Who Knew That There Were TWO Man Eaters In San Diego?

Well apparently this poor bastard found that out the hard way. It's a terrible thing that happened, but one that I think could have been avoided, and here's a few reasons why:

1) He was training for a triathlon, and was swimming in a Great White thoroughfare where seals and sea-lions were hanging out, and doing their yearly birthing / following the inflexible call of nature / repeating of the seasons type deal that has been going on for millennia.

2) People on the beach had been reporting beachings by seals & sea lions for a couple of days beforehand, which is always a sure-as-heck-fire sign that something ominous this way swims. As a matter of fact, the Fish & Rescue people were en route to take care of another beached seal when when the call came in when something else (not seal based, yet mammalian all the same) had been bitten.

3) He and his group were swimming about 150 yards off-shore early in the morning, looking suspiciously like seals from 30 meters below, when sharky feeding time is basically the breakfast smorgasboard. Great Whites patrol close to shore, on the bottom, looking for seals and such usually for the few hours after sunrise. They have spectacular eyesight, and being colored dark grey on top and white on the underside, they are quite hard to detect from either above or below, depending on your particular point of view. The reason that they patrol on the bottom is that they can spy a seal flirting around the surface and do a massive, awe-inspiring, near-vertical rush from the bottom and nail their victim with such force that often both are hurled out of the water. The shark, contrary to popular belief doesn't chow down on it's victim in a huge frenzy (that's for those other chump wannabees like blues, Reefs, or White-tipped sharks). The Great White is a surprisingly timid creature, so once the fatal bite has been dealt in its single massive onslaught, it safely circles away while it's victim bleeds to death. Thus ensuring no injuries to itself, and it basically becomes a civilized affair (as it were). Lastly, not a lot of people are eaten by white sharks. They usually take a bite (sadly that one bite can be fairly problematic though) but then realize their mistake and spit us out because with the exception of about 30.5% of Americans, we aren't fat enough, and probably don't taste all that good.

4) We look remarkably like seals from 30 meters below, while swimming in seal territory. During meal time.

5) Don't train for triathlons. Ever. So I'm going to have another beer, and maybe some Ben & Jerry's Half Baked Ice Cream, while curled up in a blanky watching some mindless TV. Mmmm TV.

6) Given my druthers, I'd take my chances with a grizzly bear any day.

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Cannes By The Numbers

1: Trip to the famous Le Pizza in the old port. It is the best pie you'll probably ever have, and as a bonus all the French people bring their ratdogs into the resturant, and sit said rat dogs right on the table and hand feed them greasy pasta & cheese. This bothers no one but the North Americans, and judging by the amount of dog-shit on the street, canine digestive systems apparently.

2: Parties attended. One was a casual thing on a $8m Euro Yacht in the old port harbour, hosted by a South African Jewelry exporter. The bathrooms, floors and counter tops were all marble, it slept 8 comfortably, and the master bedroom was bigger than my living room. The second was a massive, massive Soho House party at this amazing castle about 5 kms north of Cannes & La Bocca which was magical. Waves of the Mediterranean gently lapping the back walls of the battlements, suits of armor in every room, swordfish, lobster, caviar, accompanied with a dazzling array of Grey Goose martini's, and just one of those "it's a moment" experiences.

3: Number of times I mixed expensive champagne and butt-cheese tasting iced Yaegermeister. (Here's a tip - BAD idea). There was no puking involved, but it did lend itself to a vile headache, and bizarre dreams of me writing a bad, bad sitcom about a guy who gets out of prison based on character references from a mass murderer. Hey, I just write 'em, I shouldn't try & explain them

5,571: Miles between Vancouver & London as the crow flies on Air Canada flight 897.

5,571: Hours that Air Canada flight 897 between London & Vancouver felt like today.

3: Number of screaming children aged 6-8 months within a 1 row vicinity of seat 12F of Air Canada Flight 897.

4: Number of homicidal fantasies entertained by the occupant of seat 12F of Air Canada Flight 897 (the additional murder fantasy was for the nimrod mother of the year sitting two feet away from me, for not giving a shit that her little monster of an air-raid-siren was frequently hitting glass-breaking decibals, and who did absolutley nothing about it at great chagrin to the other passengers and/or residents of Greenland within hearing distance).

1: Number of astoundingly bizarre breast-feeding incidents witnessed on Air Canada flight 897. Sometimes you just don't want to use your spherical vision. Lets just say that with my very limited experience, one can assume that there are right and wrong ways to breastfeed in public, and it's going to take some time to reconcile that sudden, shocking visual. On a side note, I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's a actually good thing I'm not having sex anytime soon. What I witnessed today on the plane is going to take some considerable time, and possibly some intensive, long term therapy to get over.

$400K: In Euros, the Value of a White gold & diamond necklace plus matching earrings the Jewelery exporter tossed on the table of the yacht in front of us.

3: Number of crowded resturaunts that we had no way in hell of getting a table in, until my friend Melanie worked her looks, smile and charm to our advantage. It was like having a get out of jail free card. All I did was follow her around, and we were in. Stupid French.

138: Meetings taken in 12 days.

600: Approximate number of hands shaken in 12 days.

600: Approximate number of moist towelettes / liquid hand sanitizers gone through in 12 days.

2: Attempts by cab drivers to rip me off in consecutive days. In the early going of the market, my hip was sore so late at night I jumped in a cab to go from Bar 72 on La Croisette to 42 Rue Jean Jarre which is all of about 10 blocks, but sensing a quick fleece, the cabbie hid the meter, and tried to charge me 30 euros. I saw the meter before he did his sleight of hand, and it was 8 euros. As mentioned a year ago, I might of put Canada - French relations back to the dark ages. The second instance was a friend of mine got into town late, and I had the key to his apartment. I met him at Bar 72 on the Croisette (as it was late, open and central) got him and his luggage into a cab, and dropped him off on the way home. Meter read $13.30 euros, the cabbie tried to charge $40 euros saying that it was a "luggage tax". Let's just say that "Those Fuckers rued the day". Stupid French.

1: Non Cannes-related Person who's true colors I discovered, and it was (and is) a very sad thing.

2: Times I really had to bite my tongue.

1: Time I didn't but should have, but didn't, plus also learned the valuable lesson of not putting it on an mail at 2:00 AM. Oh well, I'm not perfect. I blame the French.

40: Number of business cards I had in my briefcase.

300: Approximate amount of business cards needed, which coincidentally I had left on my kitchen table at home.

27.5: Consecutive hours of being awake from yesterday waking in Cannes, to getting to Nice, flying to London, to Vancouver, then finally going to sleep in my own bed.

3.5: Hours of sleep I had tonight after all of that, before finally waking due to jet lag, weird dreams, and painkillers needed.

4: Really fantastic and old friends which I had the opportunity to see, kvetch with, laugh with, and hoover down an alarming amount of cocktails with (all for the good of the service 'Natch).

5:14AM: The precise minute that dawn broke just now, and it looks like it's going to be a beautiful day. I'm glad to be home.

A Boy Alone, So Far From Home

Plus ca change, Plus c'est la meme chose.

Finally.

The Marche du Film wrapped up yesterday, and not a moment too soon. I'm exhausted, both physically and mentally. It has been a ridiculously long haul the past 2 weeks here, plus the prior month leading up to this back at home. It is midnight in Cannes, and my flight leaves in about 8 hours from now. I should be sleeping, but seeing as how I've already had two naps today, sleep for the moment is only a vague shadow that floats around the room always out of reach like a mischievous sprite.

There will be a further Cannes recap when I can get my head out of the Cote d'Azur and back to the 604 area code where it belongs, but for the moment, I was merely walking by to give a brief wave to those who have bravely stood by me, and also to those who haven't. (You know who you are all - name tags are unnecessary).

Oh, and just for the record - since they banned smoking indoors, It's only now that the French have revealed themselves to be the right proper assholes we always suspected they were.

LA Was My Lady

Turn my back to the wind To catch my breath
Before I start off again
Driven on, Without a moment to spend
To pass an evening With a drink and a friend

(Rush, Time Stand Still, Hold Your Fire, Rel. 1987)

It's 2:00 AM. I just walked in the door about 30 minutes ago from my flight from Los Angeles.

Tuesday, I went to LA to screen my new movie that my company made, produced, & paid for, and showed it to the big-wigs at Sony, The Weinstein Company, Universal Pictures, Paramount, Lion's Gate etc. The idea is to lock down the all- important US deal before I leave for Cannes on Sunday. Having a US Distributor helps immensely for the foriegn sales side of things, especially before a major film market. As today I've been driving around LA like a maniac, taking meetings and such, I have no news to report about the results of the screenings (which is probably good -I hope), but certainly by tomorrow morning I should have a better idea of the mine-filled landscape I gingerly tread in on a daily basis.

Here's the quick recap:

Monday night, I had a tenants meeting in my place as I am the pro-temp leader of the rebellion. The LA trip came up very quickly the end of last week, but I had already committed my apartment as a meeting place for the remnants of the alliance who still remain trying to fight our eviction (Think of my apartment as the desert planet of Tatooine, if you will). So I couldn't bail out on everyone. In case any of the 2 people out there don't know me? I keep a somewhat messy house. Not dirty, but there are times that if I drop an oven mitt on the floor - it will remain there until I damn well decide it needs to be picked up. Anyway. For the the 2 weeks prior, I've been dealing with the new movie, and all the pre-market madness of Cannes, and housecleaning has gone the way of the Dodo. I was stressed, and had 8 complete strangers in my house, all discussing strategies on how we can save all of our houses, while I kept glancing at my watch the whole time. It came up to 8:00, and I kicked everyone out so I could pack, clean, work and get my affairs in order. (I've pulled a few 4:30 AM working shifts of the last couple of days), and still recovering from Mr. Hip Surgery, and dealing with the loss of my assistant right before one of the two major film markets on the planet. So, it goes without saying that I'm a little overloaded.

Back to Monday. I kicked everyone out. Quickly scarfed down a meal of something, packed, then I had to keep on working, and I was up until 1:15 or so. I then went to bed, and the alarm went off at 4:00 AM. Got up, showered, and was en route to YVR at 5:00 AM. Flight was at 7:00 AM, landed at LAX at 10:00, and at 10:45 AM was in the car en-route to Universal Studios to drop off the precious HDCAM master of our movie. (The only one in existence, which cost about $1.3M, that I was humping around in my laptop back pack). I limped around Universal, dropped off the master for the screening, then limped a long, LONG way back to the parkade where I thought I had parked. the problem with that is, that I've inherited my father's sense of direction, so basically I can get lost in my own living room. What this really means is that there are TWO parkades side by side on the Universal lot, and of course, I picked the wrong one that I thought my car was in. I limped up and down rows & rows of cars hopelessly pointing and clicking the remote car alarm in the key chain in hopes that I'd find my ride. Now, remember that I have a cane, a limp, a heavy backpack, and basically about 3 brain cells to rub together - it was only about 20 minutes of doing this when I looked outside, and saw the OTHER parkade adjacent to the building I was in... that I realized what a complete and total doofus I really was. So I got in the elevator, went down the main floor, walked about 10 yards to the other parkade, got in the elevator, and found my car in about 10 seconds flat. There I was with aching hip, wearing a suit, covered in sweat, limping like there was no-one's business, and all perfectly timed as I had to get to another meeting immediately following. so basically, I drove from LAX to Universal City, to Santa Monica, to West Hollywood, back to Santa Monica (because my stupid blackberry needed charging - in rush hour traffic no less, and because I'm stupid and left my charger in my hotel room) then to Beverly Hills, then to Culver City, then to Venice Beach; all within the span of 30 or so hours. I also got lost about 200 times.

This afternoon after my last meeting, I called my old friend Marty to meet for a drink before I went back to LAX. He suggested Venice. I said OK. I was in Culver City at the time, so he gave me directions to get to this nifty bar right on the beach. "Go west on Venice BLVD, and you'll get there - you'll eventually run into the ocean - it's on the left hand side, you can't miss it". "No problem - I can't miss the ocean, I live by the ocean it's the Pacific, how hard can that be?" I logically reasoned to myself, but the thing is that in LA, there was so much smog and fog and haze, that I couldn't see the position of the sun, so I had NO idea which way west was. Really. I've only encountered that a couple of times; Vancouver in March during our annual fog storm (but I know where I'm going), and in Milan where it is so polluted that they make Sunday a no-car day downtown, (but I took cabs or the metro).

What IS important, is that because I couldn't figure out which way was west, or where the ocean is, so of course, I went east. In rush hour. I wound up in Inglewood, then Compton, then Sacramento, and it wasn't until I hit Oregon that I knew I might have made a tiny oopsie. The REALLY stupid thing is when I picked up my rental car yesterday at LAX, the guy asked if I wanted to rent a portable GPS system, and it would only cost an extra $12 a day. I said no, because I can find my way around etc. Suffice it to say, it was a big,.. BIG mistake. I'm about as good at common sense & direction, as I am with women.

Now, I have only a mere 3 days to get all the work done, pack, clean, get my eviction legal papers in a row before I leave for France for 2 weeks which will be not stressful at all, especially when I get back on the 25th, and my eviction hearing dispute is on the morning of the 26th. Jet lag? We don't need no steenking jet lag!

Thank God I'm Me.

Postscript: Marty and I indeed wound up having that beer at that place by the ocean. And there were chimichangas, tequila, cervezas and of course, the hot waitress and the large, Blue Parrot. What else would you expect in LA?

If only I could make time stand still. And not just about the beers on Venice Beach either.

No Women? No Cry.

I'm single. Does it tell? Above is a photo of 22 socks that have holes in them. Twenty-Two socks. That's 11 pairs that have been taking up space in my dresser for years. I never wore them obviously (Ok I might have worn a couple in a laundry-induced squeeze) but, the evidence remains. As any single male does on a Sunny Sunday afternoon, I was cleaning out my sock drawer (Who doesn't, really) and made this tragic discovery, and obviously, it got me to do some thinking.

Also, below is a brief excerpt of an email exchange between me and my friend Vlado who always emails me and yammers at me to write something if I haven't done so in a couple of days. This was from this afternoon:

Me: "...I'm debating whether to write something blog wise right now -still on the fence about it, but am working towards writing about giving up on women, and concentrating on other pursuits, like yahtzee."

Vlad: "That's funny. If only Yahtzee gave head."

Testify, Vlad. You alway bring it home.

So that's where we are peoples. It ain't self pity hour - hell, not even close to it - but there have been some recent events that have given me cause to pause and take stock of the whole sityation, female-wise.

I haven't been in an actual relationship now since 2000. Yes, you read that correctly. 8 fucking long years ago. Now I'm certainly not saying I've been living a monastic lifestyle since then, but the few times I've ventured out on that road less traveled, more often than always, I've hit some speed bumps, ran out of gas, or in retrospect in a few instances, should indeed have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.

The fact of the matter is that although my mind, soul,& intellect are (and probably always be) perpetually boy-ish and always giggling over a good fart joke, but (as recently evidenced) my body, and quite probably my mirror are telling me otherwise. All of a sudden people who match my chronometer are being referred to as "middle aged". To further enforce that, my physiotherapist's card is on the desk next to my keyboard, and I just noticed that his job title is "Physiotherapist, Adult & Older Adult Program". Nice.

Maybe it's just not the age thing, but I think the problem stems further to the mistakes I've made, and the opportunities that I missed, due to nothing more than my own avarice and short-sightedness. I've got to work on that.

I was going to go on & on about this, but I think it would do nothing but further bring attention to this issue, and also expose my repeated screw-ups with some unbelievably extraordinary women. And, goodness knows - we don't want that. The end of this, is that I'm seriously contemplating protracted, temporary retirement in every sense of the word. I think there should be no more crusing of the internets, noticing hot young somethings while driving my car to work, and I should also add that the timing of this is perfect, considering I'm in LA this week, and in the French Rivieria the next two weeks following (God knows that there are NO good looking women in either place). I love it when a plan comes together.

So, to all the women I've loved (and lost) before? I'm totally sorry, and sure as God made little green apples - I'm paying the price for it now. The Fates indeed have a sense of humour.

If Women don't work out, and I DO decide to switch teams? All I can say is at least one total bonus about being gay is that after having sex - we could talk about hockey. But that's a long, long way away my friends.

In the meantime, I'm not going to wait in vain for some female who smells nice, and is into Scrabble (or Yahtzee). Maybe she's out there? Maybe I've met her already. (I HAVE though, been spending time with a certain cute, funny, smart Audiologist - and we'll see how that goes). Regardless, chances are that I won't let you know what I come up with. (Its easier to kvetch & plotz about the things you DON'T have, capice?)

Could You Slide Your Shorts Down Please?

There's nothing like a little Coen Bros, John Turturro, and The Gipsy Kings to put things into perspective.

I watched The Big Lebowski last night for the first time in a couple of years, and it totally reminded me of why I love the film business and why I still foolishly remain the film business.

Re: Sliding one's shorts down? There is going to be a rather large rogering happening in my workplace soon, and it ain't going to be pleasant either. "I'll stick it up your ass and pull the fucking trigger until it goes click". After that happens? I'm going to happily look for another line of work. (I'm thinking Peace Corps. / World Vision / a few select Convents that take men who aren't catholic and also are ok with all kinds of crazy-type hot monkey sex).

Here's something that's quite awesome.

And, even more awesome.

I'm running ragged and being ridden hard, and put away wet - and not in the good way either. I leave for Cannes in 10 days, and the workload is staggering. With my assistant leaving, I'm not only dealing with double the amount of emails & details, I've also had to find a cure for cancer at my office - and I just might have, but the aftermath is going to be ugly.

I was at the office until 8:30 PM last night, Then got home and was working until 4:30 this morning, The next week is shaping up to be the usual pre-market no-sleep madness (artwork design & deadlines), booking meetings, and physically preparing myself not only for being on my feet 15 hours a day in Cannes, but just getting there? I fly Vancouver - Montreal - London - Nice, then sit in a car for an hour to get to Cannes. I still have a hard time sitting still for more than 20 Mins, so it should be interesting nonetheless.

But, I'll get a trial travel run as I'm off to LA next Tuesday and returning Wednesday night. I'm there screening our newest film for the bigwigs at Universal, Sony, Lions Gate et al - and I'm in town for all of about 38 hours. I get back late Wednesday night, and then leave Saturday for France for 2.5 weeks thereafter.

The fun never stops, and I know this has been boring, but stay tuned for my Cannes Diaries once again. I should be able to come up with something mildly dramatic, while inhaling the French Riviera version of hospitality from snotty waiters.

Nobody fucks with with the Jesus.