DWARVES IN MY MILK

Serving Michael Moore

Back during the Presidential campaign of 2004 there was a rumor that Michael Moore was hanging out in Boston the week before the Democratic National Convention, directly advising the Kerry campaign.

This rumor is bullshit, and I have proof.

Michael Moore and I were on the same intra-mural volleyball league that summer in New Jersey.  I couldn't get into a competitive league here in D.C., where I work, or in Baltimore, where I live, so I looked outside the six-corners of the tri-state area and found one operating outside Newark.  Eight teams per league, slots open on two of their A League teams.  The "competitive" league.  Not the let's-get-together-and-have-fun B and C pussy leagues.  My mad skills can't be wasted teaching a bunch of buzzed snot-noses the ins and outs of the proper set-up.  I jumped on it, and became a Toano Auto Service MeatHammer.

Oh, sure, the commute was a hassle.  Games were every Thursday night, so I have to cut out at 2 and hop on 95 North to get there by 6.  But I left my suit jacket over the back of my chair and my computer on, so no one was the wiser.

So one night I get to the Rec Center where games are played, and I'm warming up with a few calisthenics on the faux beach they have near the softball diamond, nothing special, just a few dozen push-ups and a hundred or so crunches.  Just waiting for the rest of the team to get there, just waiting for my taste of the action.  Waiting to drive the ball right into the other team's faces and give them a little taste how we do volleyball Mid-Atlantic style.    

And up walks Michael Moore.

Oh, you could tell the second he came into sight that he was all about looking like he was trying to bring it.  Tattered Gold's Gym T, sleeves cut off to reveal his broad shoulders.  Those tight blue biker pants that showed everyone not only was he there to drill home some off-speed shots, but that he had the sack to do it, too.  Matching black headband and sweatbands, safety glasses, the works.

Well, I'm there stretching the quads and he kind of sidles up and throws down his big Adidas bag and starts doing toe-touches.  And I can tell he's looking at me out of the corner of his eye, sizing me up.  He stands up, stretches, and says, kind of quietly, "Good day for a game."

I bit.  What the fuck.  "Yeah, good day. Not too hot."

"Oh, it's gonna get hot, Nancy.  Don't you worry about that." He kind of chortled when he said it, the way only guys like him can.  And then he kind of sidled away again.

I won't bore you with the details of how the game progressed.  Needless to say, when the MeatHammers show up, we show up to play.  We served 'em up some of that South Jersey style, with a little extra Baltimore spin, if you get my meaning.  And the Franklin County Flintstones gave it right back to us.  Down balls and cross-court shots were punctuated by the grunting of straining bodies.  Guys  eating sand after every hit, the volleys going seven, eight sweeps long.  We were digging in so much the court looked like had been attacked by a backhoe. Sweat dripping from every pour, guys leaping in ways the body was not designed to handle.  It wasn't the Toano Rec Center Volleyball Court.  It was Omaha Beach.  And we were storming it.   

Here's what happened:  We're up by one and I'm playing front ranks.  I got a lot of sweat and more than a little blood in my eyes.  The rotation is just such that I'm facing off against Michael Moore.  Game point's on the line. 

"Told you it would get hot, Susie," he taunted wiping his brow on his meaty arm. "You think you have the stuff to take me, you pussy?  You don't know shit, assface."

The serve came and the Flintstones didn't dick around.  Beautiful pump, set, and a spike.  But the MeatHammers weren't giving up and my teammate Roy stopped the spike and passed beautifully to Hank, a longshoreman from the Jersey docks. The set-up he gave me could have been photographed and printed on a postcard. It was that beautiful.  Not too high, and just the right angle of lob to put the ball at its apex three feet above the net, just over my head and to the right a little.  I swear to Christ that thing just hung there, waiting.

Michael Moore and I went for it.

Now, I'm no thin minnie.  I've put on a little beef since high school, and let's face it:  who hasn't?  But I've got strong legs, strong enough to get me the lift I need just when I need it.  And when I went up, I could see Michael Moore was losing, just a little, to that cruel mistress we call gravity. 

I had him by two feet.

I am here to tell you that the ball was a blur when I spiked it.  I put everything I had into it, letting out a Paleolithic roar, and that ball fired down towards Michael Moore's face like a rocket-fired, asshole-seeking missile.  And it had found its target.

Michael Moore missed, of course, his bulky arms pinwheeling for purchase, and finding only the hot wake of my shot.  The ball hit him on the bridge of his nose, shattering his glasses.  He came down like a ton of bacon fat, hitting the earth with a booming thud.

He didn't move for five or ten seconds, but when he did, he came up holding his face.  "Holy fuckin' shit! You broke by nobse!" he cried, his team gathering around, pulling him up.  "You sub ub a bitch, by fuckig nobse!"

Needless to say, a fight broke out.  Arms swinging, guys falling to the sand, a real bench-clearer.  When all was said and done, though, the Flintstones were loading their wounded into their SUVs and we were limping over to Hapspert's Tavern with victory in our hearts.

My friend Rudy from Jersey, a Teamster who happened to be loading sound equipment for Miramax, told me that Michael Moore didn't show up at the film studio the next day, and heard from a buddy that he didn't show for work all week.  He was laid up at St. Vincent's.  Thirteen stitches, a broken rib, and a concussion.  He'd bitten his tongue, too, and had cracked a thumb and an index finger in the ensuing fight.

I sent him a get well card. Signed it "Sorry about the nose, Sally.  Don't ever fuck with me again."

So Michael Moore was in no condition to be tooling around Boston, advising the Kerrys, talking policy and putting together coherent sentences.  He was in the hospital, wringing the blood from his skirt and crying like a girl.

I know.

Because I put him there.

Hollywood Tales, part 2: Living with Liberace

A friend of mine just told me she's moving out of the apartment she's shared with her roommate, and will, for the first time in two years, be living on her own again.

"Oh, you're going to love it," I told her. "Living alone is the best thing in the world.  But, you know, if you get bored with it, you can always get a roommate to help with the rent.  Just don't get stuck with a Liberace."

Oh, sure, the first few weeks living with Liberace, things were fine.  We'd talk a  lot and a couple of times we even went to the park to get in on a pick-up game of five-on-five.  We went for beers a few times, and everything seemed fine.

But then it started going downhill.  Little things at first, nothing too annoying, but then it just gradually but rapidly escalated.  I'd come home from work and the mail would be sitting on the floor where the mailman had dropped it, because Liberace didn't pick it up.  I'd find stripped toilet paper tubes on the spool and would have to replace them, because Liberace was too slack to do it.  I'd have people over for dinner and would spend half the day picking up his gold rings and satin capes off the floor, because Liberace couldn't be bothered to put his shit away.  A couple of times friends would call and I wouldn't get the message because fucking Liberace was too fucking lazy to get his ass off the couch and find a goddamned pen.

I would come home from work and he'd be sitting on the couch eating Cheez Doodles and watching "The Christopher Lowell Show."  Dishes and plates everywhere.  I swear the guy never cleaned a goddamn piece of flatware the entire time we lived together.

"Have you done anything productive today? Any fucking thing at all?," I challenged him once, out of seething anger.  But Liberace just looked at me and calmly responded, "Nope. Just eatin' my Cheez Doodles, checkin' out some wainscoting."  I hated his laziness, his I-couldn't-care-less attitude, and the way he put his white leather shoes on the table.  My table, I should add.

For months it was like this.  The guy was between runs of his Vegas show, so he didn't leave the house except to run to the liquor store and get more beer. National Bohemian, which I hated, and he knew it.

"Can't you at least pick up a six pack of Miller Lite?" I'd ask, only to be answered with a cold silence from Liberace.  "Maybe just a 40 of Malt liquor, you inconsiderate bastard?" I would slam the refrigerator door hard, sometimes knocking over a candelabra.

I spent a lot of time in my room when we lived together because after a while I couldn't stand to look at him.  And even though he was late with the rent every fucking month ("Oh, man. I forgot to bring my checkbook home from work," he'd offer.  "What work?" I'd ask, a question always answered with a sheepish downcast look and then days of me haranguing him for the money), he still thought he was the king of the place.  Parties until two with that goddamned Rachmaninoff blaring out of the Baby Grand, staying up all night with his stoner friends--I was at my wit's end with this clown, Liberace.

The last straw was when I came home and found my computer had been used while I was at work.

"Hey," I started, furious.  "What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck said you could use my computer?"

"I didn't use the computer," he said.

And the killer was that the fucker looked me straight in the eye when he said it, too.

"Well, okay, Columbo, if you didn't use it and I was at work, who do you think came in here and turned on the computer and typed away, leaving fucking chocolate smudges all over my keyboard?"

"I dunno," he attempted, cramming the last of his Chunky into his fucking mouth.

I snapped.  "I want you out of here by the end of the week. I'm going to New York tomorrow on business, and I want you gone when I get back. I've had it with you and your bullshit!"

I stormed out of the room, giving him no time to come up with a pathetic and lame answer, which he would have.  I was finished, and I didn't want to give him the chance to weasel his way into staying.  Clean break, that's what I always say.

When I got back from New York, he was gone.  But so were some of my CDs. Glenn Gould, Bernstein, nothing I couldn't live without, but I was pissed.  I knew he was probably staying at his stoner friend Steve's house, so I called Steve up at work.  Steve was the delivery boy for Happy Fortune Buffet, so his number was on the fridge.

"Hep youuuu?"

"Lemme talk to Steve."

"Hord on."

Chinese yelling in the background.

"Hello?"  It was Steve.  I layed in immediately.

"Steve, this is Lars.  I want you to give my old roommate Liberace a fucking message for me."

Stoner puzzlement.  "Who is this?"

"4650 Washington Blvd., Apartment 410.  Chicken Lo Mein, no mushrooms."

Recognition.  "Oh, hey, dude, what's goin' onnnn?"

"I know he's staying with you, Steve.  Liberace.  So you tell him I want my CDs back by the end of the week or I'm calling the cops.  This is for the cops."

Then I hung up.

I never called the cops because it wasn't that big a deal, but after about a month I came home and my CDs were sitting in front of my door.  All except the Gould. There's was also a note from Liberace.

Lars--

Here are the CDs. I can't find the Glenn Gould, I think Steve sold it for weed. Anyway, here's my last month's rent, too.  Sorry I used your computer.  Sorry it didn't work out.

--Liberace

Inside there was a money order for $675, his last month's rent and a little more.  I guess the guy at least had a sense of conscience and a grain of honesty after all.

I never heard from Liberace again.  Once, when I was at Safeway, he was in the checkout line two registers down, buying milk and piano wire.  He saw me and kind of nodded his head.  I nodded back.  But we never spoke.

I cashed the money order and paid the outstanding rent, and used some of the leftover money to get some new CDs. My favorite, if you can believe it, is one I got at a Record & Tape Traders shortly after he moved out.  I play it every day. It's pretty good, actually.

Liberace: Live at the MGM Grand.

Fucking guy.

Hollywood Tales, part 1: Johnny Depp Owes Me Thirty Dollars and Fifty-Eight Cents

Johnny Depp owes me thirty dollars and fifty-eight cents.  There's a tale behind that statement, and it goes a little something like this:

So one night I'm hitting Sky Bar with some friends, right?  Just a regular old night out on the town, grab a few dirty martinis, talk with some women, laugh it up, relax, no big deal.  And wouldn't you know it, but just as we're all about to pile into the Escalade--me, Crazy Larry, True Rudy, Roz and Mikey--who calls up?  Who phones up and worms his way into tagging along with us like some annoying kid brother?  That's right, Johnny Fucking Depp.

Now, I know there are those of you who think there's some kind of mystique to Johnny Depp.  That he's far wiser than his years, that you can see his soul in his eyes, that he's a brilliant talent, a deep well of quietude spilling forth with intense blah blah blah.  But anyone who knows him--I mean, really, really knows him--knows that Johnny Depp is just one unbelievably annoying motherfucker. 

Let me give you a for instance: this one time we all pull up to Roy Rogers for a quick bite before hitting a party in Santa Monica, and old Johnny Depp--who just had to tag along even though he knew the car was full and Crazy Larry would have to ride in the way back--takes, like, ten minutes to get his burger all done up right at the Fixin's Bar.

Now, you know me.  I like a well made burger as much as the next guy.  But I take what's on the bar and I boogie on out.  A little lettuce, a little onion, maybe some of that famous Roy's Bar-B-Que, whatever, I grab it, I slap it on, and zip-a-dee-doo-dah, man, I'm gone, back on the road to the next great adventure.

But even though he goddamn knows we're off to this party and we're all hot to get there, Johnny's gotta be all "I'm sorry, but do you have any onion slices back there that are fresher?" or "Excuse me, miss? Could I get this lettuce washed off?" And always with that voice, the soft one, the one he phoned in his performance in Secret Window with.  And this particular vignette plays itself out every fucking time with the Fixin's Bar, man.  Every fucking time. 

So, as I was saying, we're all piling into the Escalade, getting ready to roll out to Sky Bar, and my cell rings.  And I know it's Johnny, because I have a special ring tone for him, like a warning bell.  Well, shit, man, Johnny Depp knows I'm around, so I have to answer.

"Hey, Johnny Depp," I say curtly, trying to sound disinterested and busy.  "What do you want?"

"You guys going out tonight?" he asks.  That fucking soft voice again, the Crybaby voice.

"Yeah, we're going out," I say, sighing, as I signal the It's-fucking-Johnny-fucking- Depp eye roll to my friends.  Crazy Larry mutters, "Shit, man, hang up."

"Can I come along?" he asks, and there it is.  He always just puts it right out there.  He's the king of the self-invite.  And what the hell are you supposed to say?  No, Johnny Depp, sorry, you can't come?  That's not me, man.  For as much as a beatdown tool as Johnny Depp is, I like to think I'm all about the inclusion.

"Yeah, I guess.  But we're going to Sky Bar, so wear something nice."  I hang up and True Rudy's all, "What the fuck, man?!  That guy's beat!"

"Yeah, yeah, but what the fuck you want me to do?  Guy's got no friends, man!  Tell him no?  You fucking tell him no!"

"Guy's fucking beat," True Rudy says, resigning. 

Ten minutes later we're in front of Johnny Depp's house, laying on the horn because the guy's always running behind.  So out he comes, kind of bounding down the stairs, and he's wearing some Sean John jeans and a black jacket, which is cool, I guess, but also he's got on this ridiculous fucking patterned printed shirt, probably something Tim Burton gave him.

"What the hell are you wearing? We're going to Sky Bar, not the circus, dude," says Crazy Larry.  He's not really crazy, that's just what they call him.

"I'm sorry. But my dry cleaners was closed today."

"Crap, you can't wear that, man," said Roz.  "You need to change your shirt."

"But I don't have anything else to weaaar..."  I hate when Johnny Depp gets that whiny little bitch voice.  So infuriating.

So what do I do?  We it's already two hours later than we wanted to get to the bar, and we don't have the time or the patience to let him go back in and pick what would probably be just some other fucked up shirt.  So I hand Johnny Depp an extra shirt of mine that I had in the back of the Escalade.

"Don't ruin this, man, I just got it from Chess King," I tell him.  Then he's all promising not to get it dirty and stuff, and he's crammed in the back, pushing Crazy Larry and Mikey onto the hump, just making a general nuisance of himself.

Then, true to form, he starts in with the fucking Terry Gilliam stories.  Jesus, don't get me started on how dull those are.  "I talked to Terry today," "I talked to Terry today."  Guy's a broken fucking record when it comes to Terry Gilliam. Christ, just get married and be done with it.

So we roll up in front of Sky Bar and get out, and Johnny Depp almost trips getting out like some Palo Alto nerd poser, and we go in.

Well, to cut to the chase, we get a few drinks and kinda split up, doing a lap of the room, not wanting to look like a pack of dicks on the prowl.  About fifteen minutes later I'm dancing with this sweet Betty from Venice Beach--she's a screenwriter, which is cool--and we're hitting it off.  The next thing you know, though, Johnny Depp's screaming at me from across the bar.

"Hey! Hey! I just saw Jon Favreau! I saw him in the men's room!"

Christ in a bucket, you'd think Johnny Depp would realize, yeah, hey, surprise surprise, we're in L.A., dude.  You're going to see celebrities.  Being one, you think the guy'd not get all girlie about it.  Plus, you see Favreau everywhere, so it's no big deal.

But no.  Johnny Depp has to make an ass out of himself.

"Dude! Come over here! Favreau's in the men's room!"

Well, I guess he got so excited and had to make sure I saw Favreau that he comes running across the dance floor.  And as I'm watching this fucker, he bumps into a chick and the next thing you know, Johnny Depp's ass above teakettles on the dance floor, and lands spread eagle from his fall.

Well, I was mortified.  I mean, really fucking embarrassed.  "Is that guy a friend of yours?" the Venice screenwriter asks, and I say all apologetically, "Yeah, sort of.  That's Johnny Depp."  Then I have to go help him because I don't want to look like a complete asshole who won't help his friends, no matter how annoying they are.  So I help him up, right?  And guess what.

The little fucker had ripped my new shirt.

"Goddamnit, man, that shit was new!" I screamed.  I was hot.  That thing was imported silk, high stitch, the works.  And it was ruined. 

Well, Johnny Depp just looks up at me with those stupid dopey eyes of his and starts making these really embarrassing apologies.

"I...I'm sorry, man! I...I didn't mean--I just was trying. I was just coming to tell you--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know! Jon Favreau."  I looked at the shirt again.  "Shit, Johnny Depp, that shirt was expensive!  God!"

Well, we bolted after that, me, Crazy Larry, Roz the whole crew.  The second Johnny Depp went to the bar to get drinks to make up for being a tool, well, we just kind of all looked at each other and ditched his dumb ass there.  That was Thursday last.  I haven't heard from him since, and I'm sure he knows I'm still pissed at him.  That was a nice fucking shirt, man.

So if you see Johnny Depp, you tell him he owes me thirty dollars and fifty-eight cents.