A Runyan Canyon Morning

More often than not, I listen to music while I hike.  Not only does it serve the purpose of getting me up a mountain covered in dog shit, it shows fellow hikers that I am preoccupied with my tunes and to please not bother me.  What protects me from unsolicited, inane conversations and bad pickup lines are just two little white ear buds.  Steve Jobs is a genius.

On a few occasions, I’ve forgotten these hiker’s must-haves at home, leaving me pondering in my car as to whether I could possibly make the trek without the assistance of Ashley Simpson or Justin Timberlake blaring into my cerebral cortex.  After deciding that only neurotics think like this, I’d force myself out of my car and into the silence of nature: the deafening footsteps of man and beast, the sharp chirping of birds, the soft brakes of BMWs passing.  I entered into a world devoid of technology, one I remembered from my childhood.

Not only was I able to better reconvene with nature, I was also open to conversations that I had never been able to hear over Sexy Back and Smack My Bitch Up.  In the three seconds it took to pass by other human beings breathlessly  communicating with one another, I was given a movie trailer clip into their world.  And what a delightfully strange world Los Angeles is.

Here is today’s – As Heard on Runyan

Today’s Hiking Conditions

Time: 9:25 AM

Temp: 70 degrees

Skyscape: A cloudy and ice blue haze

Dog Shit to Piss Ratio: Strangely, I’d have to say today was in favor of “piss.”

1.  Group of three teenage girls walking behind me, all of whom seem to know what a “script supervisor” is.

2.  Two beefy muscle builders pass a Great Dane.  Their deep voices make me think they are practicing for a stage version of Rocky.

Meathead 1:  Uhhh, that’s way too big.

Meathead 2:  Yeah, uhhh, like a giant…like a Marmaduke.

3.  Girl and her uber gay bestie talking about something unheard of.  Affected response: “Like, I can’t [deliberate pause] believe it.”  Me neither, bestie.

4.  Today there was a proliferation of giant men walking tiny, fluffy dogs.  I’m going out on a limb here and assuming that these giant men obviously had male partners waiting for them at home cooking banana flambe for brunch.  What is this, Comedy Central?


Do I Look Like a Prostitute: Part II

I get the callback for the “rock star groupie” spot while at my mom’s house, having planned on spending the day in pajamas and drinking coffee until my blood vessels exploded.  Surprisingly enough, the clothes I had been wearing for the last three days included a pair of recently hand-demolished jeans and a studded belt.  I am so punk rock; I don’t even know how punk rock I am.  The fact that they could use a good trip through the wash only adds to the authenticity of my purported groupie accessibility.  The only thing I’m missing is a genuine drug habit and an incurable STD.  Let’s hope I book this job.

When I enter the holding cell casting studio, I soak up my competition: a well-balanced combination of hookers with big boobs and cool chicks in boots.  The director is definitely envisioning this going one way or another.  Tommy Lee vs. Coldplay.  Ridiculous and whoreish vs. Approachable in an I-am-famous-and-fabulous sort of way.  The boys are tattooed, raven haired, skinny jeaned prepubescents that I would have had a crush on when I was thirteen, hormonal, and irrational.  Back then I’d have gladly tattooed their names on my non-existent chest.  “Brand me!  Brand me, please!” I’d beg while my black polished fingernails clawed at their wallet chains.

A girl with fiery red hair walks in wearing tights and shiny blue Superwoman hot pants.  I can see the half moon of her butt cheeks.  She looks like Carrot Top’s rebellious and wayward sister.  Across from me is another girl: one of the “hookers with big boobs” casting choices.  In fact, she has the biggest boobs out of all of us.  Each one is nearly the size of my head, and, for the record, I have a very large head.  Her chest spills out of her white top; more boob coming out than staying in.  What a treat!

Big Boobs gets up when her name is called and I am subjected to the closest I have ever come to full frontal nudity.  The part of her underwear that wasn’t see-through was neon green.  Above the green was a full display of just how much she shaved or didn’t shave – emphasis on the didn’t shave.  It felt like that scene in Babel, except she wasn’t Asian and the act wasn’t on purpose.

Fortunately for me, the “body guard” from my initial casting didn’t make the cut.  The ones that did passed the muster were huge.  And when I say huge I mean gigantic, muscular, beastly things.   I watched the tallest man I’ve ever seen bend over to sign in and then raise his four foot long torso, nearly hitting the ceiling.  He had to stoop over to make it through the doorway.  I tried not to stare as he made his way into a seat in the corner.  His face was gentle from years of trying to be less imposing than his physical presence.  The Green Mile comes to mind.  The casting director addresses him by first and last name…last name being “Moore.”  I look around to see if anyone else thinks this is ironic but alas, I am alone in my pursuit of the ridiculous.

His competition is smaller but fierce.  I find “Mr. Big Man’s” headshot lying around.  After being highly engaged by his front shot – Mr. BM superimposed in front of a white Mercedes – I decide to do some further investigating on this fascinating human.  His resume is indeed impressive.  Apparently, I might have better luck in this town as a giant African American male with a fancy nickname.  He has appeared in such films as G-Mentality and Lovesong.  And in television he has done quite well starring as Snoop Dog’s personal security for multiple seasons.  If he was actually here I could bro-down about the time I threw rocks at Snoop’s apartment window back in ’94.  Where were you then, Mr. Big Man?

This process is always so entertaining to me, especially when the roles are so character driven.  You look around and you realize that everyone’s just trying to make it.  Me, Mr. Big Man, Mr. Moore, Big Boobs.  All of us are here, doing the same thing.  We’re just different animals in this ridiculous circus called showbiz.


Holidays in Bellevue


The kids…they grow up so fast…

In the spirit of killing time in Bellevue, Washington, I fortuitously stumbled upon a Halloween costume popup warehouse.  Now generally I’m no advocate of uncreative, cheap, cookie cutter costumes made out of plastic, but I figured I could maybe be inspired to create something myself once I got home.  Market research is always a good idea.  My mom’s a financial analyst.  I know these things.

I am well familiar with the time-honored tradition of slutting it up come All Hallow’s Eve.  Although I have never personally ventured down that yellow brick road myself (Slutty Dorothy, anyone?), I have been forced to stare at my fair share of cleavage – of chest and of bum.

Despite my peripheral familiarity with these ladies of the night and their chosen garb, I hadn’t really considered the source of said items.  I never thought to ask any of these holiday whores where they got their festive costumes.  Perhaps I was too busy judging them on their lack of creativity and their need for attention in the form of an erection.

All of the questions I had never dared ask were answered today in this sleepy Seattle suburb.  When I stepped into The Halloween Warehouse, I entered a parallel universe, where fantasies exist in unashamed glory that I could have never even dreamed up with the aid of potent hallucinogens.  The following is my list of personal favorites from this enlightening day of discovery.  I have to say, it’s a most informative read.  Maybe you’ll even find something for the kids!


If cops looked like this boys might actually behave better.  That or bulletproof chastity belts would make their way into the required uniform.  There could be a potential problem with the lack of coverage in the breast area, however.

Here’s a taste of my favorite names:

Miss Demeanor – A+ for (butt) cheekiness

Sexy Cop Lady – Really gets the point.  Isn’t that they all are, anyway?

6 PC Officer Frisk Me Costume – Simultaneously specific, descriptive, and commanding


I was a little bit disturbed by a couple of the more risque costumes targeted specifically to girls who probably aren’t on birth control yet.  Hottie Totties is a brand of costumes with the tagline “Get em while they’re hot.”  Call me old fashioned but I immediately associate the innuendo with statutory rape, consensual or otherwise.


These ladies are so revved up for seXmas they just might explode!  Red fishnets, reindeer whips, all of the necessary and appropriate yuletide fetish items.  Crammed in between “Underwear Noel” and “Lace Up Miss Santa Outfit” was poor “Lil Miss Santa Suit” delightfully modeled by a 2nd grader.  Her cherubic face free of makeup and the lines from a hard life working the pole was in great contrast to the adult model below her, doing a fine job of scaring me into Judaism.  I was confused about the woman in a nude jumper straining to control two giant breasts while wearing a red nose and antlers.  She smiled beguiling and she seemed trustworthy, but I could practically see the lines of her areolas under that ridiculous catsuit.  It didn’t come in the package so I am going to go out on a limb here and assume that it was not intended to be pornographic.


After twenty minutes in the store, my eyes adjusted to skank in the way that parents talk about when their children are exposed to too much sex on TV.  Bare ass cheeks in public?  Why not?!  What did begin to throw me for a loop were the costumes that didn’t involve defiling your dignity.  I felt especially bad for “Pocahontas” who presented her flute like a tray of hors d’ oeuvres with no attempt to turn the wooden rod into a phallic symbol.  She was like an Amish kid in Manhattan.  How could she compete with “Sexy Indian Princess” with all her silent promises to lay all of the Protestants?  Makes me think that small pox was code word for something else.  And what did “Pocahontas” have that “Rhinestone Cowgirl” couldn’t’ offer?  Especially when this cowgirl came with a lasso and DSLs?


“Dirty Diva” is a sexy little jockey sure to get a wild case of chaffing on her thighs if she attempts the equestrian center in her hot pink skirt.  She stares out of her plastic packaging while biting her whip enticingly.  I do not know if she is communicating to me or her horse…a distinction that might need to be made.  But perhaps I’m being prudish.  That kind of content seems to be quite lucrative on the Internet.  Maybe Diva’s an entrepreneur!


While perusing the Nun section I discover a friend of mine has someone been suckered into the costume trade.  2009 has been a hard year on all of us so I won’t divulge names.  Plus, I’ve been there.  Seriously.


I thought it was a little redundant to even have “Red Light Rita” amongst naked girl popes, big breasted angels, and undressed pirates.  Not to say she didn’t give these whores a run for their money.  I mean, she is the professional in the group.


For those of us who are going to get even BIGGER after all the contents of those chocolate-candy-filled pillowcases get crammed into our mouths, fear not!  There are plus size costumes to accommodate the rampant obesity in this country.  For anyone interested, you have your pick of “Big and Beautiful Mother Superior”, “My Size Disguise Witch”, or “Corn: One Size Fits Most.”  I sure hope so.

I was going to leave without giving the boys’ isle a gander, but thank the good Lord I didn’t!  There was plenty to see here.  For any adult male that still yearns to be a superhero, a sports superstar, or just someone hell-bent on telling the world they’ve never outgrown a fart joke, this place is just the ticket.


Nothing screams appropriate for a kiddy holiday like a giant phallic symbol.  Or in the case of the “What’s under that Kilt” costume, an actual giant fabricated version.  Top winners in the wiener department include “Snake Charmer” and “Department of Erections.”  The blue ribbon goes to “Longuini and Meatballs” featuring a laughing Italian server holding a plate of fabric spaghetti in front of his groin area.  Not so discreetly popping forth from the pasta is a giant sausage flanked by two meatballs. Later I find that this Italian is quite popular in the costume model community.  He seems to be having a swell time while modeling “Freshman 15.”  I laughed out loud seeing his grinning head buried in a ladies fat suit, gut exposed and wearing a turquoise tube top.  And just in case you were worried, the tramp stamp comes included.