Being sunk and other gossip.

Holy Diver! The weeks are flying by like bats leaving their carefully filtered guano droppings to fill the pages of my little insignificant blog. A lot has happened in these last months, not all fun but mostly. About three weeks ago I got to see what the back seat of a cop car looks like. With my hands on the grill window that separated me from the deputy in the front seat I stared at the strategically placed shotgun next to him thinking "Well, I had a good run". Moving around in the wealthier parts of this metropolis can be a risky business, especially if you have what the clean shaven refer to as a suspicious appearance. Apparently I do. I was reparking my extremely beat up rent-a-wreck car - It looks like R2D2's retarded mother - in West Hollywood. I got out to check the parking sign to see if I could actually leave it there, when a vehicle from the jolly old sheriffs department suddenly u-turned and zeroed in on me. "Put your hands on the hood for me, sir. Spread your legs, please". I gestured accordingly. Then one officer uttered a sentence that scared the ghost of Montezuma out of me. He looked at the other officer and muttered "Want me to sink him"?

Wait a minute! Sink him? Sink him!! Are they gonna shoot me? Make me lie face down on the ground? T-bag me? Thankfully my understanding of the blue lingo was faulty. Sink him means put him in the back of the car. They couldn't just say that however. Instead - Sink him. Such a neutral, non-threatening, not to mention catchy expression has apparently proven to be the proper terminology when dealing with pedestrians. SINK HIM!

A cop car doesn't smell, and believe me my senses were fully alert sitting back there while a fat rookie ran my license number through the machine. The leather seats were hard but comfy enough. "We're pulling over anyone who looks suspicious, there's been a lot of car burglaries in this area". Yes sir, thank you, sir. Amazing how the mind works when it gets into worst case scenario mode. For a moment I was thinking they might get me for the time I ate worms in kindergarten. I do have a clean record thank Judas, and I was out of there in less than five minutes, returning to my scene partners house with a zombie-like complexion.

Beat

On the performance side of things it's been looking up for ol' Wisty. I did a play in Santa Monica College directed by Kamil Haque, a scene based on two Hemingway short stories. I realized that I'd never done drama in front of an audience. A strange experience and it felt fucken sweet not having to gun for laughs. Kamil was happy and we celebrated by going to Santee Alley together and I bought some bomb ass shades that I managed to lose later that night. Me and Tommy was there the week before looking for the appropriate fabric for a Yeti costume. I am proud to say that I have haggled on Yeti fur. Tommy equals fun. I don't know what I'll do without him.

I got my first paying gig later that week when two strange French men contacted me to do a voice over. Long story short, I am now the voice of a 50-year old handsome Californian in a romantic film set in Malibu/France. Apparently the original actor ran away after finishing his scenes (maybe he saw the footage. BURN!!). Time for Dildo Haggis to step in and do the dirty work. The French boys had no filming permits so we had to sneak past the lobby of a snappy apartment complex in the Valley, we hid in the corner and I pulled out my deepest tongue and injected it into the boom mic. The script was worded in the way that only a French script would be allowed to be. Insane philosophical declarations of love. The director threw his inspirational fit in his stereotypical French-English accent and the camera man winked at me an whispered "Just ham it up". And so I did. 200 smackers for 20 minutes of work. Gotta love it. That munny's going into my NYC budget - I'll be stopping by Martin in Brooklyn and Velaug on the Upper East Side. Having never been to the Big Apple I'm ready as ready can be to suck in the atmosphere. I'm not sure what we'll be doing over there but I have to stop by The Jonathan Levine Gallery, which was one of many things I set out to do when I left for the states. There's apparently a ticket booth on Times Square that sells'em cheap the day of, I gotta get my hands on something Arthur Miller or Tennessee Williams. The lack of big theater productions in LA has left me hungry for the real thing.

Since summer has reared it's pretty face Downtown is turning into decadence central for hipsters, shysters, geeksters and scenesters. Tommy, again in the drivers seat, expert at bringing out the hedonist in me. We spent a Saturday on the Standard roof, shooting each other with Super Soakers that looked like sowing machines and drinking champagne. It also made for some pretty swanky photographs of yours truly. As the most un-photogenic guy I know - I got that from my mother, YES YOU!! - it was nice to see that even I can look human on camera once in a while. The man behind the sophisticated image taking tool was Jiro, event photographer extraordinaire.


Now what did I forget? I went through driving school after being pulled over for the warrant on the former owner, took my first HIV-test which basically means you think you have AIDS for a week while you wait, I've been the subject of utter humiliation and ego trips, I got the worst case of athlete's foot ever that took a month of limping to cure, my car died and I sold it for the grand total of 125 bucks, I played a gay Mormon and got mad props... total typecast, I saw the Hi-def Final Cut of Blade Runner which is still the greatest movie ever made, I've started DJ'ing with Tommy under the name MC Gyver - funk and soul which I never seem to tire of, I've gotten a new roommate - Ross - who get the easy going person of the year award, I got a subtitling job that could pay me through Norway, I bought the first season of Ultraman which you should see before you die, I bought a turquoise Member's Only jacket from the eighties - I don't know what went into me, I am the proud owner of THE SHOES that Rivers wears in the new Weezer video Pork and Beans (I suspect they are what gave me athlete's foot), I've been doing rent a room karaoke introducing A-ha to those unbeknownst to it's greatness and I joined the YMCA to trim some of that fat off my ass, working out actually works if you do it. Fuck Atkins and Fedon. Gi meg en ribba måltrost, boller og råkost.