The producers at Warner Bros called to let me know that despite their best efforts, AND despite the REAL LOVE & AFFECTION everyone at the studio has for the FunHog, they have thus far been unable to secure any actual cash from the WB Accounting Division, and that for the foreseeable future I shall continue to be paid for this gig with unwatchable DVDs and stuffed Looney Tunes dolls.
That’s a real pisser, I thought, as I sat stroking my brand new, nearly-life-sized Tweety Bird at the Some Young Moon Saloon.
“I’M OFFICIALLY FREAKED OUT!!!!” I told Wes The Bartender. “I have no money, no high-paying make-work assignments in the pipeline... and my only viable assets are a fully stocked liquor cabinet and 17 copies of Summer Catch.”
Thank goodness Wes is a Freddie Prinze Jr. fan, or I couldn’t even cover the nut for my whisky at the Moon.
I should “set the scene,” as they say: It was 9:30 a.m. on a sunny Tuesday and I was 12 steps into what may have been the most unhealthy breakfast eaten by a human since Hannibal Lecter interned at the L.A. Coroner’s office. My Cranial-mobile was running way too hot and hurtling head-on toward a BAD PLACE at the end of a LOST HIGHWAY. And I remind you … it was 9:30 a.m.
“Christ, man, I can’t even afford a decent meal,” I cried, knocking back yet another stiff shot of Johnnie Walker.
“Well,” Wes corrected me in a voice reserved for disturbed teens who have somehow found the family handgun, “you can’t buy any breakfast you’ve been familiar with up until this time.” Wes very carefully topped off my shot glass before continuing. “See, down on ‘The Nickel’ (as they call 5th Avenue, AKA Skid Row, in L.A.) you can get a hot coffee for 50 cents … and the line outside the mission is a great place to meet fellow writers who have been at it longer than you. And you could trade some of that Top Shelf Whiskey you’ve got for somebody's place in line … or even dole out swigs from the bottle for a dollar each.”
For reasons I cannot comprehend, Wes’ idea struck me as somewhat palatable, and that — as you can well imagine — disturbed me to no end. And just when I thought the sky couldn’t fall any harder, Wes hit me between the eyes with this zinger: “Have you tried borrowing money from Bottomfeeder?”
Regular readers know how I feel about my couch-dwelling roomie. Hell, I’d sooner smash my nuts with a hammer than ask him for a red nickel.
“Or you could get a part-time job waiting tables.”
I’d sooner hand Bottomfeeder a hammer, and have HIM smash my nuts.
Don’t get me wrong, waiting tables is an honorable profession comprised of some of the finest people on the planet … it’s just that, well, I don’t have the PEO- PLE SKILLS the job demands. And the only place I’m comfortable uttering the words “Would you like that well-done, miss?” is in my bedroom. Preferably when speaking to a supermodel. One with an unusual name like Uniti or Gioa. Or both.
“Boy that Freddie Prinze Jr. is a fine actor,” Wes suddenly gushed, ogling the DVD cover and letting his eyes roam to my freshly poured hootch. “Can you get me some more of his movies?”
“What? Um, yeah, I might be able to get my hands on a bootleg copy of Wing Commander … say Wes, did you ever have to resort to desperate measures to get by when you were down on your luck?”
A broad smile crept across Wes’ face as he rolled back to the lean years of his youth. Either that, or he was still thinking about the amazing screen presence of Freddie Prinze Jr.
“When we lived in Ventura just after college, our thing was to go buy a $1 Bud at happy hour and then eat at the buffet for, like, an hour.”
It was then I began wondering why in the hell the Some Young Moon Saloon didn’t have $1 Buds or a buffet I could plunder. And it struck me that Wes always spoke of a “we” in his anecdotes … who in the hell were these people? And how did THEY escape all this INCESSANT POVERTY? Were they, perhaps, the source of all this semi-credible “on the Nickel” knowledge?
“No kidding,” Wes continued. “In some places they got so they wouldn’t serve us. Finally I slimed my way into writing a feature story on the ‘happy hour buffet wars’ for the Ventura County Star — though it was the Star-Free Press in those days — and made many friends. What you need is a good restaurant review column on that new web site. That ought to help matters.”
I made a mental note to run the restaurant review idea by my producer, then I worked out a contingency plan — stock up on Instant Oatmeal. I figured even if they cut off the juice and gas, in a large complex such as mine, they can't cut off hot water to only one apartment very easily. There's also hot-water taps in the back of most 7-11 stores these days, but you have to bring your own cup or they'll charge you an “inventory” fee.
Or I could find a sponsor for the site. Perhaps the good people at Johnnie Walker, makers of fine whiskies of the Black and Red and Blue varieties. Tie in a little e-commerce with those red-hot Summer Catch discs on eBay … Or, even though it is not my modifier of choice in the following three-word phrase, I could participate in that great Hollywood ritual: The DAY Job.
NEXT TIME: The FunHog visits an employment agency… (Dan Dunn, a Santa Monica resident, writes for Warner Bros. online. For more FunHog fun, check out thefunhog.com).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on April 22, 2002. Read the original PDF.