All posts by Stan Lerner


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 FINALLY AN ENCORE FOR OLIVER


“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 NO ENCORE FOR OLIVER


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 VISITS A WHISKEY BAR


“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 OLIVER AND THE FINAL BEAM


When you’re Downtown Oliver Brown, not much fazes you. But waking up with my hot nineteen-year-old girlfriend’s MOTHER naked in my bed did actually give me what felt like a flutter in my chest followed by considerable shortness of breath. I would have been completely distraught but for the fact that my girlfriend Misha’s mother is the former Super Model Paullina Portzakova, who I have already admitted to fantasizing about in my previous blog entry. Continue reading OLIVER LIGHTS A TREE


I stopped by Starbuck 11th and Grand with every intention of walking over to the new Starbucks at LA Live. But as a member of the Downtown community I did feel obligated to at least say hi to my all my friends—wouldn’t want my absence to be a cause for concern. Well, I’m sitting with David Kean, the realtor, and Victor the owner of Hard Eight clothing, sharing a paper.

“Oh look the literary giants at the LA Times managed to find something bad to say about LA Live.” I looked in disgust at an article that questioned how LA Live would do, given that it was opening in a bad economy. Continue reading OLIVER ENCOUNTERS A CRITIC


I spotted Tim Leiweke, the president of AEG, out of the corner of my eye. I had just sat down at Starbucks 11th and Grand to finally focus on a script about a writer who moves Downtown to get away from the pretentious idiots in Hollywood. The irony of course being that I was there to write a script for Stan Peters, the subject of the cult classic book “In Development”, the story of Hollywood’s most powerful and scummiest producer. Continue reading OLIVER’S REPUTATION PROCEEDS HIM


“Hi, Oliver Brown speaking,” I said into my iphone.

            “Oliver, Stan wants to see you in his office with something on paper,” said Iren Shmeklestein, the powerful and scummy producer, Stan Peter’s longtime sidekick.

            “Iren, it’s not that I’m avoiding Stan. And I am truly grateful that he kept me from running off with someone else’s bride-to-be at Lucky Strike the other night, but I don’t have a car.”

            “You better be writing, Oliver…”

            “Iren, I promise I’ll get down to business on the script…As soon as I get done with the project I’m working on right now.”

            “Don’t be a smuck…” Continue reading OLIVER’S THANKSGIVING


I was just minding my business dancing away at three in the afternoon inside of the always cool, on a Saturday, Hard Eight Lounge.

            “Downtown Oliver Brown,” said the beautiful DJ Eden, dancing up to me.

            “Eden, you’re so beautiful it hurts my soul.”

            She twisted and turned around me. “So, what did you think of Lucky Strike?”

            “It doesn’t open until Monday,” I answered, not all that concerned with a concept that, at least in my mind, bordered on Hollywood meets corporate America—my least favorite things next to ingesting broken glass.

            “I heard they had a party last night,” her hair whipped across my face as she said this.

            I stopped dancing and inserted my now very dirty feet into my flip-flops. “No one told me they were having a party.” I began text-messaging Eric. “Is there something going on at Lucky Strike?”

            “I don’t know.” Appeared back on my iphone.

            “Where are you going Oliver? C’mon stay and dance…”

            I walked directly over to LA Live and proceeded up the escalator to Lucky Strike. Continue reading OLIVER STRIKES OUT


There is a part of me that misses those days in the hills above Sunset…

This is as far as my script about an author who moves Downtown to escape the pretentious idiots in Hollywood had progressed. See, I write at Starbucks and most of my friends don’t understand that a writer’s office is pretty much wherever he opens his laptop—in this case 11th and Grand.

“Hey Oliver,” said my buddy Rick, who’s been overseeing the remodel over at the AT&T building for the last year and a half.

“Hey Rick.” I would have invited him to sit, but he sat before I could get the words out.
Continue reading A DAY FULL OF WRITING