November 4, 2014
I had a job in the Los Angeles sewer system as a “Sub-supevisor in the sub-division of the Department of subterranean sanitation. I just keep things moving along.” I had the 5 AM to 1 PM shift, which was fine for me. After an early dinner, I can focus on working on my memoir, which appears to be endless. When one writes about their whole life, I have a tendency to go through my address book, and write about each person. Most, as you can gather are not that important to me, nor am I worthy to them - nevertheless as a memoirist, I believe that it is my responsibility to comment on my relationship with each and every one of them. I live alone now, due to the stench I brought with me from work. Here I can stink up the house, and not worry about a girlfriend. Even though my long-lasting and suffering ex was once employed in a meat-packing factory, so she at that time stunk up the room as well. The combination of sewer and dead meat scents did not go too well together. Take my word on this!
Before I became a Sub-supervisor, I was in the entertainment business. I made a record in the early 50s that was a minor hit on the British Airways. “Mr. Sandman, ” a classic song, and my version, to be honest, didn’t really add much to the original version done by Bing Crosby. Although I couldn’t get myself arrested here in the States, I managed to do a small tour in the U.K. Well, again to be honest, it was only Manchester and Liverpool. We couldn’t book a gig in London for some reason. Nevertheless I was known to be “Northern Novelty, ” which was a short-time cult-like movement of record collectors that only collected 78 rpm disks that were hits in Manchester. My only fan that I can remember was a spicy British woman by the name of Cosey Fanni Tutti, who sent me the most unusual photographs of herself. I tried to locate her in both Liverpool and Manchester, but failed miserably. Sometimes a photograph is all you really need.
My life, at this moment, is not so hot. As you can guess, my music career went down to the sewer, and even there I couldn’t last long in that occupation. To hopefully find a connection to a better job, I joined my local Raccoon Lodge, where the saying around the club room is “An Emergency meeting is an Emergency meeting - never a poker game. An Executive Meeting, that’s a poker game.” I met two people there, and both were in the motion picture business. One is an actor by the name of “Gig,” and he is very friendly, but seems to be attached to the hooch, the other is a cameraman who claimed to photograph movies for Orson Welles and Charles Laughton. Both I find kind of “iffy. ” On the other hand, in this town you can’t always pick a winner. Both of my new friends suggested that I should go in the acting business.
I need what one would call a “headshot,” so I found this photographer who had a studio on Hollywood boulevard near Vermont, and his name was Robert something or another, nevertheless I have to admit I was a tad nervous being in front of him. He told me that I should remove all my clothes for that perfect headshot. The reason for that is: “So you can focus on the neck and above and not worry about what’s below the neck.” That I have to admit, sounds reasonable to me. He gave me a knife and a leather jacket to wear, and he said “just go for it.” I have to say that was or is the best part of being an actor so far. So far, “my specialities are corpses, unconscious people and people snoring in spectacular epics.” Things are finally looking up for me.