quietly mutters while rifling though his bag.
Running guy: I'm not YOUR brother, motherfucker.
O.J. goes from all smiles to super scary. He is PISSED.
O.J.: (Booming) SAY WHAT???
Running Guy stands & takes 3 or 4 giant strides, steps to O.J., and leans in, nose to nose with him.
Running Guy: I SAID. I'M NOT. YOUR BROTHER. MOTHERFUCKER.
Things are what you might call awkward at this point.
O.J. picks up his tour sized, white vinyl Cleveland Golf bag. The kind of golf bag that you could fit a catholic family into. The kind of golf bag only touring pros and other guys who never have to pick one up would own. His name was embroidered in shiny black thread. He picks up the bag & starts to walk away. Except, when he gets maybe 40 feet away, he 180's on his heels, puts his bag down & shoots running guy a physically aggressive look. He may be ready to fight.
Running guy puts his arms out like Jesus, (only palms up), his eyes widen and he quickly slaps both of his pectoral muscles HARD, outstretches his arms again, looks O.J. squarely in the eyes and says...
Running guy: SUP???
O.J., knowing his bluff had been called, walks away fuming.
Running guy: (muttering to no one in particular). Fuck that motherfucker.
Our first few holes were pretty quiet. No one brought him up for the rest of the round & we saw him here & there on neighboring fairways playing with another group.
And scene.
COLLEGE GRADUATION NIGHT
Recently I was talking with some old friends and I asked them what they did on grad night. Almost none of them could seem to remember exactly how they spent it. "Dinner with my parents", "A keg somewhere, maybe?", "An 8 ball of cocaine & a nitrous tank?"
I remember mine. That's for certain.
Immediately after commencement, my parents had a flight to catch out of the long since closed Stapleton Airport in Denver, which was about an hour from The University of Colorado at Boulder's campus.
Still in cap & gown, we piled into my 1984 Camaro Z-28. Red with Silver side skirts & I dropped them off. It was a growling, vulgar, fast & garish American muscle car of not particularly historical significance, but it was mine, & at the time I thought it was cool.
In a hurry to get back to the parties around campus, I burned up those Goodyear Eagle GT's & hightailed it back across the then mostly desolate front range of the Colorado Rockies between Denver & Boulder.
Nearly halfway back, I see Mars lights in my rearview mirror. Fuck! Colorado State Police. They were everything you'd expect. ridiculous miniature cowboy hats, bolo ties and mustaches. Pagan, dogfucking, lifer assholes. Speaking of assholes, I was an out of state, spoiled college asshole with a new car, Illinois tags, long hair and a Grateful Dead "Steal Your Face" sticker between the rear glass & brake lamp. T-Tops off, wearing a graduation gown & clocked at 94 MPH. In hindsight, I'm not sure who was less likable at a glance, but at the time I was sure it was them.
Trooper: License & registration.
Me: Yes sir officer.
Trooper: Do you know why we pulled you over today?
Me: Yes sir. Because I was speeding.
20 minutes of silence went by with them in their cruiser.
Since my 16th birthday, I had accumulated literally dozens of speeding, reckless driving & even one "Fleeing & Eluding the police in a high speed chase" tickets (but I'll save that story for another time). If history had taught me anything, it was that everyone lies to cops & they really hate it. My olive branch was to eat shit, take the ticket & get on my way.
In the pre Greylord Trials erahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Greylord
in Chicago, breaking almost any law was a simple inconvenience that involved paying off either the cop on the scene with a $50 or $100 paperclipped to your drivers license or dropping off an envelope full of cash bearing the name of a particular dead person at a particular room number at the La Salle street courthouse, which would then be divided among the prosecuters, judges & God knows who else.
It was a great system, but I knew better than to try this maneuver on a couple of bible thumping shitkickers in Colorado.
The troopers had reappeared on either side of my car.
Trooper: Mr. Nathan, we're going need you to step out of the car with your hands on your head.
Me: Wait. What?
Trooper: You've got a warrant out for your arrest & we're placing you into custody
Me: That's impossible. For what?
Trooper: Step out of the car now or I'll add resisting arrest.
Me: Ok! Ok! Can you please tell me what the warrant is for?
They handcuff & refuse to answer me for 30-40 minutes. I'm standing, boiling in the sun, handcuffed on graduation day wearing a black satin gown. I'm fucking livid.
Me: Hey! Are you going to tell me why I'm being arrested?
Trooper: You have an FTA Warrant.
Me: What the hell is an FTA?
Trooper: A Failure to Appear in Court
Me: No. I don't. For what?
He walks away. Another 20 minutes drags by...
Trooper: (Cites a statute by number).
Me: You'll forgive me, but I don't have your code book memorized. You wanna tell me what it is?
Trooper: A bicycle ticket for a crosswalk against a don't walk sign
By now, my patience had admittedly worn thin.
Me: You have GOT to be SHITTING ME. You're handcuffing me & possibly arresting me. On my graduation day for a BICYCLE TICKET? Can't I just pay the ticket here & now?
Trooper: We're definitely arresting you. Are you attempting to offer us money?
Me: What? Oh my God. No!
Trooper: Since you're graduating, we must assume you'll leave the state without paying this.
Me: I promise I will pay it. (More silence) Fine. Where's the closest police station? Let's just get this over with.
They tow my car away and take me out to a crossroads between wheat fields in the middle of nowhere. They won't answer any of my questions, my fuse is lit and my respect for these dickless idiots is over.
Me: Why the hell are we just sitting here? It's my graduation night! Do you think this is the best use of the states resources? (More asshole dialogue from me & more asshole behavior from them)
Finally in the distance a white school bus appears in the distance. Flat white like it was spray or brush painted. Diesel exhaust stains. Steel mesh, like the pattern you see on wrought iron patio furniture, crudely welded over the windows. Stenciled in black on the side. "Adams County Department of Corrections".
Me: Would you please explain to me what the hell is going on here?
Trooper: There are no police stations nearby and you're going to Brighton.
Me: Brighton the prison? Is this a fucking joke? You're going to put me in Brighton? For a bicycle ticket? No response from Barney Fife nor his idiot girlfriend.
Trooper 2 opens the car door, puts his hand on my head and takes me out of the squad car.
Me: You aren't seriously going to put me on a bus full of fucking felons wearing a graduation gown. At least let me take it off!
Trooper 1: Unlocks a single handcuff, puts one wrist in front of me & one behind me, recuffs me so not only can I not walk upright, but there's no way I could possibly remove the gown.
The bus full of felons is really just 4 other guys who didn't say anything. We pull up to Brighton which has high fences topped with coils of hurricane razor wire and it's pretty terrifying.
We go through multiple steel doors and checkpoints. Cops check their weapons. The smell is dank. The fluorescent light was green, paint on the walls was thickly layered, yellowed and the linoleum floors were old with foot traffic holes worn through to the concrete. The sounds are foreign & unsettling. Walkie Talkie static & chirps, loud buzzes from security doors opening & closing and cell doors slamming . This place sucked.
Trooper 1: We've got a treat for y'all tonight. College boy here thinks he's better than everyone else.
Me: I do NOT think I'm better than everyone else. I just think I'm better than YOU.
I didn't shut up for the next hour, which didn't help & I knew it wouldn't, but I was already fucked and had no patience in those days.
I'm chained to a concrete bench to a steel eye loop. More time goes by. Fingerprinting, mug shots, idiotic questions about aliases, tattoos, scars and other nonsense, most of which were met by sarcastic & fake answers.(I told you I was an asshole).
They start moving me toward a holding cell containing 2 enormous prison tattooed black guys. Especially terrifying about them was the fact they they were smiling.
Me: (to guard) Hey, I want my own cell. If anything happens to me, do you have any idea what's going to happen to you?
(Yes, I was a giant, mouthy, pussy from the suburbs who wore cricket sweaters & white pants. Let me be clear about that.)
They guide me into the cell.
Me: Hey guys.
Inmate 1: (Laughing) What's up Judge?
Inmate 2: (Hissing with laughter) Ss sss sss sss ss.
Me: Judge? What? Oh yeah. My gown. Real funny. (yelling out to guards) Hey! when do I get my phone call! (no response) HEY!!!
13 more hours go by before I get to make my phone call. My fellow inmates turned out to be pretty cool guys (as far as armed robbers go). This was long before there were any cell phones or pagers. School was already out and most people had shut off their utilities for the school year. I figured the Fraternity House was my best bet. Nope. Disconnected. I didn't want to call my parents, since they were not only back in Chicago, but couldn't help anyway.
Bail stipulations were that someone I knew had to bring physical cash in person and give me a ride home. I couldn't think of anyone else who still had a live phone line.
Me: I need another phone call. Line was disconnected.
Guard: Go ahead. One more.
I decide on a wildcard idea & call the Boulder Limousine Service. I'd used them a lot for airport runs over the years and knew the owner pretty well. I also knew their number by heart which was essential.
Larry: Boulder Limousine.
Me: Larry? It's Scott Nathan
Larry: Scott?
Me: Yeah. Hey, I need a huge favor. Huge.
Larry: Yeah? Wasup?
Me: Do you still have my Amex on file?
Larry: Yes sir.
Me: I need you to do a cash advance on my card. I'll give you my pin # & pick me up from jail in Brighton and get me out of here.
There's a bit of back & forth. Larry's worried about doing something wrong. I assure him it's ok and he was my only shot. He agrees. We hang up.
Guard: I just monitored your call and there aint no WAY we're allowing that!
Me: What are you talking about? You said I needed cash, a ride & someone I know. I've satisfied those three things and you have no choice but to let me out of here!
Guard: You can't call a Limousine compn'y.
Me: The hell I can't. The guy is a friend of mine!
We argue for the next 10 minutes.
A meeting of the halfwits commences between 3 of them & they say nothing to me. I see in the small black & white Motorola CRT security monitor, Larry's old silver Lincoln stretch had arrived, and the high fences were closing behind him. License plate: BLS IV.
They decide to let Larry post the bail.
Guard: Nathan. You made bail. You're free to go.
Me: Yeah, I know. I hope you get in a disfiguring car wreck or develop a slow & painful stomach cancer. Seriously. Fuck all of you.
I walk back through the labyrinth of steel doors out onto the asphalt lot. It's cold & the sun is rising.
(In car)
Larry: Yo Scott. (Hands me a glass) Stoli Rocks?
Me: Fuck yes. Thanks Larry. I owe you one.
And scene.
I remember mine. That's for certain.
Immediately after commencement, my parents had a flight to catch out of the long since closed Stapleton Airport in Denver, which was about an hour from The University of Colorado at Boulder's campus.
Still in cap & gown, we piled into my 1984 Camaro Z-28. Red with Silver side skirts & I dropped them off. It was a growling, vulgar, fast & garish American muscle car of not particularly historical significance, but it was mine, & at the time I thought it was cool.
In a hurry to get back to the parties around campus, I burned up those Goodyear Eagle GT's & hightailed it back across the then mostly desolate front range of the Colorado Rockies between Denver & Boulder.
Nearly halfway back, I see Mars lights in my rearview mirror. Fuck! Colorado State Police. They were everything you'd expect. ridiculous miniature cowboy hats, bolo ties and mustaches. Pagan, dogfucking, lifer assholes. Speaking of assholes, I was an out of state, spoiled college asshole with a new car, Illinois tags, long hair and a Grateful Dead "Steal Your Face" sticker between the rear glass & brake lamp. T-Tops off, wearing a graduation gown & clocked at 94 MPH. In hindsight, I'm not sure who was less likable at a glance, but at the time I was sure it was them.
Trooper: License & registration.
Me: Yes sir officer.
Trooper: Do you know why we pulled you over today?
Me: Yes sir. Because I was speeding.
20 minutes of silence went by with them in their cruiser.
Since my 16th birthday, I had accumulated literally dozens of speeding, reckless driving & even one "Fleeing & Eluding the police in a high speed chase" tickets (but I'll save that story for another time). If history had taught me anything, it was that everyone lies to cops & they really hate it. My olive branch was to eat shit, take the ticket & get on my way.
In the pre Greylord Trials erahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Greylord
in Chicago, breaking almost any law was a simple inconvenience that involved paying off either the cop on the scene with a $50 or $100 paperclipped to your drivers license or dropping off an envelope full of cash bearing the name of a particular dead person at a particular room number at the La Salle street courthouse, which would then be divided among the prosecuters, judges & God knows who else.
It was a great system, but I knew better than to try this maneuver on a couple of bible thumping shitkickers in Colorado.
The troopers had reappeared on either side of my car.
Trooper: Mr. Nathan, we're going need you to step out of the car with your hands on your head.
Me: Wait. What?
Trooper: You've got a warrant out for your arrest & we're placing you into custody
Me: That's impossible. For what?
Trooper: Step out of the car now or I'll add resisting arrest.
Me: Ok! Ok! Can you please tell me what the warrant is for?
They handcuff & refuse to answer me for 30-40 minutes. I'm standing, boiling in the sun, handcuffed on graduation day wearing a black satin gown. I'm fucking livid.
Me: Hey! Are you going to tell me why I'm being arrested?
Trooper: You have an FTA Warrant.
Me: What the hell is an FTA?
Trooper: A Failure to Appear in Court
Me: No. I don't. For what?
He walks away. Another 20 minutes drags by...
Trooper: (Cites a statute by number).
Me: You'll forgive me, but I don't have your code book memorized. You wanna tell me what it is?
Trooper: A bicycle ticket for a crosswalk against a don't walk sign
By now, my patience had admittedly worn thin.
Me: You have GOT to be SHITTING ME. You're handcuffing me & possibly arresting me. On my graduation day for a BICYCLE TICKET? Can't I just pay the ticket here & now?
Trooper: We're definitely arresting you. Are you attempting to offer us money?
Me: What? Oh my God. No!
Trooper: Since you're graduating, we must assume you'll leave the state without paying this.
Me: I promise I will pay it. (More silence) Fine. Where's the closest police station? Let's just get this over with.
They tow my car away and take me out to a crossroads between wheat fields in the middle of nowhere. They won't answer any of my questions, my fuse is lit and my respect for these dickless idiots is over.
Me: Why the hell are we just sitting here? It's my graduation night! Do you think this is the best use of the states resources? (More asshole dialogue from me & more asshole behavior from them)
Finally in the distance a white school bus appears in the distance. Flat white like it was spray or brush painted. Diesel exhaust stains. Steel mesh, like the pattern you see on wrought iron patio furniture, crudely welded over the windows. Stenciled in black on the side. "Adams County Department of Corrections".
Me: Would you please explain to me what the hell is going on here?
Trooper: There are no police stations nearby and you're going to Brighton.
Me: Brighton the prison? Is this a fucking joke? You're going to put me in Brighton? For a bicycle ticket? No response from Barney Fife nor his idiot girlfriend.
Trooper 2 opens the car door, puts his hand on my head and takes me out of the squad car.
Me: You aren't seriously going to put me on a bus full of fucking felons wearing a graduation gown. At least let me take it off!
Trooper 1: Unlocks a single handcuff, puts one wrist in front of me & one behind me, recuffs me so not only can I not walk upright, but there's no way I could possibly remove the gown.
The bus full of felons is really just 4 other guys who didn't say anything. We pull up to Brighton which has high fences topped with coils of hurricane razor wire and it's pretty terrifying.
We go through multiple steel doors and checkpoints. Cops check their weapons. The smell is dank. The fluorescent light was green, paint on the walls was thickly layered, yellowed and the linoleum floors were old with foot traffic holes worn through to the concrete. The sounds are foreign & unsettling. Walkie Talkie static & chirps, loud buzzes from security doors opening & closing and cell doors slamming . This place sucked.
Trooper 1: We've got a treat for y'all tonight. College boy here thinks he's better than everyone else.
Me: I do NOT think I'm better than everyone else. I just think I'm better than YOU.
I didn't shut up for the next hour, which didn't help & I knew it wouldn't, but I was already fucked and had no patience in those days.
I'm chained to a concrete bench to a steel eye loop. More time goes by. Fingerprinting, mug shots, idiotic questions about aliases, tattoos, scars and other nonsense, most of which were met by sarcastic & fake answers.(I told you I was an asshole).
They start moving me toward a holding cell containing 2 enormous prison tattooed black guys. Especially terrifying about them was the fact they they were smiling.
Me: (to guard) Hey, I want my own cell. If anything happens to me, do you have any idea what's going to happen to you?
(Yes, I was a giant, mouthy, pussy from the suburbs who wore cricket sweaters & white pants. Let me be clear about that.)
They guide me into the cell.
Me: Hey guys.
Inmate 1: (Laughing) What's up Judge?
Inmate 2: (Hissing with laughter) Ss sss sss sss ss.
Me: Judge? What? Oh yeah. My gown. Real funny. (yelling out to guards) Hey! when do I get my phone call! (no response) HEY!!!
13 more hours go by before I get to make my phone call. My fellow inmates turned out to be pretty cool guys (as far as armed robbers go). This was long before there were any cell phones or pagers. School was already out and most people had shut off their utilities for the school year. I figured the Fraternity House was my best bet. Nope. Disconnected. I didn't want to call my parents, since they were not only back in Chicago, but couldn't help anyway.
Bail stipulations were that someone I knew had to bring physical cash in person and give me a ride home. I couldn't think of anyone else who still had a live phone line.
Me: I need another phone call. Line was disconnected.
Guard: Go ahead. One more.
I decide on a wildcard idea & call the Boulder Limousine Service. I'd used them a lot for airport runs over the years and knew the owner pretty well. I also knew their number by heart which was essential.
Larry: Boulder Limousine.
Me: Larry? It's Scott Nathan
Larry: Scott?
Me: Yeah. Hey, I need a huge favor. Huge.
Larry: Yeah? Wasup?
Me: Do you still have my Amex on file?
Larry: Yes sir.
Me: I need you to do a cash advance on my card. I'll give you my pin # & pick me up from jail in Brighton and get me out of here.
There's a bit of back & forth. Larry's worried about doing something wrong. I assure him it's ok and he was my only shot. He agrees. We hang up.
Guard: I just monitored your call and there aint no WAY we're allowing that!
Me: What are you talking about? You said I needed cash, a ride & someone I know. I've satisfied those three things and you have no choice but to let me out of here!
Guard: You can't call a Limousine compn'y.
Me: The hell I can't. The guy is a friend of mine!
We argue for the next 10 minutes.
A meeting of the halfwits commences between 3 of them & they say nothing to me. I see in the small black & white Motorola CRT security monitor, Larry's old silver Lincoln stretch had arrived, and the high fences were closing behind him. License plate: BLS IV.
They decide to let Larry post the bail.
Guard: Nathan. You made bail. You're free to go.
Me: Yeah, I know. I hope you get in a disfiguring car wreck or develop a slow & painful stomach cancer. Seriously. Fuck all of you.
I walk back through the labyrinth of steel doors out onto the asphalt lot. It's cold & the sun is rising.
(In car)
Larry: Yo Scott. (Hands me a glass) Stoli Rocks?
Me: Fuck yes. Thanks Larry. I owe you one.
And scene.
ROSH HASHANA
For my gentile friends. L'Shana Tova means "To a Good Year". It is not a black girls name.
MY BROTHER IN LAW
"When are you going to settle down? Get married? Have kids? Why should you be the only one who's happy"? - My brother in law
MEETING PETER O'TOOLE
I met Peter O'Toole once when I was a teenager at Gatwick airport. He was reading the paper in an impeccable cream Saville Row suit, white shirt & black tie, with a perfectly matched cashmere topcoat & hat on the seat next to him. I was so awestruck by him, without thinking I shouted "Hey O'Toole!". He slowly lowered his paper, looked at me & with a brow furrowed said "What" (hard emphasis on the H sound).
Me: What was it like?
Him: (impatient) What was WHAT like? (That H sound again)
Me: What was it like to be a nobody? An obscure British stage actor, then suddenly, overnight you're the biggest movie star in the world who just made the greatest film of all time that won all those Oscars.
Him: (Smiles) Well, I did what any silly cunt would've done. I was in Los Angeles at the time & I bought the largest, whitest Rolls Royce a man could own & I drove down Sunset Boo-lee-vahd waving like the fucking Queen.
Me: Amazing. How was that?
Him: No one gave a fuck (Goes back to his newspaper) And scene.
Me: What was it like?
Him: (impatient) What was WHAT like? (That H sound again)
Me: What was it like to be a nobody? An obscure British stage actor, then suddenly, overnight you're the biggest movie star in the world who just made the greatest film of all time that won all those Oscars.
Him: (Smiles) Well, I did what any silly cunt would've done. I was in Los Angeles at the time & I bought the largest, whitest Rolls Royce a man could own & I drove down Sunset Boo-lee-vahd waving like the fucking Queen.
Me: Amazing. How was that?
Him: No one gave a fuck (Goes back to his newspaper) And scene.
MY MEETING AT ROLLING STONE MAGAZINE
It was a boyhood dream to someday shoot for Rolling Stone Magazine. This was of course when Annie Leibovitz & later Mark Seliger were shooting indelibly creative, colorful, comedic, ironic & high concept stories. Cut to a few years ago, a friend tees me up a meeting there & it went very well. After an hour or so, she and I shook hands & looked forward to our next chat. As we stood, I said "Let me know the next time you're in L.A. & we can grab a lunch or drinks. That's when things took a turn for the worse.
Her: I never go to L.A. shoots.
Me: Too busy to travel that far?
Her: No. L.A. is the single most disgusting, vile place I've ever been in my entire life.
Me: Curious. What's the second most disgusting place you've ever been?
Her: Mumbai India.
Me: Hmm... You know... On my way into this meeting, I saw a naked man. Right downstairs on 6th Avenue, taking a shit on the sidewalk.
Her: This conversation is over.
Me: Good talk.
Her: I never go to L.A. shoots.
Me: Too busy to travel that far?
Her: No. L.A. is the single most disgusting, vile place I've ever been in my entire life.
Me: Curious. What's the second most disgusting place you've ever been?
Her: Mumbai India.
Me: Hmm... You know... On my way into this meeting, I saw a naked man. Right downstairs on 6th Avenue, taking a shit on the sidewalk.
Her: This conversation is over.
Me: Good talk.
My Great Uncle Jake
My great Uncle Jake passed away today at the ripe age of 98. Hilarious guy. Retired young & spent most of his adult life traveling the world sport fishing & playing poker. Whenever I saw him, he'd only stand or pace. I'd always offer a chair & he'd say "Nope. You can't die standing up".
Couple of years ago, I went to visit him in Palm Springs. Knocked on his door & he opened it looking frantic.
Jake: Scott, I've got big problems. You've gotta help me.
Me: Oh no. What's wrong?
Jake: You know that super hot nurse that works here at the house?
Me: Yeah, Marilyn, right?
Jake: Right. Anyway, she hasn't gotten her period in 2 weeks & I don't know what I'm going to do.
Me: Oh my God. Really?
Jake: No, not REALLY. I'm 96. Want a drink?
Godspeed Uncle Jake. Hell of a run. See you on the other side.
Couple of years ago, I went to visit him in Palm Springs. Knocked on his door & he opened it looking frantic.
Jake: Scott, I've got big problems. You've gotta help me.
Me: Oh no. What's wrong?
Jake: You know that super hot nurse that works here at the house?
Me: Yeah, Marilyn, right?
Jake: Right. Anyway, she hasn't gotten her period in 2 weeks & I don't know what I'm going to do.
Me: Oh my God. Really?
Jake: No, not REALLY. I'm 96. Want a drink?
Godspeed Uncle Jake. Hell of a run. See you on the other side.
Pigtails after age 35
Last night I tweeted something about pigtails after 35 being like lip liner. You're not fooling anyone. Creative director of Sephora retweeted me and 3 porn stars got furious. Kind of like a full house beating a flush.
2008 bed conversation with a model in Los Angeles.
Her: "You need to shoot me or pay me, but you can't keep sleeping with me for free"
Me: Your honesty is oddly... refreshing. I'll get back to you.
Her: I'm probably the hottest girl you've ever been with
Me: Top 200 for sure.
Her: You're an asshole.
Me: I thought we were being honest.
Me: Your honesty is oddly... refreshing. I'll get back to you.
Her: I'm probably the hottest girl you've ever been with
Me: Top 200 for sure.
Her: You're an asshole.
Me: I thought we were being honest.
Kate Moss & the Elevator
Los Angeles 1996. I arrive home from a hard night of after hours drinking at the at the Sunset Marquis. I am as white as snow (with boiled ham pink accents) & my hair is down to the bottom of my rib cage. At 6 feet tall, I weighed maybe 130 pounds soaking wet.
I take off my clothes and realize I forgot to check my mail for money I badly needed. There weren't security cameras in my building yet, & my Macallan Whisky soaked brain told me "Just jump in the elevator in your underwear. There's no chance you'll see anyone at 4:30AM. It's only 2 floors".
As luck would have it, the elevator doors sprang open and who's standing there?
Me: Fuck! I am so sorry!
Kate Moss: (Eyes squint shut, disgusted, she lets out a barely audible "Ugh".)
In a vain attempt to un-freak her out, I try & make a joke.
Me: "Y'know, the ONE time you go the mailbox in your underwear drunk in the middle of the night, of COURSE Kate Moss is standing there".
Kate: (Looking down at her shoes. Eyes still clenched shut).
Me: Floor?
Kate: (sighs) 4th please. (Turns & faces the wall).
And scene.
I take off my clothes and realize I forgot to check my mail for money I badly needed. There weren't security cameras in my building yet, & my Macallan Whisky soaked brain told me "Just jump in the elevator in your underwear. There's no chance you'll see anyone at 4:30AM. It's only 2 floors".
As luck would have it, the elevator doors sprang open and who's standing there?
Me: Fuck! I am so sorry!
Kate Moss: (Eyes squint shut, disgusted, she lets out a barely audible "Ugh".)
In a vain attempt to un-freak her out, I try & make a joke.
Me: "Y'know, the ONE time you go the mailbox in your underwear drunk in the middle of the night, of COURSE Kate Moss is standing there".
Kate: (Looking down at her shoes. Eyes still clenched shut).
Me: Floor?
Kate: (sighs) 4th please. (Turns & faces the wall).
And scene.
Ran into this woman from my home town...
Her: Are you the Scott Nathan I used to see riding a chrome Schwinn unicycle with a whitewall tire around the North Shore, usually with a fishing pole?
Me: Uh. Yeah. That's how I got around for a few years.
Her: You seem much cooler now.
Me: I assure you, I'll never be that cool again.
Me: Uh. Yeah. That's how I got around for a few years.
Her: You seem much cooler now.
Me: I assure you, I'll never be that cool again.
THE SECRET TO OUTLIVING EVERYONE YOU'VE EVER KNOWN.
Seven or so years ago, I was in Palm Springs for a weekend (as I am wont to do) & decided to visit with my Great Aunt Ide. She was, give or take 100 years old & on her deathbed. Given that the vast majority of our family is east of the Mississippi, I visited her when I could. Not so much out of obligation, but because she was a great storyteller & supremely funny. She'd only given up driving a few years before.
Previous to buying her house off South Palm Canyon Drive for maybe $25,000, she lived in Laurel Canyon when it was still primarily a mountain lion hunting community. She was a Vaudeville dancer, pals with the Three Stooges (whom, evidently were avid opium enthusiasts) and by far, my blondest, tannest & most glamorous relative. She was known by my cousins and I simply as "Aunt Ide from California". The exotic one.
She told me tales of sex with Isaac Stern and her outspoken opinions of Bob Hope when we'd see him at Canyon Country Club.
Her lovely Filipino nurse had just made us some really average tuna fish sandwiches & left us to visit in her room.
Perhaps 15 minutes had gone by without anyone saying anything. As most of you know, I don't have much of a filter & the following conversation took place.
Me: So you've outlived everyone you've ever known?
Ide: (Her eyes open & sparkle. She grins). Every last one of em.
Me: Is it lonely?
Ide: No dear. It's the best.
Me: What's the secret?
Ide: Do you really want to know or are you just uncomfortable sitting here quietly with me?
Me: I really want to know.
Ide: Life's a very simple game, made complicated by us. I never worried about a God Damned thing in my entire life. My friends who worried the most died first. My friends who worried the least died last. And I worried less than them. I win.
Me: You never worried?
Not during the great depression, not after the death of my husband. Not ever. I knew that everything would always work out, because it always does. I smoked, I drank, I stayed out late. I had fun.
Me: That's it?
Ide: Yes. You know dear... more than one person called me a whore in my life.
Me: I'm going to get something to drink. Do you want anything from the kitchen?
And scene...
ALCOHOL, TOBACCO & SCIENTOLOGY.
2005
I never had dreams of being an actor when I moved here. I didn't generally like actors. I never wanted to be anything where the occupation could also be used as the insult. Example: “Shut up you fucking actor”.
Anyway, I met this woman at a party who seemed to think I was “Geek Chic” and could make some money AND health insurance as a commercial actor. I was reluctant, but as it turned out, she was right. I did well and had a lot of fun.
Loathe as I am to admit it, I met some great people. Many of them actors. Many of them, a lot of you.
Here’s an excerpt from our first meeting.
Agent: So, is there anything that you won’t advertise for?
Me: I’m not sure I understand the question.
Agent: Some people won’t advertise for certain products they’re fundamentally opposed to.
Me: Like what?
Agent: Fast food?
Me: No problem.
Agent: Tobacco?
Me: Fine.
Agent: Liquor?
Me: I love liquor.
Agent: Scientology propaganda films?
Me: You’re joking right?
Agent: No. they make all kinds of short films and they pay great. Since you're so skinny, you’d be a great drug addict for Narconon, (their drug rehabilitation arm). We respect all actors here and would never ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.
Me: Listen. I’m Jewish & If it pays SAG scale, I’ll do infomercials for the Nazi Party.
Agent: Perfect. Welcome aboard.
BOOBS, BEAR SPRAY & ROAD RAGE
1996ish?: I somehow got invited to the Playmate of the Year party at the newly opened Sky Bar at the Mondrian Hotel on Sunset Blvd. There were a lot of single process blonde, orange hued short girls, bolt on boobs & a lot of cocaine. I never liked cocaine, but there weren’t many motorcycles, golf courses or boobs I didn’t like, so I figured I'd have a look and drink some free liquor.
I end up in a suite belonging to Vivid Video CEO, Steve Hirsch & meet this cute, smart, charming actress. We’re both wearing all white. She’s blacker than volcanic glass, I’m pinker than a Christmas ham & we’re both amused by the contrast. We're also both bored by the terribly unsexy lesbian threesome going on in the bed in front of us.
We became friends & decided to have the occasional slumber party to pass the time between relationships.
It’s a rainy night & I’m driving east on Wilshire Blvd through Korea Town, en route to her place in this old hotel called the Gaylord, across the street from the Ambassador Hotel, where Bobby Kennedy was assassinated & above this dodgy, Bukowskian, pre hipster, nautical themed bar called the H.M.S. Bounty.
I’m chatting on the phone to a friend to pass the time, when I hear a horn honking. Not a “Clearing of the throat” "beep beep" honk, but a constant, rage filled one. Like 15 straight seconds. I realize I ever so slightly had drifted into this guys lane & quickly moved back into my own. No brakes were slammed. No big deal.
We get to the next light and he’s still honking his horn. He’s in a big grey Dodge RAM pickup truck.
I roll down my window.
Me: Hey. Really sorry about that.
Him: Get off the fucking phone, asshole.
Me: Yeah. Totally my fault. Again. Sorry.
Him: Pull over!
Me: Hey. Look. I said I was sorry.
Him: I said, pull the fuck over.
Me: Hey. I apologized. I said I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m pulling over.
Guy floors it through the red light and curbs me by diagonally blocking my car.
Guy goes crazy. Jumps out of his truck. Slams his fists on the hood of my old black Saab 900 Turbo. He then comes around to my side. Starts kicking my door in and pounding on my drivers window screaming. The glass is flexing & I’m sure it’s about to shatter. This is not good.
Years before, at the suggestion of my friends frightening Israeli Psychiatrist father, I bought some Grizzly Bear pepper spray called BearGuard. Since it was illegal to carry a gun in your car in Chicago (And California), it seemed like a decent, legal way to protect oneself.
I reached into the door pocket for this huge can that looked like a mini fire extinguisher and pulled the orange pin on it.
I rolled down my window 2-3 inches. Just enough to get the nozzle clear. I pull the trigger on the can, and a cloud of this stuff covers the guy from his abdomen to his forehead. From the sounds that followed, it may as well have been a flame thrower.
He hits the ground bellowing. My heart is beating fast and I’m scared, but I can’t help but be amazed how awesome this stuff is.
Flat on his back on a rain & oil soaked Wilshire Boulevard, I could see from the streetlight that his face is redder than an Oragantun’s ass. His eyes are swollen shut. He looks like Sylvester Stallone at the end of the first “Rocky" movie. There is a whitish foam coming from his nose and mouth and he’s howling in agony.
Him: “I’m blind!” “You fucking blinded me”.
Me: (Proud) Yeah, you bet I did! Anyone else would’ve shot you. What have we learned about getting out of cars and attacking people? What have we learned, asshole?
Him: (Rolling around. Crying. Writhing in agony) Fuck you! You blinded me!
Boiling over with adrenaline, I wanted to get out of the car & kick his nuts in, but decided to avoid escalating the issue. I didn’t call 911. I didn’t tell the girl.
On my way home in the morning, his truck was still there. It had a parking ticket on it.
Bear Spray 1 Dickhead 0
Should this be an Amazon product review for BearGuard?
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