To Live and Love In L.A.

201 Pages·2012·1.2 MB·English

by  Peller Ben

Copyright © 2012 by Ben Peller
All rights reserved.
Published by Algonquin Round Table Publishing
Cover and Rear Photos by Jill Demby Guest
Interior Photos by Jill Demby Guest and Shawn Michals
ISBN: 0615602088
ISBN 13: 9780615602080
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-391-1
To anyone who has ever been foolish, crazy, and fearless enough to
fall in love.
Greetings, fellow travelers.
Acknowledgments
To all those I’ve loved, in Los Angeles and beyond. Rest assured,
you all do hold a place in my heart.
I love you, Georgette, and wherever you are I hope you’ll
forgive me for being too young and not strong enough.
Kudos once again to Team Fusion. You make spilling blood on the
page a pleasure.
“What’s in the brain that ink may character which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? What’s new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or dear merit? Nothing sweet boy, but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o’er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallow’d thy fair name…”
- Shakespeare
Sonnet 108
“Are you kidding? He sees damn near every woman who writes or phones him. He tries to get them drunk, he makes promises, tells lies…”
“How does he justify all this?”
“He claims he needs something to write about.”
- Charles Bukowski
Septuagenarian Stew
“Love is barely contained insanity.”
- Shawn Michals
The bathroom wall of an L.A. bar
To steal a famous secret agent’s line, this is a work
that is stranger than truth and fiction shaken…
not stirred. Resemblances to people or
organizations living or dead is purely
coincidental, used fictitiously, etc.
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PREFACE
A SAVAGE EMAIL FROM SHAWN MICHALS
LOVAHOLICS ANONYMOUS
WRITERS IN THE NIGHT
THE LATENT HOMOSEXUAL YOUR MOTHER ALWAYS WARNED YOU ABOUT
TO SWING OR NOT TO SWING
THE CRAZIEST GIRL IN L.A
HOW TO TRAP A COUGAR VS. HOW TO TRAP A CUB
LAWYERS IN ENTRAPMENT
ANALYSTS AND ANALISTS
TEMP ROMANCES AND PERMANENT SCARS
ZOMBIES IN LOVE
FIN AND RELEASE AT AN INN BY THE SEA
SPECIAL FEATURES - TOO MUCH INFORMATION FROM THE INSIDE DOOR OF A MEDICINE CABINET AND OTHER PHOTOS OF A RISQUE NATURE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EDITOR’S NOTE
(Reader Discretion is advised)
Preface
Before you put this down, please let me explain.
To Live and Drink In L.A., the prequel to this book, is a
journey through the psyche of Shawn Michals. I am the one he chose
for its assemblage, and assemble it I did. It wasn’t easy, being
that I had to spend months cobbling together notes of his that
veered the thin line between fiction and non-fiction, his stream-
of-consciousness journals, and written ramblings that quite frankly
flirted with insanity. For those who haven’t read To Live and Drink
In L.A., a quick recap:
Young man comes from the Midwest to Los Angeles, young man
realizes he has a hell of a lot of growing up to do, young man
comes to something of an epiphany by the final page.
In The Industry, as Hollywood calls the moviemaking business,
that’s what’s known as a Pitch. Note that it was thirty-six words
long. Given that this is six words more than most studio execs can
stand to absorb in one sitting, To Live and Drink In L.A., the
movie, will most likely not be coming soon to a theater near you.
However, the book itself is still happily in print. After
seeing through its publication I’ve moved on to the next phase in
my life, which consists of trading stocks, losing hair, and
wondering what in the hell my purpose in life is.
It’s not like I feel totally useless as a member of the human
race. After all I donate blood four times a year, have fathered a
wonderful child, and back in seventh grade I knocked out a bully
named (of all things) Norman when he made fun of a mentally
handicapped kid during P.E. class.
I’ve also helped Shawn Michals spread his saga to the world.
Dubious or not, at least it’s helped keep the written word alive.
It’s fair enough to assume these achievements probably won’t
win me a Nobel or Pulitzer prize, and that’s all right. Hell, I’d
settle for a Golden Raspberry Award, which I’ve always secretly
coveted since Joe Eszterhas’ screenplay for the movie Showgirls
took the prize in 1995. (Though savaged by critics and moviegoers,
there were some hot scenes in that movie, not to mention Eszterhas
was paid millions for writing it). Unfortunately, this award also
seems to be out of my talent’s reach. It’s a sobering thought to
consider the possibility that I’ve already achieved my “life’s
purpose” and that the rest of my existence will simply be a matter
of treading water until I’m in some nursing home shitting in my
diapers before being whisked off to parts unknown.
Sure, there may be various tentpole events. My daughter’s high
school graduation, and hopefully her college graduation. Then
again, given that she lives with my estranged ex-wife who has been
feeding her a daily dose of verbal poison about what a loser I am,
I have no idea whether I’ll be invited to either. Back when our
marriage seemed salvageable we’d agreed, out of consideration for
our daughter, to go to counseling and “make it work.” This exercise
only unearthed more things we couldn’t stand about each other. She
went on diatribe after diatribe about how I was never home, and I
would respond that I was working. She accused me of having affairs,
and I replied, accurately, that I was too tired to have an affair.
I wanted our daughter to be able to go to college, and we were in
the middle of a Great Recession while my capacity to make money
depended on how well I could make money for others.
Then the last straw in our relationship came when I’d seen fit
to put my name as the author and editor of Shawn’s writings. Not
only that, I’d made it a priority to take the book to the streets,
selling it in bars, coffeeshops, and eventually working my way up
to crashing movie premieres. When I was arrested at the premiere of
1
* for trespassing and illegal solicitation, I called my wife from
jail.
“Honey,” I said. “I’m in a bit of a jam.”
“You’ve been in a jam your whole life!” she replied, and
proceeded to unleash her usual arsenal of complaints. I was never
home, I didn’t really care about her, I’d never really cared about
her. I listened, nodding and hating myself for a few minutes until
above the words “-you’ve been an absolute shit-” bobbed the sound
of a suspicious snoring in the background. I knew that snore.
“Is that Brian?” I asked. Brian and I had been best friends all
the way through college. I knew that snore from “mornings after”
wild parties at our fraternity, and also the morning after my
bachelor party when he’d drunkenly confessed that he considered my
soon-to-be wife an “uber hot dish.”
“At least Brian’s here for your daughter’s birthday!” my wife
shouted at me. “And now he’s going to do me good! Better than you
ever did!”
She slammed the phone down. I felt terrible. I’d actually
planned to surprise Chanel, our daughter, with a huge purple horse,
its head sporting five golden reins, one celebrating every year of
Chanel’s age. Unfortunately the horse was still in my car parked on
Hollywood Boulevard. I’d been arrested while trying to orchestrate
a getaway from the premiere after hurriedly tossing books in the
general direction of the red carpet in hopes that one of the
arriving elite would catch one, open it up, and read enough to find
a reason to laugh, cry, or at the very least throw the novel down
in disgust.
Now here I was incarcerated while my former best friend was