DAY 3 – WEDNESDAY

So let’s just recap:  Here I am.  No money.  No work.  No shampoo.  No food.  No credit.  NO CAR.  No dignity.  No hope.  Basically, I have nothing but a roof over my head & my health (both which I am extremely grateful for—especially since I also have no health insurance).  The all-consuming sense of desperation settles in, waiting to strike when I’m weak.

And sure enough, just at my weakest, brokest moment, something arrives on the wings of hope: an offer for my show.  A 100%-real, with-a-contract-and-everything, completely legitimate offer.

DAY 1 - MONDAY CONT.

As I drive Maggie’s mom-mobile to Slimy’s office, a single thought runs through my mind:  No matter what they say and what they offer, SAY NO TO IT.  At least for now.  For now, I am unable to trust my own judgment about anything.  I lost my fuckin’ car.   And clearly, I have lost something else (other than my mind)--the right to make good, capable decisions.

So here I am, driving to Century City, all the while scanning the gray matter of my brain for the last recollection of where my car might be.  In between that and trying not to psyche myself out, there wasn’t much time to pump myself up for a pitch meeting. I am too humbled by my irresponsibility to get excited about anything.

About a year ago, I lost my car.  How does such a thing happen, you ask?  Blame it on the TRUE gateway drug, alcohol.  And it’s no secret I occasionally like to drink.

It is a beautiful Sunday sometime during the fall of 2008.  I meet my friend, we’ll call him Pokerface, at a bar on Montana.  From there, things get fuzzy.  I only remember him driving us 10 blocks to Sonny’s, the Boston bar on Wilshire.  It’s also no secret that I like the Red Sox.  I believe it was a playoff game.  One they lost.  I didn’t take it well.  At least, I’m guessing I didn’t.

My girlfriend runs this site: http://letterstomyexes.com/ (I have yet to post on it--I have to decide who my first victim is going to be--I think it's going to be someone who was never an ex, but I sure wish he was). 

Ms. Letterstomyexes is the only person I know whose stories rival mine in terms of pure craziness, bizarre coincidences and tragic hilarity.  I say, "this-shit-only-happens-to-me" but, it happens to her too.

This list was compiled over breakfast as we tried to make sense of our poor taste in men.  Clearly we haven't been asking the right questions. 
It is based 100% on life experience. 

I look around and take in the scene.  Inside the yoga studio, along the back wall, a table is set up with wares for sale; magic potions infused with gold that cure ailments and enhance consciousness; raw food balls that eradicate cancer or whatever else they do; lavendar/patchouli candles that you can definitely burn and maybe eat.

The smell of vegans is overpowering.  Whatever it is that raw foodists and vegans don’t eat makes them stink.  I can’t put my finger on it, but vegans smell weird.  Maybe it’s from years of waitressing and dealing with their high-maintenance, condescending food modifications, but I can sniff out a vegan from a mile away.  And I don’t like the smell of it.

Dearest Quentin,

I recently watched the preview for your forthcoming new movie, Inglorious Basterds and, other than Brangelina’s annoying accent (which I doubt I’ll be able to sit through an entire movie listening to) there was one thing about this trailer that really went up my ass sideways:


Oh really, Quentin?  What war was that?  The Hollywood Video vs. Blockbuster Video War of ’97?  

Or was it the Great Battle of the Strippers vs. the Hookers ‘00.  We lost a lot of good hookers that year, didn’t we?  Turns out, ecstasy isn’t the best drug to feed your soldiers after all!  I bet those coked-up strippers were a lot stronger than they looked!

Or perhaps you’re referring to the ongoing fracas between Foot Fetishists and Uma Thurman Stalkers.  

Whatever war was yours, Quentin, just because you put a lot of blood and gore in your movies, doesn’t mean you know shit about what it’s like to be in battle.  And I’m pretty sure I speak for soldiers everywhere when I say: You haven’t seen war, until YOU’VE SEEN WAR. 

But what do I know?  You’re probably right, Quentin.  We haven’t seen war--until we’ve seen it through the eyes of a jacked-up, strung-out, crazy director probably getting his dick sucked.

Right. 
Now.

I'm sure troops everywhere can appreciate your perspective.

Sincerely,
Bridge

P.S.  I still love you, think you’re a genius and keep up the good work, ya’ jackass!

This playlist is all over the place, but I think it might be my favorite ever. Some old, some new, from hip hop to rock and roll it's a regular musical journey. Some of these songs literally saved my life during hard times, some are just good for nostalgia, some are done by up and coming artists you have never heard of... either way, you only have one job: plug some good speakers in, hit play and go with the flow.

Yes you read that correctly. I've said it before and I'll say it again, this SHIT, (that's right, I said SHIT) only happens to me. Well let's just say I'm probably the only person who has ever walked out of a healing crying hysterically because someone was really mean to me. Of course I'm laughing hysterically at the moment just re-reading that sentence, but I still want my fuckin' money back. FIRST, here is a dramatic recreation of the scene: