I’ve been sitting for five hours straight—unbelievable.
I looked at the screen of my laptop and contemplated just how much work adapting “Stan Lerner’s Criminal” into a movie was turning out to be. My new blog The Adventures Of Downtown Oliver Brown, which I post on blogdowntown.com had turned out to be a pleasant distraction, but a distraction none-the-less. I’m addicted to writing, so something else to write for me is like giving a coke addict some heroin to try out. Continue reading
I sat and stared out at the cold driving rain from my window table at Starbucks 11th and Grand. Eric Everhard the porn star crossed the street with his smoking hot girlfriend Kim. I was sad to see them leave—although pleased that Eric had returned the bail money I had lent him. Nichole’s words, “I can’t do this,” were still fresh in my head. Why can’t I just get a nice girl like Eric has?” I was thinking when the phone rang. Continue reading
Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks, just let me get to Starbucks and have a coffee before…ring ring ring. Before you ring I said to my iphone, not out loud, as it ringed the old school ring I had it set to.
“Oliver, it’s Lee.” Meaning Mr. Lee my Korean accountant who takes my permanent state of financial crisis far more seriously than I myself am capable of—because there is no longer such a thing as debtor’s prison.
“Hey Mr. Lee,” I answered, hoping that he was not expecting me to have figured out how to pay for the damage Misha did by driving my SL500 into that swimming pool, because I told her I was too old for her. Continue reading
I strolled to Starbucks at 11th and Grand contemplating for some reason how much the world had changed since my youth, which this day, two days subsequent to my forty-fourth birthday seemed like a lifetime ago. My phone rang just as I eyed the girls sitting around the park next to FIDM. So young—
“Oliver, it’s Lee.” That would be Mr. Lee my accountant who, if you recall in my last blog, had called to inform me that I was managing to spend twice what I was earning. I then proceeded to enjoy my Friday night at not one, but two restaurants, Rivera and Yard House, then had a pack of friends over and drank and did readings til sunrise. Continue reading
Life seemed momentarily back to normal as I sat at Starbucks surrounded by Gay David, not to be confused with Dave The Jew from Vegas, Eric Everhard, my friend the porn star, Eric the blogger, whom to the best of my knowledge doesn’t even watch porn, and Andy The Printer, otherwise known as Andy from Colombia—one of my favorite countries due to its agricultural output if you know what I mean. Continue reading
When April first suggested the blindfold I simply thought she had something kinky in mind, but little did I know that she really meant that she had a surprise for me.
At this sooner point of our story I should clarify that my spontaneous trip to Sin City on Stan Peters’ Gulfstream V private jet was totaling fourteen days. Stan and myself remained captives of James Whiskey Peet III the handsome, wild, gun-toting cowboy who is apparently one of the richest men on the face of the earth. Dave The Jew, Whiskey Peet’s best friend, seemed to be suffering the same fate, at one point confiding in me that he hadn’t been to his own home in almost a year. Continue reading
After being turned away at Encore by an Asian security guard, even though we had a perfectly legitimate appointment at the spa, (and because I was hallucinating as was Dave The Jew I must insist you read my previous blog “No Encore For Oliver” as even now it is too painful to delve back into that part of my seriously damaged gray matter) at Dave The Jew’s urging we went for an Oriental Foot Massage. This forty-dollar experience, which in fact was a full body massage, put every high priced spa I’ve ever been to, to shame. With knots, I did not even know that I had, purged from my body we headed back to Whiskey Peet’s fifty thousand square foot mansion. Continue reading
“Whooooo Shiiiiiiit!!! Look what the cat done dragged into Vegas!!!!” screamed the large, handsome, cowboy looking fellow that had come to greet us at the airport.
I staggered off of Stan Peters’ Gulfstream V and watched as the cowboy fellow lifted Stan off of the floor in a hug that would have crushed a hearty Grizzly, no doubt. Hopefully you’ve read the last blog where the drinking binge that resulted in the flight to Las Vegas with Stan on his private jet began. Because Stan’s Gulfsream is well stocked with fine Scotch the drinking had continued unabated until the moment where our story continues: Continue reading
I don’t really vibe with Seven Grand, too many people, too many guys, and a college hipster feel around the pool tables that I didn’t even like in my college years. Those would be the three years at UCLA before I dropped out for no reason.
I sat in the front booth, the only spot that frankly doesn’t feel like a sausage factory to me, drinking a triple Blue Label. Continue reading
“Oliver, the NSA tells me that you’re not writing at your usual Starbucks. Is everything okay?” asked President Elect Obama.
“I’m fine. I’ve just been writing a lot about LA Live so I’ve been working out of the Starbucks over there. I like to totally immerse myself in my subject matter.”
“Yeah, I thought that might be the case. The piece about the architecture critic was brilliant. Your understanding of the juxtaposition of the current micro and macro economic situation is unique. Oliver, you are still going to be the head of our new Blogging Communications Agency?” Continue reading