There's Plenty Of Room At The Hotel Next To The Hotel California

Thank goodness for that. Because prices have gone up at the infamous den of iniquity ever since the Eagles suffered from heroin constipation there back in the 70's. 

Yes, there actually is a Hotel California. I know: "Ugh." I too had always hoped it was just wacky drug metaphor Don Henley came up. But, turns out, it's real and located here in this little seaside town Christin and I are currently visiting called Todos Santos. See?

Now, I checked with several of the patrons there this morning, and despite what the lyrics of the song say, "you can check out anytime you want" AND you can leave. I noticed several American tourists coming and going of their own volition, and there were no "steely knives" stopping them or anything. 

So, that's good. But, like I said, it's a bit costly to get a room there. So, we just opted for its less glamorous neighbor...

A Mexican Shit Volcano!

I apologize in advance for the graphic nature of this post, but we actually had to live through it, so bear with me.

So, here we are in sunny Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, right at the very most southern tip of the Baja peninsula. So far, it's been OK. Beats working. But then again, maybe it doesn't.

Because this morning, there we were sleeping in, listening to the rain come down when we were suddenly disturbed by an ominous sound. The toilet in our hotel room began to gurgle. "What is that?" Christin asked. "I don't know" I replied. It sounded like a frog trying to make its way up through the plumming. Gurgle, gurgle. "What is that smell?!" Christin asked. "Oh my God," I said as I shot up to check things out. That's when I saw that the entire ceramic-tiled floor was covered in a quarter-inch of shit water. And there stood the culprit:



Holy fucking Mexican shit volcano, right?!?! How disgusting is that? Why the fuck am I sharing pictures of it? Why, just because I have a blog, do I feel compelled to publish pictures of a Mexican toilet overflowing?! I have NO IDEA!!!

Apparently, the deluge of morning rain had completely sabotaged the hotel's septic system, causing its entire contents to come pouring, spouting and cascading out of our bathroom. Naturally, I did what any sane person would do: I took my seat beside the thrown and gently supped on that juicy nectar, filling my belly full of its hearty goodness until I too became a gurgling fount of human filth.

Juuuust kidding. I don't do that. Anymore. But seriously, we freaked out. Christin was jumping around on the bed, trying to take pictures. I was fumbling around cluelessly, moving baggage out of the way. Finally, some of the hotel staff came to help but that didn't stop the fact that our room had become Lake Titticaca Part 2.

So, let this post serve as a warning to all: um...don't...uh...just sit there when your toilet starts gurgling?

Time Now For Some Beautiful Music

Introducing Crotchy Creetch. She is just one of the special, special people we've gotten to know out here in Los Angeles, and let me just tell you, the girl's got some pipes on her. But don't take my word for it; just hit play and let the aural stimulation carry you away.  

Drawering

Here's another one from my sketch book. It pretty much sums up everything in my life right now, although I'm sure that's obvious.

Meeting David Liebe Hart

I swear to God, I said it when we first came here a month and a half ago: the only celebrity I wanted to meet in Los Angeles is David Liebe Hart. You can ask Christin. For a while there, I was driving her crazy by repeating "Salame!" over and over. I was even answering my phone with the Corrinean greeting. And for some strange reason, I just knew in my heart of hearts, I was destined to make David's acquaintance.

And by God–or rather, by the power of the Corrineans–I did.

For the unfamiliar, David Liebe Hart is an L.A. eccentric-turned-cult celebrity, thanks in part to the Tim and Eric Show. When we used to work on Tim and Eric Nite Live at Super Deluxe, his appearances on there were always the scene-stealers. He sings songs. He plays with puppets. He goes off about the secret race of aliens currently inhabiting human forms on this planet, the Corrineans. And apparently, that's what he's been doing for years, be it on Los Angeles public access, outside the Hollywood Bowl or on Adult Swim.

Anyways, two days ago, we were visiting the L.A.C.M.A. (that's the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, you dilettantes!) when Christin and I decided to take a break from all those boring DeBuffet's, Picasso's and Twombley's to take a walk in the museum's park. Just as we were coming up on the La Brea Tar Pits there, we couldn't believe our eyes. No, it wasn't the ancient bubbling pools of black stench that took our breath away. It was David Liebe Hart, sitting on a park bench, offering to do "Portraits. Drawings. Sketches." for three dollars.

"David Liebe Hart! Salame!" is what we both said before shaking his hand. He didn't miss a beat. He replied right back with a cordial "Salame!" as if we were all old friends, reuniting at long last. However, this cheerful mood did not last for long. After lamenting that we were the only people who recognized him all day, David launched into what I suspect has become a well-worn rant of his.

Apparently, he's broke and heartbroken. And there's a long list of people to blame. According to David, he never really received much money for appearing on Tim and Eric or for the recent tour he joined them on. And he's got some beef with Tim Heidecker in particular, although I couldn't follow what it was. He says the top brass at Turner have also dicked him out of his artistic due. And then there's the "Hollywood producers." He insinuated that, over the years, he's been blackballed for either crossing their collective paths or making light of homosexuality. Gary Marshall's name came up. Supposedly, David had some kind of falling out with the Happy Days creator.

Perhaps his most surprising bone of contention is with the Church of Christian Scientists. I'm a dork so I actually knew that he had been raised in the Church and even had a public access show here in Los Angeles where he used to espouse their doctrine of insanity for all to enjoy. Well, that's no longer. He says he's broken ties with them because of their wanton racism. He says he (and other blacks in the Church) were repeatedly discriminated against, despite his years of faithful service.

On top of all this, it sounds like the wounds from a divorce back in the 90's still haven't healed, either. David said his ex-wife still treats him unkindly and that she used to be beautiful and svelt, but has since ballooned up like a sea lion.

In between all of these grievances, he also claimed that he once was roommates with Robin Williams. Discussing this later with some friends, it was remarked on how often this claim has been made among L.A. street performers and the like. We wondered aloud what is it about Robin Williams that makes his cohabitation history such a coveted property among the property-less. Perhaps only Robin knows.

Fortunately, all was not doom and gloom with David. I had one big question for him and that was, "Do you really believe in the Corrineans?" But I never even had to ask it. He was all too willing to talk about his experiences with the mysterious alien race. He told us that in the very same park where we were chatting, he met a girl that "looks like Betty Page," and that she is a Corrinean and that they now correspond regularly. He even showed us a print-out of his IM conversations with her. Sure enough, she (or "it?") claims she's an alien. She even sent him a picture of her in her natural state: it was a stock photo of a praying mantis. He also told us about another Corrinean who shrunk a man's penis just by staring at it. Yikes!

Eventually, we had to beg off. We couldn't take up David's entire day, although it seemed like he wouldn't have minded. Nay, we decided to pay him for a portrait and say "Salame!" And that's exactly what we did. As you can see, he sketched a mirror image of Christin and I, surrounded by a pre-made frame of his favorite sayings and whatnot. I plan on framing it myself.



I still can't believe we just happened to bump into David Liebe Hart, the one person I said I wanted to meet in L.A. I suppose that means our time here is complete. And what a perfect punctuation it was. In a way, David embodied all of the off-putting yet oddly endearing qualities that mark so much of the Hollywood experience: the shameless obsession with fame, the bitterness it produces when it fails to materialize, the constant self-promotion and myth-making, and the sheer insanity of it all. True, David's an extreme example. But I've heard his story in some form or another over and over since we've been here. Minus the Corrineans part.

OK, that's it. Lest this turns into some kind of Nathaniel West-ish critique of La-La-Land, I'll stop now. But let me leave you with one word...

Salame!

"Me And My Girlfriend" Said Tupac

As you can see, this is a painting I just finished of Christin and I and it's called "'Me And My Girlfriend' Said Tupac." It's ink pencil on a 18" by 24" canvas. I'm still working on the background, but I'm starting the bidding at $50. OK, fine. $30. Anyone? Anyone?

Drawering

This masterpiece is from my travel sketchpad. It's based on this Baby Boomer dad we encountered down in Mancora, Peru. He was this real self-satisfied "cool dad" who was staying in our hotel with his wife and kids. He was something else: he surfed, bragged a lot about his family and liked to play the know-it-all prankster with his overly-sullen kids. He also had this really loud, clammy-sounding voice that made me want to build a time machine and travel back to 1956 and choke him to death. Which, I guess, is what is sort of going on in this drawing. 

Capitalism Has Killed Monopoly

Get ready for a blistering Marxist screed here. Because today, I am royally ticked off at this "system" that I'm currently unemployed in. Why? Because it just can't leave well enough alone. Everything always has to be "improved" upon, made "better" and "easier to use." And now it seems capitalism has committed the ultimate infanticide.

Case in point: the venerated starter kit of capitalism itself, Monopoly. I, like every other spoiled white child in this affluent country of ours, grew up playing Parker Brother's how-to-become-a-money-hoarding-asshole board game. And I loved it. I was never very good at it (which probably explains why I'm still so financially clueless), but I always reveled in at least trying to force my little friends into bankruptcy, default mortgages and debt. If that doesn't sound like an idyllic American childhood, give me a hammer and scythe and put me to work in the Gulag or whatever.

But now we're all grown up these days here in the "digital age" and we don't carry cash and we all come to expect wealth in the multi-millions. And so, Parker Brother's has obliged by giving us just that: the electronic banking version of Monopoly! And guess what?? It sucks souls!!



An electronic banking version of Monopoly?! What the fuck? Do we really need this? Was handling all that filthy paper money really that bad? Do we really need to be arming children with phony credit cards?! Apparently so. And in turn, Parker Brothers has succeeded in draining every ounce of fun out of their once-perfect game.

I know they've put out bunches of specialized versions of Monopoly over the years, but this one has gone too far. Like I said, instead of cash, players get credit cards. So, instead of just counting your money when you need to check your balance, you have to give your piece of plastic to the banker and have him insert it into this chintzy double-A battery powered "banking" machine. Want to buy property? Same deal. Pay rent? Same. God forbid, a human calculates the phony transaction. No, that would just be too...well...20th century. Now, even our play-money has to be handled in the same cold and corporate fashion that our real-life finances are.

And then there's the actual properties themselves: instead of ye olde avenues from Atlantic City's yesteryears, now we have a bunch of dubious American landmarks and destination spots up for grabs. Because we've all wanted to purchase Atlanta's Centennial Olympic Park at some time or another, haven't we? And I didn't know that Phoenix's Camelback Mountain was up for sale these days, but I think I'll snag it for a cool 3 million and put a Pizza Hut on top of it! The game pieces are no less depressing. Gone are the old shoes, thimbles and dirty socks or whatever that use to make the original Monopoly such a charming relic from the Depression era. Now, players can choose to be a lear jet, a Segway (a fucking Segway!!) or a tin of Altoids. Yes, in what has to be the most awkward product placement ever, the curiously strong breath mint makers apparently payed a mint to have their product immortalized in this stupid game. Worse, it looks like a laptop. Which would have been more apropos, me thinks.

Adding insult to injury, the electronic banking version of Monopoly costs exactly 3 times the amount the original game does. Thankfully, I didn't buy it. Christin's brother did. And we tried playing it. For exactly 3 rounds. And now it's sitting in the back of his car, waiting to be returned.