Saturday, January 29, 2011

While really wishing not to sound completely bitter and distrustful toward most people in the film business, recent and past experience has taught me not to touch the hot pot with my lip first. And while I don't see fit to agree with my friend in Boise who googles women long before even considering going on a date with them, I do now see the necessity of googleing those in the "biz."

So, my excitement this morning was quickly tempereed. I had sent my kid's script "Field Trip" to a "new" production company. Just this morning I received an email telling me they really liked it (after only "skimming" it; why tell me that?) and they wanted to shop it. Now before I even get to the issue in regards to where the option offer ($$) was in any part of that email. What was included this time was the president of the company's name.

But when I googled Kathy S______ did I get her IMDB page or any other proveable track record or professional credits? Nope. The only real thing that came up was this: Kathy S________ is a fraud. Now, for everyone who has ever hung up a shingle in Tinseltown saying they're a producer, someone else has called them a fraud. But if the fraud has money for an option, then perhaps I will play ball but with eyes open. I'll call them on Monday and ask for a few grand for a year's option. I'll keep you posted, but if you expect me to report good news on Monday, I have a bridge in a desert with your name on it.

******

Did you remember that Tom Waits was in "The Outsiders" as Buck Merrill, although very briefly. I had also forgotten the gawdawful Stevie Wonder opening track, "Stay Gold." The rest of the world forgot one of the actors on the opening card. It's Lowe, Swayze, Estevez, Cruise, Howell, Macchio, Dylan and some other guy who plays Tim Shepherd (a lead) who is completely and utterly forgotten. Even his own mother can't recall his name even though he tells everyone in non-celebrity rehab that he starred with those other actors.

*****

Prodded, I opened a Twitter account yesterday and tweeted (although I was at first calling it Twittering which is just as non-sensical) my first few tweets. Now, for those of you who come to this page these days happy that it's not all about the Yankees, then GeorgesGhost will be of no interest. I am tweeting as the angry ghost of the late George M. Steinbrenner III, the former owner of the New York Yankees, but in his (my?) mind there is nothing wrong with being The Boss -- even from beyond the grave.

Will that mean I will have less baseball on here when the season starts? Not likely.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Sorry it's been days since I have posted anything; longer still since I've put up anything new and original I think as well. I am actually in the studio for the first time in far too long; it had still be a stinky mess ever since the flooding. At least that was the excuse I was using. And cleaning is often the last gasp of the supposed-to-be-writing mode, but this was actually necessary (of course, cleaning the desk itself is always useful. The surest sign of a non-productive writer is a neat and orderly desk. Bad, dark sign. Excep for when it's mine, of course.)

But with a new eyeball on the writing studio as a place to live -- can you tell that the Pay or Quit sign was just taped to my front door? Naah, me neither. Never saw it. Isn't that what the "lady" from the "management" company told the LA Dept. of Housing when I had the first complaint filed and failed inspection? By golly-- I think it is -- cleaning it up was really necessary. Sadly, it didn't take as long as I would have hoped, which is why you get these random scribblings right now.

And really-- as soon as my divorcing friend's LPs (for men of a certain age: first rule of separation: remove your vinyl LPs from the wedded house ASAP!) are out of my studio my bed could fit in that space very nicely. And since I'm jacking internet from the neighbors back at this end, my connection should be better. Upside! The unit out in front is vacant and open: bathroom with shower. Gosh, I love it when a plan comes together.

But before that and the lousy conversation with a louse of an exgf, I was working on my novel "LIVE FAST! (Die Out of Town)" and actually enjoying it for the first time in some time. Perhaps I've put enough distance between me and it. I'll finish this pass through-- mostly putting the action of the not-flashback chapters in a more active voice -- I think I'll pass it to one reader in particular who may have some time for such endeavors.

That is all...

Friday, January 21, 2011


Fall-out from the El Cid reading kept occuring this past week: I was "ambushed" and dragged into participating in a pod-cast for noted sex educators/writers Freddy & Eddy a few days ago. Somewhere on this wacky interwebs thing you can hear me talking about fellation: receiving not giving-- sorry.

Now to counter all of that and, as promised, I am re-posting "The Turtle Story" which is both non-fiction and G-rated. Enjoy!



I was spending a lovely summer afternoon watching baseball on my living room TV when I heard the commotion from outside. There were some excited, raised voices discussing how big something was and before my mind went straight into the gutter, I hurried outdoors.

There, I found a turtle making its way past my house and across the lawn. He was headed towards the street, and despite his snail’s pace –- nee, turtle’s pace –- I realized that he would eventually reach the asphalt. I decided instantly that this would be a bad thing, and unless I wanted to see whether a turtle could race a Jaguar, it was up to me to do something.

I ran to the back of my place and grabbed the kiddie pool that had been sitting there since last Independence Day, when a few friends and I had a white trash 4th of July –- sitting in the kiddie pool on my small patch of crabgrass, grilling anything and everything that came within arm’s reach of the hibachi as the empty beer cans floated around our ankles in the plastic pool. I dragged the kiddie pool back to that same spot of now dead crabgrass and put a little water into it. Then I headed back inside, retrieving a head of Romaine before finally approaching the turtle.

He was big –- not quite Gamera big –- but real big nonetheless, nearly the size and shape of a toilet bowl seat. I could tell he’d been around the block a few times, but I still didn’t want to see him get squashed. There were also the neighbors to consider, especially the ones who bred pet chickens that were mysteriously replaced every few months. I wasn’t certain that their menu could be restricted exclusively to their own pets, and the neighbors weren’t getting my turtle for next week’s turtle soup.

So, using one scrunched up piece of lettuce at a time, I lured the turtle across my yard and toward the kiddie pool. His head, about the size of a child’s fist, protruded from his gnarled shell as he snapped at the Romaine. It took nearly the entire head of lettuce to get him close enough to the pool before I felt confident enough to scoop him up and drop him in.

I rewarded him with the rest of the Romaine and moved in for a closer inspection. This is when I noticed the small, metallic sticker towards his rear that read “CA F&G.” California Fish & Game. Somebody knew this turtle.

I went inside to call Fish & Game but since it was Sunday, I got no answer. Then I called the ASPCA and explained the situation. They informed me that they were short-handed but that they would get someone out to me as soon as possible. I gave them my address, then I went back outside to hang with my turtle.

Apparently, this was a free-range turtle and he didn’t care much for being cooped up in my kiddie pool. He started moving in a circle around the inside perimeter of the pool. Every so often he’d pause, raise his right flipperish claw up the side of the slippery plastic wall and then carefully try and pull himself up with his left, causing him to slide straight back down into the pool. I decided to name my turtle Sisyphus.

Hours went by as I turtle-sat and Sisyphus churned butter in the kiddie pool. I made another call to the ASPCA, but they didn’t pick up this time. In mid-afternoon, my friend Steve called to see if I wanted to see a movie with him that evening. I explained that I was waiting for Animal Control to come rescue a turtle I had found but if night fell and they hadn’t shown, I would need a plan B, so I accepted the movie invite.

I was still sitting vigil outside Sisyphus’ pool as day turned to dusk and Steve finally arrived. He looked into the kiddie pool and did a triple take.

"I was expecting a turtle," he said, holding his hands about grapefruit-size apart, "not a TURTLE!"

As Steve stared, goggle-eyed, at my monstrous Sisyphus, I told him that it appeared as if the ASPCA had better things to do than come rescue my new friend. I left Steve to watch Sisyphus do his heart-breaking laps around the pool as I ducked inside my apartment, returning moments later with my cat’s carrying cage and a plan. The movie was in Westwood, and I knew we were going to take Pico heading west. I directed Steve to drive to the Fox Hills golf course across from the studio. Reasoning that the grass, water holes and sand traps were a far better option than the cement, traffic and hungry neighbors in my ‘hood, this oasis was to be Sisyphus’ new digs. Steve agreed that my relocation plan seemed sound.

Getting Sisyphus into the soft pet carry bag had been easy –- I just shoved him in -- but getting him back out was more than a little frightening. It was dark on the golf course, and I couldn’t tell which direction Sisyphus was facing. I was wary of where I put my fingers, remembering clearly the turtle’s snapping jaws as he devoured the lettuce. Maybe Sisyphus knew the one about the tortoise and the hare, but did he know not to bite the hands that feed?

Sweating bullets, I finally got Sisyphus out of the bag and onto the lush, green grass. I’d like to say he looked back over his shell and winked his thankful goodbye, but that would certainly be writer’s embellishment. After a moment, Sisyphus began to trudge toward a line of trees. Mission accomplished, Steve and I headed back to the car and then the movie theatre.

End of story, right? Not so fast.

Two days later, my girlfriend called me while I was still at work, to tell me about the “HAVE YOU SEEN OUR TURTLE?” flyer she'd found on the doorstep of my house. We’d been telling the turtle story for the past few days and maybe one of my friends wanted a laugh at our expense, she reasoned. But when I arrived at home, I spied the very same green flyer (complete with photo of Sisyphus) on all my neighbors’ doors. If this was a prank –- and I now seriously doubted my friends’ commitment to such a hoax –- it was a good one.

Well, what else could I do but phone the number on the flyer? I didn’t quite have good news, but at the very least my call would give Sisyphus’ owner closure.

A woman answered and, choosing my words carefully, I told her I had some good news and some bad news. “Yes, I have seen your turtle,” I informed her, “but I set him free at the Fox Hills golf course.”

She seemed a little angry, but I shut her right up by telling her that at least I'd saved her beloved pet from getting run over. However, I didn’t inform her about the pet chicken-eating neighbors –- why worry her unnecessarily? She calmed down and asked where exactly I had released her turtle. I told her, she thanked me and we hung up the phones.

Now, that’s really the end of the story, right? You’d think so, you’d really think so. But about two weeks later, I heard a commotion at my next door neighbor's -- a commotion that involved the magic word “turtle.” I raced outside to find Nick and Cathy in their little parking garage. Nick was backing out the sports car he'd been refinishing for as long as I had known him and had spotted something unusual in the corner of the garage. I ambled over, looked in the corner, and nodded.

Sisyphus was just sitting still, his nose stuck in the corner as if he was being punished. “I know that turtle,” I said.

I darted inside and retrieved the “HAVE YOU SEEN OUR TURTLE?” flyer, which I had added to a small collection of odd “missing” item flyers, including one that had a picture of a small coffin and another that featured a child’s sketch of his lost bunny-- adorable, yet useless for identification purposes.

I watched as Nick called the number on the flyer and was abruptly hung up on. “What the hell?” I asked, but Nick said that the turtle owner had thought it was a joke. I guess they received more than a few prank calls from the flyer. I asked for the phone and hit redial.

“Hey, yeah...I found your turtle AGAIN,” I said. The “again” must have resonated because this time, the guy didn’t hang up. I told him that I was the same guy who had found his turtle and let him go at the golf course. He asked me for Nick's address and said he’d be right over.

Within two minutes, this guy came walking up the driveway. He was in his mid-to-late twenties, working that “I just woke up” Hollywood hipster look. I wanted to take up a collection to buy him a belt. Sisyphus was still assuming the position in the dark corner of the garage, and I just had to know.

“How’d you find him at that huge golf course?” I asked.

The guy laughed. “The groundskeeper found him. Brought the turtle home for his kids.” Of course, when Sisyphus’ rightful owners had showed up to claim him, the groundskeeper had to hand him over.

I told the guy that he should keep a better watch on his pet, that he couldn’t expect Sisyphus to keep showing up where I could find him. He told me that the last time, the turtle had escaped while a friend was pet-sitting him, but this time...“Hey, I just don’t know how he keeps getting out.” He scratched his matted 'do to emphasize his astonishment.

Conversation exhausted, the hipster went into the garage and scooped up Sisyphus, tucking the turtle under his arm not unlike a running back with the pigskin and walking back towards whence he came. I looked for the “How to Serve Turtle” cookbook in his back pocket, but, fortunately, it wasn’t there.

Sisyphus was gone, and if he ever did escape again, he didn't find his way to me. I guess a turtle can only stick his neck out so far before people start to notice.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I know times are rough – really I do – but yesterday my inbox brought a new high. I received an email from a woman who runs a screenwriting website; I had signed up for her newsletter a few months back believing she had producers on her site who were looking for writers and/or scripts. Too lazy to unsubscribe, I am still getting her emails and I suppose I am somewhat happy that I did so or I would not be able to tell you what I got from her yesterday.
The email started by thanking me by name for my condolences that I sent her recently over the death of her mother. I hadn’t sent any; this was the first I was hearing about it, but it’s not like I would have sent any regardless. She then went on to say that she had also just lost her father and a very close aunt. But before you start to really feel sorry for her, she started in on the sales pitch, mentioning how she is using all this for her work and was offering writing workshops – to capitalize on the loss.
Nice. I obviously signed up immediately after sending her condolences in regard to both her father and her favorite aunt.

Netflix deemed me worthy to screen the worst movie I have seen in some time, definitely the worst this year. “Love and Distrust” is a compilation of five short movies. Right off the bat, the music, graphics and titles were of a sub-porn quality. And then the little movies started and continued the bad porn theme; bad porn minus any actual nudity. So, what makes this notable? Why am I even mentioning it? Because of some of the cast: Robert Downey, Jr., James Franco, Amy Adams and a handful of other big and even talented name actors. Robert Pattinson was in it as well…

Today, January 19, 2011 was a date that had been in the calendar of my mind for some time, but now that the day is here it no longer means what I had been waiting for. Such is life he writes a little cryptically…
After posting those couple of works of fiction, I’ll follow that up later this week with some non-fiction accounts.

Monday, January 17, 2011

The story below has absolutely nothing to do with MLK Jr. Sorry. It's another from the dark and very oily file; I swear the next tale I post on here will be sweeter and more uplifting. But until then, here's a mostly previously unpublished rather short story...

40.bucks
Brian.mazo


What the fuck. thought RAY as he hurried up the slope out of the theatre towards the exit Sign.. why can/t a movie have just one friggin ending fer chrissakes. he mumbled as he
Raced out.. my bladder/s about to burst. RAY said as he pushed open the men/s room Door..

Ahh. he hissed as he marched to the nearest urinal --- the one furthest away --- the one That there was no chance of the next man to enter winding up next to him and his urinal.. He was the first one in. RAY liked how the sting of the bright antiseptic bathroom light Felt on his eyes after two + hours in the darkened theatre..

As he pissed like a race horse RAY heard the door open again.. he glanced back quickly Over his shoulder.. just a little kid.. maybe 9.. maybe 10.. RAY turned back to the Business at hand..

He was aiming his stream into one of the small holes in the white urinal freshener when Someone said. 20 bucks. in a demanding voice.. RAY continued to piss --- figuring the Kid/s dad must have followed him in and the kid just wanted popcorn money.. christ. Popcorn must have gotten expensive. thought RAY.. that was until he heard the request Repeated and from quite close by.. so close it was making RAY very uncomfortable..

20 bucks. said the kid to an astonished RAY who was now hurrying to finish.. or i go out There and tell the theatre manager that that man….. and here the kid paused dramatically As if he/d rehearsed and pointed a wavering finger directly at RAY/S sunken chest.. he Asked me to hold his thing as stuff came out. the kid shut his smarmy little mouth. the Smirk was far worse..

Knock it off kid. said RAY and he zipped up but didn/t move.. the kid was crowding him Into the stall..

20 bucks or i start screaming. said the kid..

This isn/t funny. said RAY meaning it..

20bucks. said the kid. because any second that door/s gonna open and i/ll have my Witness. said the kid as he reached down towards his own fly..

I/m leaving..

It/s only 20 bucks man..

Why do you need it so bad.? Don/t you have an allowance.? said RAY forcing a rictus Smile..
Who are you.? richie fucking cunningham.? said the kid.. an allowance.?

The kid must have come out the same godawful milquetoast ron howard movie.. christ. Thought RAY. that/s the last time i ever go see another ron howard movie. you forget About them the moment you get to your van.. christ. he/d forgotten it already and he Wasn/t even in the parking lot yet.. but there were extenuating circumstances in this case Your honor..

20 bucks. said the kid taking RAY away from his revelry. or i scream..

Eventually everyone will find out the truth.. they/ll all know about you. said RAY..

That gave the kid pause.. he paused.. then the smirk came back full blast.. the kid said. True but by then your life will already be ruined..

RAY had to concede the point.. he grabbed his wallet quickly and flipped it open --- a Flash of green..

Without missing a beat the kid said. 40 bucks..

RAY slid the bills forward with his middle and index fingers.. the kid/s eyes were Lighting up as he reached for his windfall..

He never saw RAY/S other hand come up out of his jacket pocket with the chloroform Covered rag..

RAY dragged the kid to a stall quickly and slammed the door --- locked it.. RAY put Some of those paper toilet seat covers down and then sat on them. he pulled the kid up Onto his lap so that only one set of feet would show.. RAY knew from experience that There/d be a run of men pissing either before or after their movie.. then there would be a Lull..

RAY lived for that lull..

Then he/d have his time with the kid..

Then he/d have time to get his 40 bucks worth..








 Brian Mazo 2008

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Well, seeing how it's still another month until pitchers & catchers start arriving for spring training, I won't mention it again save to say it sure looks like the Yanks overpaid for Soriano in the bullpen in both money and the draft pick.

Spoilers alert or How I Save You Time and Money on some current film releases:

The Fighter -- only saw it because my friend's passes were not valid for True Grit (more on that in a bit) and didn't know anything about it before going into the theatre other than the very obvious. Speaking of obvious: that was Christian Bale's performance. Walhberg was much better although after hearing how many years it took him to get the movie made, one would think he would've learned how to throw a punch. He was fine in the gym on the speedbag, but once he got in the ring he short-armed each and every of the few punches he threw. I was a big fan of Micky Ward so a lot of the drama as to what happens in his fights was lost on me; that they just mention in the Ward's 3 epic fights with Arturo Gatti was... just what it was.

Black Swan -- Ho hum. Really? That was it? Was pretty bored early after seeing the movie telegraph each of its moves. Argento would have made this far more interesting had he made it some years back. He would have cast his daughter, Asia, in the Natalie Portman and she would have had the complete opposite problem with the role: Asia could handle the black swan with sexy ease, but not the white swan. Portman is a very pretty girl (and had been on my Jews I'd Do list) but she really didn't have the dark in her and really never did.
And as far as red herrings go: a ballet dancer with the back tattoo (Kunis) was more than a little unbelievable.

True Grit -- The Coen Brothers should give up remakes, maybe give up period pieces. Such a ho-hum affair, I just couldn't figure out why they made this movie. And I paid full-price for this one. Should have just gone and seen Harry Potter 7.1 again.

A couple of Netflix instant sleepers that may not have crossed your path:
Barry Munday
Splinterheads
City Island
Harmony & Me
I'm not saying any of these will become your new favorite movie, but they're all more than watchable.

I was going to post a dark & oily short story today because I thought I was going to be brief, but I have seemingly filled this box. You get what you pay for: look for "40bucks" maybe tomorrow or Monday.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Well, since just about all of you missed seeing/hearing me read my story last night at Sexy Tales & Other Intimate Acts (you'll just have to use your imagination about the second part of that) and since I'm feeling lazy, below you can read the story your self.
There were actually some decent pictures taken of me onstage, but I don't have those yet so, again, you must resort to your own imagination...

The Cross of Lorraine


She looked familiar but he couldn’t for the life of him place her. He tried as he sipped at his still too hot coffee. He continued to run her through various scenarios and locales in his mind. His thoughts wandered as he ate his French toast automatically. She wasn’t his waitress so he didn’t see her close up but it was driving him a little mad, like the name of a song that keeps going through your head and you know you’ve got to come up with it or you won’t be able to sleep that night. He considered asking her but didn’t know how to do so without it sounding like a cheesy pick-up line. And he wouldn’t do that. She was young. Probably young enough to be his very own daughter. Probably? Who was he kidding? Roger was forty-five; she could have been his kid, easy. This was the first time he had seen her at Odessa though. Of that he was sure.
It nagged at certain long unexplored crevices in his mind for much of the following week. It became a game. He would think back to every situation where her path could have crossed his; rearranging faces and meetings to do so but he still came up barren.

His regular waitress raised a painted on eyebrow at him when he walked past her section and seated himself in the new one’s. Roger had been eating breakfast, actually to be completely honest, he had been eating French toast, every Tuesday after filing that week’s piece at the Village Voice for a couple of years. He almost always sat at the same table. He wouldn’t fight for it, he was a creature of habit but not completely controlled by his customs, so the raised eyebrow was to be expected. He wouldn’t call what he had with his regular waitress at the Polish diner a relationship. He tipped exactly seventeen percent so it wasn’t as if losing out on his dollar and sixty-three cents this particular Tuesday was going to make her destitute.
The girl was slower than his normal waitress. He sincerely hoped he would solve this mystery and quickly. He actually had to ask her for coffee, and she gave him “a couple of minutes with the menu,” which he did not require. But seeing how he had this time to kill, he flipped open the plastic laminated menu and perused it for the first time in years. He was contemplating pierogies when she returned at his elbow, her notepad at the ready. “Are you ready to order, sir?” she said. For some reason the “sir” made him wince.
He flipped the menu closed, handing it back to her and ordered what he always ordered. He watched her intently as she walked toward the kitchen to put his order in, French toast plate, well done. He sipped at his coffee and now with her voice as well as a close-up of her face in his image bank tried yet again to place her.
The following week his old waitress took less notice of where he sat. When the girl came over to ask if he wanted coffee and to hand him the menu, he handed it right back agreeing to the coffee and ordering his usual immediately. She jotted it down silently and slipped away. It had been two full weeks now and it wasn’t like he was losing sleep over the riddle, but he wanted it solved. He also wanted to return to his former section of tables for the other waitress was far superior.
As he was eating his French toast (not as well done as he preferred; the egg was still a little wet and runny), he glanced up at the precise moment the girl was leaning over his table to warm up his coffee. He wasn’t intentionally looking down her blouse but it was lucky that he was. He spied a gold chain around her neck that dangled as she bent to pour. When he saw what was at the end of the chain it all came flooding back. He felt like he’d been caught with a riot squad’s power hose.
He remembered the precise moment when she was given the small, golden Cross of Lorraine, her eighth birthday. Her mother had been French and was particularly taken with the symbol. It was originally thought to be the symbol of Joan of Arc. The double barred T later was the emblem of the Free French Forces under Charles de Gaulle in World War II.
The girl’s name was Lorraine; her mother was Claudine whom Roger had dated quite seriously ten years ago. Now, Lorraine was eighteen and Roger having solved the mystery that had been plaguing his mind for a fortnight was gob-smacked. Of course he recognized her, he had almost become her stepfather and she had more than a passing resemblance to the woman who had broken his heart like no other. Before his mouth even knew what his brain thought of this shocking development, his ears heard it ask, “Could I take you out for a drink, or a coffee sometime?” Inside his head, his brain cracked a laugh. Still processing the deluge, most of him knew that this pretty, eighteen-year-old girl (and why didn’t she recognize him?) would laugh him off of Avenue A. He’d soon be forced to find a new Polish diner to eat his French toast at on deadline day. As he ran through the litany of backup choices, his ears sent a strange missive.
“Coffee would be okay … I guess,” she said as she tucked her cross back inside her white shirt. When she gave him the bill, she also gave him her telephone number and asked Roger to call.

He would throw the scrap of paper away. He would never call her. He would find another diner, pick out a new waitress and train her. He would stop going to diners altogether. He’d learn to make French toast at home. He would never have French toast ever again. Christ! He’d never even have Quiche Lorraine ever again. Could he avoid eggs, altogether? He would get really, really drunk tonight. He would forget the entire, strange affair.
He called her. He took her to coffee. He took her home and he took her to bed. He took her virginity. He took his sheets to his washing machine.
As he stood in the small laundry nook, he started to sob uncontrollably. He didn’t know how long he was standing there, at least through the rinse cycle, when she found him. He sensed her presence and turned. She spotted his tears and chuckled. “I thought I was supposed to do the crying the first time.”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and knew what he had to do. He knew he had to tell her immediately or he never would. He told her who he was. He told her what he had done and why he had done it. He told her he surmised it was some sort of sick revenge to get back at her mother for hurting him. He told her that he didn’t know he had it in him. Lorraine just laughed and raised his face to hers. She shook her head, kissed his nose as if he were a disobedient puppy and whispered “Roger, I fucked you for all the same reasons.”
She was gone before the first spin cycle.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Hopefully you have dropped at&pee cellphone service. Now I'm gonna tell you why you shouldn't get their screw-verse system or any other system from at&pee. They are actually lying cheats (who also think we're stupid or have no other choice) designed to separate you from your money.
Now, the internet and voip phone that I had from at&pee for the last 2 years worked; I have no actual complaint about the service per se. But when I called to see if there was any way to lower my costs with them, all I got was lies and run-around. I was paying screw-verse $70 a month for the aforementioned services, but I saw on their website that they had new offers that could bring those costs down.
So, I called and got transferred and apologized to and transferred again before getting "assistance." I thought I made myself pretty clear: if I couldn't lower my screw-verse costs, I would be dropping all of my at&pee services.
So, after a long delay, "searching for better options for me" I was informed that I could lower my voip a little bit if I switched to a limited minute plan instead of the unlimited. Then she looked into my usage and told me that it may not actually SAVE me money as it looked like I regularily surpassed that usage amount.
I told her I had NO CHOICE but to use my land line that much because my cellphone -- that was also from at&pee -- didn't work at my home or at my office. And although I believe I speak clearly - if not too quickly - she pretended that she didn't hear me.
She apparently didn't hear me when I informed her that my cost-cutting switch would actually cost me money. I switched gears and asked then about lowering my dsl cost. I was informed that if I cut the speed that I was getting in half it would save me a whopping FIVE BUCKS each and every month. WOW! Color me impressed, at&pee screw-verse.
The icing on the cake was the postcard that I received a couple days later from at&pee screw-verse. They were happy that I was enjoying my "service" but they had to inform me that in less than 2 months the costs of the screw-verse system across the board would be going up exactly FIVE BUCKS each and every month. Last straw, last nail - call it what you want - but that was it. At&pee and screw-verse are dead to me. Sending back their router at the ups store I talked a stranger (tall, pretty, age-appropriate redhead, but I was too busy ranting to take any real notice) out of at&pee.
My work here is not done-- I told the at&pee reps that I would get my pound of flesh and more-- but if you tell me you dropped them, I will have gifts. I mean it!

Friday, January 7, 2011

I was going to write about Black Swan, The Fighter and an episode of Battlestar Gallactica that featured a one-eyed boxing referee, but I'll get around to that next. First, let me tell you some wonderful things about a company called at&t. Having finally excised them from my existence (sort of) it has become something of a mission to push/pull you away from their evil, expensive clutches as well.

I had been using them for my cellphone for years (although I really was a Cingular-subscriber who got pulled to the dark side) and even added their u-verse for my internet and a home land line. Of course, I added the land line because MY FREAKING AT&PEE CELLPHONE DIDN'T WORK IN MY HOUSE OR OFFICE!

Yes, stupid me.

But also stupid you and your iphone (that isn't what it says it is; it's not really a phone, now is it?) for continuing to give them money -- and lots of it -- for a product they first convinced us we needed, then we bought in. Suckers! If you watch just about any cellphone provider commercial they tell us -- clearly -- what they think of us: they think we are stupid. And I guess, they are correct. I paid them over $800 over the last year to use 80 cellphone minutes; I think phone calls from space cost less...

If I were a rich man, I would happily give any of you the $100 to get out of your indentured service contract. I told them that I won't pay that $100 on my contract as they did not live up to their end of the deal -- to give me cellphone "service." Much like the guys on the BritCom "The IT Crowd" (is that right?) who answer their phones with a standard, "Have you turned it off and turned it back on?" all the reps at at&pee can say is, "I'm sorry for your frustration." But when the fourth time someone says that (and the fourth "person" who has said it those four times) I am more than frustrated and yes, I am angry.

at&pee sell us shit, we polish it for them with our dollars and call it gold. No, really.

So, next I'll talk about their u-verse customer disservice, but right now I am going to plug MetroPCS first. Last month, FRUSTRATED by at&pee, I made the switch, intrigued by their big adverts all over LA.

And here's the deal: in 5 minutes I was out the door with a new phone and NO CONTRACT. Pleasantly surprised that my new phone could actually make calls (and really, that shouldn't be a surprise, but it is) for $40 a month INCLUDING TAX and everything, I get a phone that makes unlimited calls, texts, picture sending and web access. When I see my MetroPCS phone sitting on my coffee table, I don't get angry like how spying that at&pee phone that was costing me a crapton of money and never got more than a bar or 2 of service.

Anyway, my last bit of advice for today in preparation for you dumping them too: start calling them whenever yu think of it, whenever you have no service, when you drop that call for the 8th time. These reports will help you get out of your contract and NOT PAY that $100+ early termination fee.

Do it...

Wednesday, January 5, 2011


So, I'm not quite sure when the epiphany actually is, but I don't think I am quite ready to go and read November's output: "Giving In." That book can sit on simmer a little longer; no one even knows of its existence as of yet.
And again, it's the cover that is holding me back on publishing "Rose." I perhaps should have gone ahead with my own, half-assed attempt and gotten it out there, but I would like it to look right. Valentine's Day (which is also the same day that pitchers & catchers start to report for Spring Training, which is as big a day on my personal calendar as the day tickets go on sale for TTITD (probably more so as I have already earned a ticket for this year so...)) seems like the perfect day to release my collection of broken and joy-filled romantic moments. That would be excuse #26 if you're counting.
But if I "announce" that intention next week when I read one of the stories at Sexy Tales at El Cid on 1/11/11 then perhaps I'll stick to it. Perhaps...


And I know "Motherless Brooklyn" was his big one, but I can't recommend Jonathan Lethem's "The Fortress of Solitude" enough. Same goes to the work of Jess Walter who I may or not have mentioned already.

In other silly news: last Wednesday in the rain/wind storm a very large tree where I live came mostly crashing down. It would up perched precariously on it's broken stump and on the roof of the bungalow across from it. And despite calls to both the emergency and regular lines of the "management" company, nothing was done about it through the entire weekend. Even the fannie mae representative cried $ when I informed him of the ongoing, dangerous scenario here. One would think something like that would be handled immediately; they have the $ to rake the front yard, you would think they would take care of this asap.
But, no; it took them a full 5 days before sending someone out and if you were expecting professional tree service, then you haven't been paying attention. Kind of had to hide my eyes as the handyman and his trusty chainsaw starting indiscriminately hacking at wayward branches from where it looked like he was under the tree. Scary moments, but it's finally down and mostly removed. On to the next near catastrophe...

Monday, January 3, 2011

First post of 2012 comes with the promise of getting back to more regularity here...

Rangered the LA Burner NYE party - Nexxus - sort of. Did get to intimidate the creepy little guy in the Suicidal Tendencies t-shirt around 1am or so. He was already in my cross-hairs so it was swell that he picked a friend of mine by the DJ booth I was "guarding" so I could come to the rescue, as it were...

Next week, January 11th, I'll be making my second appearance at the 2nd installation of "Sexy Tales & Other Intimate Acts" at El Cid. Doors open at 6:30pm; it's only $5 and you should be recovered anough from amateur hour to come out and have a cocktail. I'll be reading "The Cross of Lorraine" which is one of the darker tales in my soon-to-be-released short story collection. I am leaning towards Valentine's Day for the release. Makes sense to me...


I'll get back on board with this blog and make longer posts that this; still digging out from a total do-nothing weekend. You get what you pay for in 2011!