Monday, July 5, 2010


There is a place off the beaten track of Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles that I’m absolutely sure is caught up in some kind of weird time warp. A highly innocuous area filled with out of work males looking for handy man jobs.

Getting short term employment is an early bird occupation though, and when all hope seems to be lost that gainful employment will be secured, the action moves to a street in back, where a dice game begins for those that wish to try winning their pay for the day.

It’s a shabby place, a short cut between two major thoroughfares, and nobody ever goes there because they want to, they go there because they have to.  It’s the kind of place where the lost go to get lost, an inevitability in the center of a large city.

But when the sun goes down, and the gamblers leave the stage, the place gets quiet, and if you were looking down upon it from a roof or a high window, you’d see it’s a crossroads illuminated by a street lamp shedding a cone of pure light onto a filthy sidewalk: a sidewalk about to be cleansed, by the hot steam of pure genius.

The urban theater falls silent as intermittent sets of anonymous headlights sweep by, creating an eerie prelude for this evening’s program. A program devised by a wickedly talented impresario, and as the air tingles with electricity, anticipation builds to a crescendo.

Nobody knows who he is. He is an anonymous donor to the splendor of Los Angelean culture. He comes and goes like a shadow, and he performs a sacred task for the spirits of all the nameless actors that have pounded the streets of Hollywood looking for a role in a silent movie, a talkie, or a 3D blockbuster.

His mind is not complicated by highfalutin cultural ideals. His mission is carried out in secrecy, for only in secrecy can the truth of the moment be totally revealed. Only in secrecy can the flower of talent blossom. Only in secrecy can the energies that permeate the universe be configured into a vehicle that carries the heart onward toward its dream.

He steps out of the shadows as if he were stepping through the doorway of his soul. Cloaked in darkness he moves swiftly to the base of the streetlamp, it’s a comfortable place for him, a place where his whole being is nurtured by healing rays that move up from the earth, and transfuse with their counterparts that fall upon him from the heavens.

He has a moment of doubt as his long dark cloak slips from his shoulders and falls to the hard concrete. He is free. The plunging neckline from his dirty white shirt is tucked tightly into his trousers, and his round Buddha belly protrudes from it like a melon. He rubs it softly with both hands while wondering if he will be able to do what he has to do once more, to save the human race and the universe from total destruction.

He stretches out his arms and gazes at his hands; he then looks at his thumbs and his fingers. Everything depends on the next move. He brings his hands toward the shirt covering his breasts and slowly pulls away the material. He has arrived at the moment: the piece de résistance.

His thumbs and forefingers encircle his nipples, and twist. A look of ecstasy invades his face. He twists them tighter, harder, and faster, and then before he knows it he is lost.

A symphony begins playing in his head, and the cruel harsh world beneath the streetlamp disappears. This is where he really lives, this is his moment to shine, and this is what he was born for. He has no idea how long he’ll stand here twisting his nipples. Until they’re sore for sure: and even beyond hopefully.

He knows only one thing; he is driven. He also knows that every religious figure in history was laughed at when they first brought their message to the masses: and as cars drive by filled with incredulous faces staring at him in awe, he knows that one-day his way will enslave them all, just as it has enslaved him.

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