The Theory of Everything

Talked to Ron Meyer today.

So lately I have been working out at this park about a mile away from my house in Burbank. There is this badly-misplaced-City-Funds-excuse of a work out trail there, where you do sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups and the like. I guess the upshot being that you're doing these things in a park rather than your own home where such work outs are just as easily facilitated. Regardless, I have the free time now, so I run there, play on some tax-dollar monkey bars and run back. Today was different though. I got there a little later, so there wasn’t much light, and the lamps flickered in that Fight Club cellar sort of way. Feeling more like The Narrator and less like Tyler Durden I was just about to reach my third and - what my arms were telling me would be my – final chin-up when about a click away, just past the unneeded waterless creek bridge, and atop the picnic table plateau I saw what looked like… a squabble.

There were three figures total, and this was far away mind you, but three figures: one sitting on a picnic table with his or her back to me, and two standing up and yelling at the one sitting down. They are just out of earshot so I am not exactly sure what they are yelling, but there were definitely arms flailing, and I’m pretty sure they weren’t telling a joke, or re-enacting some hilarious Chevy Chase scene from Fletch (although, as you might have guessed, that thought did cross my mind). One of them was wearing a sweat suit though, and not a Nike Dri-Fit either, it was like one of those Sean Jean numbers, baggy and somewhat intimidating if you were someone who is not quite as brave (read: intelligent) as myself. So I jumped down from the chin-up bar, relieved that this new development gave me an excuse not to complete that third body trembling chin-up…

When suddenly!

Baggy-Sweats starts swinging, and so does the other person, their arms like rapid fire just wailing on the seated victim.

The next 3 seconds…

Me: Oh fuck, oh fuck!
My mind: What should I do? I should help, I must help. Do I really have to help? I mean maybe they will work it out on their own, yeah that’s it, and shake hands afterward and shit...Rape?No, maybe, I don't know. Fuck fuck fuck!

Then I hear him, no; I hear both of them, quick flash:

West Wing Season Three
Ep. 1
Title: Isaac and Ishmael

President Bartlett: We don’t need martyrs right now son, what we need are heroes!
Then…
Barack Obama: We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek!

So I am sprinting now.

Across the stupid bridge, and up the stupid hill thinking, “You idiot! You idiot! What if they have a knife? What if they have a gun? What if they have a knife and a gun? Why don’t we have better gun control in this country? I don’t want to get shot, or knifed or what ever the hell else can happen in some random work-out park in fucking Burbank.” So I get there ready to be shot, scared shitless, and it turns out to be three Hispanic women. Phew, Thank Fucking God! They are screaming and fighting; one my age, and one about forty beating the shit out of some thirty-something nurse who works at the neighboring hospital. Boy Meets Fist experience helps my fear of possible ass kick-age to be immediately alleviated, and I jump in there, break it up, tell the two Nurse-Bashers to “BACK.THE.FUCK.OFF!” And then walk nurse Valdez back to her place of business. She asked my name, and told me I saved her life. It was a bit dramatic of her, but her English wasn’t that great so I’m sure she didn’t exactly know how to say, “Your assistance in breaking up what could have been a very painful experience for me is very much appreciated,” but since she said it, I’ll just stick with the life save (Ten points!).

This was the first time that I’ve ever tried to stop a fight, and it was a total success. However, this does fear me somewhat, because now some time in the next 2 years, hell maybe even 5 years, there is going to be some fight at a bar. I’ll give my friends the “I know how to handle this” look, try to break it up, and get clocked in the face. For now though, I feel good.

Great, kid! Don't get cocky,

Marcus

For those of you who have had a bad day today, or may possibly have a bad day at any time ever in the future I give you the ultimate cheer up:

http://www.esquire.com/women/video/feb-2008-cover-video

The crazy thing is, I look at stuff like this and think, "Yeah I can see me with one of them, it's just a matter of time really."

The Unapologetic Conscious Consumer
By Marcus Grewe

Do we invent ourselves? Or does the brand mean more than the design?

Here’s what I’m saying, no, first here’s what I’m not saying: I don’t care about shallowness, shallow people or shallow acts. I’m not worried about being too material. Wear, eat, go, and drink whatever and wherever the hell you want if you can—or can’t—afford it; either way I could give a shit less about what you do, just as long as a couple well-chosen people care about what I do.

I generally get my clothing (we’ll start with clothing) from J. Crew. To be honest, I don’t really like their cuts because they don’t actually fit me. I am a long 6’ 1” and I should be wearing an extra large but I wear a large. I do this because I like my shirts untucked and I don’t want a tail that hangs down past my ass, which conveys two messages to those select few people who notice: I am self-conscious about my ass or I am on my way to 2nd grade art class and we’re painting today. So what ends up happening is the shirt fits my torso with glove-like accuracy and the sleeves are always too short (which was the source of a very astute nickname in high school). In fact, you would be hard pressed to see me with a button-up on with sleeves rolled down. Anyway, J. Crew, doesn’t fit, yet I buy J. Crew, why? Their ad campaign is - in my opinion – flawless. I want to be the people in the pictures, I need to be the people in the pictures. I see a heather grey t-shirt, and a pair of flannel draw string pajama bottoms, and here’s what I think:

Ok, Here we go, get the shirt and the pants. Then, next Saturday, I’ll spend the night at a woman’s house and bring the outfit in my messenger satchel. People need to start calling bags “satchels.” Sunday morning wake up early, walk down to the nearest Starbucks and grab a medium Latte (why a Latte, even though I like regular coffee more? Because they write “Latte” on the side of the cup, and that just looks better… I’m not kidding this is how I think; also, medium, because I hate saying venti. Grande I can handle, sort of), a New York Times and go back to the apartment. Deftly, I’ll roll up the cuff of the right leg just a tad, sit on the couch, make just enough noise with the paper to wake her up, and start to pretend to read. Then after a bit while I’m sitting there with my Latte, flannel bottoms, grey heather shirt and all the news that’s fit to print, she’ll come out of the bedroom wearing the shirt I wore the night before and say, “Well don’t you look comfortable.” Paydirt!!

That is why I buy from J. Crew.

The funny thing is that’s just one example, and that whole scenario is thought up right there on the spot, in the store, within 5 seconds of seeing the clothes. A scenario, I might add, that I was able to 75% make happen… you know who you are. I don’t even want to explain the soulbronc I get when I walk past a mannequin in a three-piece suit, or read Esquire’s Big Black Book. What’s that? Esquire? Let’s talk about Esquire. It, Esquire, the magazine I’ve just mentioned four times in the space of one sentence, is my favorite magazine. I endorse this magazine over other men’s magazines because GQ is too fat, and Details is to Esquire as Teen Seventeen is to Seventeen. This is sort of my bible. Not the type of bible one could extract verses from and interpret them in a way to justify actions, like say: sending off young men to be killed for a useless cause. No, bible in the sense of a guidebook, you know, like a manual for fashion and manners. Subtlety is sometimes an issue for me, and Esquire is a haven for those wishing to escape from the neon bright world of shiny happy people. What’s really interesting about Esquire is that it doubles as a manual for both what to buy and also how to behave. It is not enough just to be a man of fashion in the style of our times, but also you must lay about in a warm den with your girlfriend wearing long, striped, woolen socks, cotton underwear and a sweater. Essentially I look at it as functional decoration.

Just to clear things up, what I’m trying to say is that I invent myself, Monday through Friday, and definitely on the weekends. My little sister doesn’t: everything she does, eats, wears etc. is a well thought out moral choice. She buys from Whole Foods because she prefers organic, and she doesn’t rent from Blockbuster because they advocate anti-choice. This is a much better way to live, but I don’t see any change happening for me any time soon. Plus, this isn’t about my sister’s informed decision making; in fact, what you should really be asking yourself is whether or not my sister is truly that hip because her choices are based on environmental morals. Since mine are based on the fashion morality of the editors of Esquire am I some kind of anti-hip consumer? Do the reasons behind our consumer choices matter?

Or am I making it up in hopes that having a super hip younger sister will in some way make me seem hip as well. Think about it: if my sister is hip, then when her husband and I are grilling steaks in the back yard I’ll have someone cool to talk to… I’m not kidding this is how I think.

In a bar, reading a book, wearing my new red shoes, I am where I need to be:

This is what’s next. My favorite go-to character invention of myself is “Guy who reads book in bar” (and to make it worse, this method is stolen). I’ve been told that one of the best ways to pick up girls is to ignore them. I know this won’t work for all men and I don’t plan on writing The Game 2 but I do have one solid move. I seldom use it but for the most part, it works. I go to a quiet bar on a weeknight. In Chicago it was The Red Lion, in Los Angeles it’s starting to look like Fox Fire, but that could change. I order a dark beer, foreign, Guinness, Newcastle, etc., I sit down at a booth and read a novel. It need not be fat (because that’s a little pretentious, no?) but it needs to be the type of book that people have heard of and know that they should read it, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. The Fountainhead works, and Anna Karenina is starting to gain some traction. Though this only works 60 percent of the time, I feel those odds are pretty good considering I don’t actually have to “do” anything.

I sit there, (wearing my Levi’s, black chucks, heather blue oxford with the sleeves rolled up and my gray BR sweater vest), sip, read, and usually a girl will come over to my table – the one I occasionally glance at while flipping the pages – and asks me what I’m reading. The best thing about the move is you obviously have a subject to discuss, and generally you get to imply that the ideals of the main characters are similar to your own. For instance, “Hey what are you reading there?” she asks. I take a beat to finish the sentence I’m “reading,” then, a brief pause to consider her question, sort of to say, “What book am I reading? I’m currently reading so many it’s hard to keep track,” then I peak at the cover, and say, “Oh yes, I’m reading The Fountainhead.”

Now, two things can come of this: she’s read the book, i.e. I’m fucked and I go to the bar and start doing shots. Or she says, “Oh I’ve heard of that, is it good?” and now is when the genius of the book tactic comes into play. “Well, I’d say so, see The Fountainhead is about a man who doesn’t care for conventionalism (not unlike myself). I think they call it ‘Objectivism,’” she doesn’t know that they cover this in the prologue, because she hasn’t read it, so I continue, “and it’s about a man who can find beauty in anything (for instance, you). Like when he sees an opening in the woods, it’s not just a an opening, it’s, how do I put this? It’s… an opportunity (I could fill your opening(s)).” It’s pretty much downhill from there. We talk for about an hour, “I loved Saved By The Bell! / Wait, you’ve never hiked at Idyllwild?!/ Oh, you have to hear it on vinyl! /My all time favorite book is Johnny Cash’s autobiography, Cash by Johnny Cash/no I’m not saying that because I like the movie High Fidelity, my favorite book really is Johnny Cash’s autobiography, Cash by Johnny Cash…” I get her number, wait two days, dial it, and never press send. The slice of paper is eventually lost. What can I say? I guess I’d rather be the interesting guy at the bar who was reading The Fountainhead, instead of the guy who seemed interesting, but as it turns out has only finished a handful of ninth grade English class novels, and makes minimum wage as a PA who’s hardest job task is remembering that his boss’s Latte takes two shots caf and one shot decaf (or is it the other way around?).

Finally the red shoes, my newest endeavor. I find that a good way to fit in and still separate myself from the crowd is to have one small accessory that seems one to two steps out of character. My roommate in college carried a handkerchief in his back pocket. Everyone noticed, no one said a word, and we all knew it was badass. Who doesn’t want to be the guy who brandishes the kerchief when a girl starts crying? Few have tried, many have failed. Up until yesterday my accessory was a pair of Rite-aid brand Wayfarer style sunglasses, just classic enough to be different, just hip enough to pass as legit. Unfortunately, I bought my glasses over nine months ago, and now they’re revving a little high on the hipstometer, and it’s time to shift into a new gear. And that gear is a new pair of flame red Converse All Stars. These shoes are my new pride and joy. One thing that’s nice about having good shoes is that mainly women notice, because women notice shoes. So I get nods from the ladies, without having to get shit from the dudes, and even if a man comments on my shoes I can say, “Why are we talking about the shoes I’m wearing? Are you a woman or something?” It’s a catch-22 of wonderfulness, and it is simple pleasures like these that make a life less bearable, um… more bearable.

So there you have it. As a good friend put it: “Marcus, it’s really crazy that everything you do is so calculated,”; as a great friend put it: “Marcus, you’re fucking obnoxious,”; and as my dear sister put it: “Your life isn’t a fucking movie! God!”

To these statements I have to reply: you’re right, you’re right, and I’m still not sure yet.

Either this was all made up, or it’s time start looking for a therapist.

I just hope he smokes a pipe,

Marcus

So Far...

I've driven the $140,000 Mercedes CL63 AMG
Went for Rides from Santa Barbara to LA in a Helicopter and a Private jet
I get to drive a Golf Cart around the Universal Lot to deliver documents and retrive coffee

I have met and/or been in the same room with:

Tobey MacGuire
Christopher Lloyd
Richard Dreyfus
Kevin Kline
and
Leonardo DiCaprio

!!!

Sorry I just had to get it off my chest. I love my new job.

"Yes."

"Ask me again."

"Are you-"

"YES!!!"

God I love that question.

“So sex is difficult for some people? What? Like left-handed Lay-ups?”
-Jack Edinger (July 2007, mustache phase)

“Fucking shit blow-job sixty-nine!”
-Dan Apsey

“I just said fuck it dude, I’ll meet you at the Chateau at 3:30.”
-Chris Albright (west egg diner as overheard by a large woman with a sunk in face, we all saw her, I’m just the only one who’s brave enough to say it!)

“I am so sorry, seriously you guys, I am so, so sorry”
-The author of this quote requests to remain anonymous

Well, I’ve never been to heaven, but I’ve been to Traverse City.

Since the advent of the Internet it has become easier and easier to attain information for which you have absolutely no use and furthermore no reason to remember. On Thursday July 26, 2007 at approximately 9:17 PM Central Standard Time, four more uninteresting and utterly useless matters occurred, and are only being brought up because of this author’s need to fill space and procrastinate his morning shower. The first thing that happened was a stray bulldog, George, whom had been living in Boston for just over two years, and was currently on a pissing on trees break, realized that he would probably never understand the city’s intricate system of streets and boulevards, and decided that a new city planner would probably do some good. Second, the floor of the House of Representatives, in Washington D.C., was being vacuumed. Third, Molly O’Malley of Kooskia, Idaho received a phone call from a number that she did not recognize, and decided not to answer (incidentally, it was a wrong number, and no message was left). Fourth, the author of this essay, desperately tried to focus away, a turbulence induced hard-on before the impending “buckle seat belt” sign turned off with a ding thus forcing him - in his cursed aisle seat – to stand up. For those of you who are wondering… the crisis was adverted, cause for solution: an imaginary ménage a trios with Rosie O’Donnell, and some other fat chick.

After six or seven laps around the Chicago O’Hare airport Jack Edinger, of Barrington Illinois, finally spotted his newly flaccid, yet contradictorily excited roommate of yesteryear. Since Airport employees are strongly urged to scream and yell at anyone whom stops their car for longer than the time it takes to throw luggage into the back seat, Jack and I did not have the proper bro-hug greeting, but nonetheless we were on our way. On our way to the Hungry Brain, a bar, of course, thus continuing the “from the Airport, straight to the bar trend” that I have so readily contracted since my move West.

Awkward Moment Interlude (Long term memory loss)

As I walked into the wedding I introduced myself to someone that I had attended the same school as from grades 8 through 12. She shook my hand politely, no one said a word. In my defense, she was wearing sunglasses, and I am an asshole.
The Hungry brain was the first reunion of the weekend, initially between Jack, my brother Brian and I, but as the night progressed everyone (excluding Yanke, again) from 2730 N. Lincoln apt. 9 were back together. The night truly was a blur, I remember buying a beer, starting a conversation and suddenly it was 2:00 AM and we were heading out to grab gyros, and go to bed.

Topics Covered at the bar:

1. Magic Berries.
2. Left Handed lay-ups, of sorts.
3. Mustaches.
4. White collared shirts with the sleeves rolled up.
5. Bitches.
6. Hos.
7. Money.
8. The Spanish Inquisition (No one expected it, but then again…)

The next morning I had breakfast with Chris Albright at the West Egg Diner, great place, unfortunately I lost my appetite due to the aforementioned “Sink Face,” Muah, I felt like I was in the waiting room from Beetlejuice. After Breakfast I checked out Chris’s place of employment. Chris is currently working for Emoto Music, a provider of original and licensed music for the advertising, television, and feature film industries. This is quite possibly the most perfect company for Chris for to work for, and thus, I did not feel bad that he paid for breakfast (I told him I’d get him back, ha! Yeah right).

Awkward Moment Interlude Number 2 (Spillage), alla marcia

During a hysterical laugh at an admittedly good joke I told, my little sister accidentally drooled a little bi onto the front porch, causing a chain reaction of laughter by my mother, father, and I whom all ended up drooling onto the porch. Our dog Bailey was not impressed.

I arrived in Traverse City, Michigan, on Friday, July 27th, at 9:30 PM; Dave, his girlfriend Jenny, and his sister Emily arrived at my house at 10:30 PM; we threw our road sodas in the garbage outside of the U and I Lounge at 11:15 PM. Dave and I were on Jameson shot number two by 11:55 PM, all other reported information regarding Friday night has, for reasons passing understanding, been stricken from the record. If you are so inclined though, you may call 231.946.8932 and ask management about, the appropriately (yet unoriginally) named “Dakoske/Grewe Incident.”

It is a common misconception that Sea Captains have the authority to marry a people. Unfortunately any marriage performed on a ship will only last the duration of the voyage, despite the futility of an onboard marriage, I would like to think that I would marry on a ship anyway, because you never know if there is going to be a storm, or a shark attack.
There was a wedding, inland, on Saturday July 28th, 2007. Adam and Chelsea Banton were married, a wedding that presented a flow of love with a viscosity greater than crude oil (damn my “son of an oilman” roots), and a guest list of very few single women. My first wedding, I wanted to get started on the right foot, start out with a bang, but apparently Adam and Chelsea didn’t know any loose women. Henceforth an orgy of repetitious story telling ensued:

“So what are you doing now Marcus?”
“Oh me? I am currently in between projects.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I’m unemployed.”
“So how’s L.A?”
“Well, the works good.”
“Hmmmmm.”

And scene!

Awkward Moment Interlude Number 3 (Poor Hygiene), calando

It was probably more awkward for me then it was for you. Then again you were the one in a public bathroom without your shoes on.

I’m home now, with a clean slate, and I’m not really sure what’s next.

537 Days Left,

Marcus

And oh yeah, Katie and Joel are having a baby…suckers.

Contrary to popular belief (or at least the belief of a couple of my ex-girlfriends), I have never been in love. Sure I’ve said it, but I didn’t mean it, and that’s ok because they didn’t mean it either. Luckily though I have known people who have been in love, and I have witnessed the changes people can go through due to love. As an observer it’s hard to say whether or not being in love is really worth it. It looks painful. I seldom feel like those who are in love enjoy even being with their significant other, they seem like they are suffocating, bored, treated poorly, misled, not appreciated and a jeremiad of other examples.

But.

But, I have also seen mad love, crazy mad awesome love. I have seen love so strong that it can turn your High School’s biggest baddest football player into a cat cuddling, board game playing, breakfast in bed making, Dave Matthew’s Band listening fool. Or a once fifth grade crush turn cheerleader into a beer guzzling, Monday night football watching, “take me to bed or lose me forever,” bar hopping, party animal.

I’ve even seen people such as these be so in love with each other that they even decided to get married! Something I personally don’t imagine happening for another 5-15 years.

Next weekend my two very good friends Adam and Chelsea are taking the leap into the grand forever. And I am sure what you are all wondering is, how does this affect Marcus?

Well…

The last time that I went to visit Adam and Chelsea I ended up getting pretty upset. I hadn’t seen any of my friends from High School in about six months and I was excited because I knew that everyone couldn’t wait to see me. During my drive I was imagining my friends jumping up out of their chairs and rushing towards me and cheering, “Marcus! You’re finally here! We missed you so!” unfortunately that was not how my night unraveled. I rolled into Ann Arbor, Michigan around 11:30 pm, everyone was at Chelsea and Adam’s apartment, apparently altering their night to wait for my arrival (note: it’s only alliteration when you use consonants), but when I walked in no one jumped up, no one cheered, no one seemed to care. How could this be? It didn’t make sense, I couldn’t understand, and then finally my best friend Evan Lepine (Shout out: We are all going to miss you next weekend buddy) came up to me looking all sullen and shit, and said that Adam was in the emergency room.

My first thought: Great! Thanks a fucking lot Adam, I drive 245 miles to see people I haven’t seen in six months (people who adore me, by the way), and you have the audacity to end up in the emergency room, and abscond my goddamn thunder. After fifteen minutes or so of pouting I asked Lindsey (ahem, the Maid of Honor) what happened. I guess Adam had passed out for some reason and bumped his head on a table, big whoop if you ask me. Then to make matters worse he walked in the front door and everyone jumped up and greeted him retroactively stealing my big entrance. Dick. I have to say, in the end, I guess I was happy that he was ok. The rest of the weekend was pretty fun, and everyone gave me an ample amount of attention .
Back the wedding and it’s relationship to me.

So, next weekend when Adam and Chelsea get hitched I just want to point out that it isn’t all about them. If anything, it is about me because let’s face it, the only reason they are together is because I never gave Chelsea the time of day. So when we are all sitting on top of Crystal Mountain pretending to care about the two people standing at the alter, I just want everyone to remember that I flew 2,027 miles, and then drove another 326 just so that I could be sitting a couple rows behind you. AND if anyone makes fun of me for crying because I am so, so happy for Chelsea and Adam – and the wonderful life they are going to have together forever, and ever - I am going to be very angry.

Now a message from me to the bride and groom, in the immortal words of Luca Brasi:

“I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your…wedding...(pause) on the day of your wedding. And I hope your first child be a masculine child. I pledge my ever-ending loyalty.”

Ending on a Godfather quote! Damn that’s bad-ass,

Marcus Grewe

oh my god I feel like shit. I want to die, I want to die, I want to die.

This is the only city I have lived in where I am happier if the sun isn't shining brightly.

Over the past couple of weeks I have been working for the Los Angeles Film Festival, and on Sunday, July 1st we had our big End Of The Festival brew-ha-ha. I was able to catch a ride from a couple of friends who live in my area, and that of course meant that I could drink all I wanted without having to worry about driving. The party was a semi-formal affair set outside, with a large disco ball, white Christmas lights, and three totally kick ass open bars. It was a private party with an unjustified faux air of absolute exclusivity. Even as we were walking in one man, whom was not invited, tried to get in, and when he was denied the privilege simply stated that, he would go to the bathroom elsewhere.

I felt that I was looking rather dapper in my black button up shirt, which was complemented by my scruffy - pretending-like-I-just-don’t-care-but-I-totally-do - beard. After talking to all of the appropriate filmmakers, and staff members I decided to delve into my third gin and tonic, and take a lean against the nearest tree. Feeling like one of the more inconsequential characters at a Gatsby party, I decided to get roaring drunk, and make a fool of myself. Unfortunately only the second part came to fruition. As I was leaning against my tree, and observing the myriad of opportunistic industry socialites, I caught the eyes of two very pretty girls who were walking together and holding hands. They came closer to me and as they passed by, we made eye contact again, they continued on only to begin giggling a couple steps later. Feeling much better now I dashed to the bar to collect my fourth G and T. After making sure the bartender noticed that I had tipped (you know, you wait, just until he turns back around to drop the buck in the jar, so he knows that you are not cheap, and that you appreciate his ability to pour and stir), I saw my good friend and co-worker Molly talking with the two girls I had seen earlier.

This was my window. My Everest.

I slowly walked up to the three of them and stood next to Molly and waited for her to finish her story, she was saying something along the lines of, “I don’t like coffee, but sometimes I do.” Clearly, Molly was drunk, and not making sense, but we all laughed anyway. Molly then introduced me to the two girls (drum roll please!), Kitty and Katie. Kitty and Katie! And they were British! Accents intact. I began talking to Katie (the one in the black dress) and I didn’t pay attention to one word that she said, I could not stop thinking about how much I love girls with English accents, who also wear black dresses. We ended up talking and flirting for about forty-five minutes. I talked about Michigan and how it is shaped like a mitten, and she talked about some museum named after a queen. I invited Katie and Kitty to our after party, and Kitty thought that, “It would be absolutely grand, and it truly would be such a very good experience!” Molly game me a weird look when Kitty and Katie accepted my invitation, and at the time I couldn’t imagine what it was for. After a little more talk about what it is like to live in the states, and coming to terms with the fact that people from other countries know way more about American history than Americans do, Molly and I decided to leave. We told the girls that we would see them at the after party. As we walked to the car Molly punched me in the shoulder, “Why did you invite them to the party?” she asked. I replied, “Jesus Molly, I didn’t know that we didn’t want people to come, and you know what parties always have too many of? Pretty women.” Then Molly punched me in the should again, “What?” I yelled, “Is your problem?”

“Marcus, those girls were sixteen years old.”

Nuts.

A dirty old man at 23. For those of you who are going to hell when you die, do not fear, you won’t be alone.

Coming to a High School near you,

Marcus Grewe

This is a short Los Angeles Film Festival update (Full update coming soon!)

Two nights ago I was walking back to my car at around 1:30am and I saw the haggard, and eternally tired Producer of a film that is in the narrative competition, he was at the ATM, and he had that look that is so familiar to all of us: "Do I really want to accept the $2.50 service charge?!!"

Tonight he finds out that his film wins $50,000 dollars.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,

Marcus

This is what I am going to look like...

In 30 years... in 65 years

Why do I have to work on the UCLA Campus!!!!

Tank tops, blouses, skirts, black dresses, white dresses, tube tops, tight t-shirts, long hair, dark hair, blondes, red-heads, blue eyes, blue jeans, green eyes, tanned, and tattooed. I can't consentrate, I pretty sure that I am staring, and my sunglasses aren't dark enough. I think I might going to hell, due to impure thoughts, but Jesus Christ!

feeling a little crazy,

Marcus

I watched the last 20 minutes of Rocky I, on Spike TV, this morning.

Marcus

So I was on the boat yesterday talking with my father, and we both decided that you're only in your early twenties once.



This is very exciting.

Marcus

A Personal version of: Really?!?
By Marcus Grewe

Directions:

Really? A questioning really, sort of just a, "That doesn't really
make sense."
Really?! More of an, you're an idiot, with lots of sarcasm
Really?!? This is the big one, it's a "you gotta be fucking kidding
me!" - really.
Huh? This is to be read as, "I just gained 15 pounds? huh?,
that's weird."
Really This just means really, like, for real. As in, the truth.

My First Act of Unemployment: A Car Accident; Really.

Here I stand, a man , a shell of a man, impenetrable, invincible, unemployed with a strained neck, actually, no, that's a lie, I'm sitting down, who types standing up?

A CAR ACCIDENT? Really (God, Are you there it's me Marcus?) I just stopped working today, and I'm in a car accident? Really?! Oh and the guy who started the - four car pile up! - was drunk...Really!?! The last time I was in a car accident, two months ago, Really? Really... god? a car accident? well that's good, welcome to the real world, huh?

[3:23 am, tired Marcus passes out]

[10:13 Marcus wakes up, calls mom, begins writing again]

I guess I'm alive though so that's cool, really. To be honest if I had the choice between being alive or dead I would choose alive, if only because of girls and their dresses (it's called a call back people).

When I was graduating high school, I remember people telling me to follow my dreams, a quick scene...

FADE IN:

EXT. GRADUATION - DAY

MARCUS (18) White button up shirt, pleated khakis, and green gown. Marcus is talking with his High School English teacher, MR. POWELL.

MR. POWELL
Follow your dreams Marcus
FADE OUT.

See what I mean? Follow your dreams they said, little did I know (little did he know...) that it was all a lie, or at least a lie everyone tells themselves when they are trying to say something to a young man going through what is supposed to be a meaningful rite of passage. My problem was I actually did follow my dream, 2500 miles I followed, really. Now I live in the Valley, I have a smelly fat guy sleeping on my couch, huh?

"But Marcus doesn't he have a wife?" Yes he does, really.
"And a child?" Yes, that too, really?
"But he has been living in and sleeping on the couch in your apartment since January?" Yes...Tah dah! Really.

I don't have a job anymore, my neck hurts more than it did last night, lately, no one has been laughing at my jokes, and just so that you know exactly where I'm coming from, to really put it into perspective, I haven't been romantic with a woman in 3 non-fucking months, really. Really?Really?! Really?!?. A tear.

So don't follow your dreams children, stay near home, you'll get free food, mom will do your laundry, drinks at the bar will be cheaper, you don't have to deal with the pressure of always trying to be creative, and you won't be living in a city where four car pile-ups are a everyday occurrence amongst your 10 million neighbors.

Really?

No, not really. I love it here, it's sunny, the women are beautiful, and I'm gonna be kicking some serious ass in the next six months.

Just because I rock doesn't mean my heart's made of stone,

Marcus

Fuck.

So that really didn't go as well as I had hoped.

I went to see Spiderman 3 tonight against everyone in Hollywood's (save for those that are in some way connected to Columbia Pictures, that's everyone, I know, it's a paradox) wishes, and as predicted, it was bad. Not as horrible as others may think, but you know, just bad.

However...

Elizabeth Banks, who had an extremely small role, stole (in my opinion) the show. This girl is hilarious and adorable. Albeit, she may have been channeling Parker Posey, her performance was so spot-on, flawless, that I am certain P.P. couldn't have done a better job herself. Watch out for next year's model, this one is going to be a star.

Also, she was in The 40-year-old Virgin, and had the best (delivered) line of the entire film:


Hahaha-hey-ho!


Marcus

It’s so close we can almost taste it; it’s so close we can almost see it; it’s so close we can even smell it. No, I am not talking about the lunch that I have to bring to work everyday and heat up in the microwave, which makes the chicken really dry (although I do, and it does). No, I am not talking about the fire burning on the hill a mere 5 miles away (although there is). And No, I am not talking about my co-worker and his flatulence (although…). I am talking about summer.

I knew something was up when I got to work yesterday, and every girl in the office (all three, sigh) were wearing dresses, and not just any types of dresses, summer dresses. Yesterday, for the city of Los Angeles, was the day when every girl in town intuitively knew it was time to wear the their cutest dress, or their flowingest skirt, or their most becoming of tops.

Yesterday was Los Angeles’s Unofficial First Day of Summer.

To clarify, every city has it’s own Unofficial First Day of Summer, but there is no specific day of the week, no specific month even, it’s in the hands of the women, only they know, and only they can decide. It’s organic, and it’s magical. It may not be thanksgiving, but to be honest, the Unofficial First Day of Summer has much more to be thankful for. Here is my list, I, Marcus David Grewe, am thankful for: the Halter top, the spaghetti strap, the tube top, the sun dress, the empire waist, the tea length, the strapless, the A-line, the harlequin, and introducing my new favorite, the black and white, Anchor Print Collared Shirt Dress, I actually googled the details of this last one to find out it’s make and model.

Sometimes these girls are so stunning I feel like I’m a big dumb idiot, just lucky enough to make it in time to go along for the ride. Maybe I am…if so, I have to say, it’s worth it. This is going to be a great summer, if only for the girls and their dresses.