Dinner With the Hollywood Advisor.


The other night I went to dinner at the home of The Hollywood Advisor, “Jason” who owns a little cabin (“Worst home in Malibu” his wife calls it) nestled into a canyon, mockingly rustic, but worth millions.

They had just returned, from their yearly six-week jaunt across several continents. The family skied in Switzerland for a few days, then dad flew them to Peru, and they ended up in Brazil and came back home to Malibu.

“By the way, the food sucks in Peru. Bourdain is fucking wrong,” Jason told me.

Wife is Selena, a toned, Bulgarian born woman in her late 40s fond of red wine and yoga. Her stunning daughter Samanatha is 13 and goes to school at a private academy near the Pacific. The boy, Igor, is also handsome and quite scientific, showing off his new telescope on the back deck within the gurgling sound of the creek.

The aura of the evening, sounds, on paper, relaxing, yet Jason, who directed an Oscar winning film in 2000, had clenched teeth and some annoyance at what’s been happening with his life. He was tense, perhaps because he strictly abstains from alcohol.

“This whole town is fucking nuts. I take meetings, sometimes two a week, and I meet with A list people, and then projects seem to get off the ground, and I’m attached for big bucks, and then they pull the rug out from under me,” he told me as he stir fried tofu and organically harvested shrimp.

A doorbell rang and Jason commanded aloud, “Alexa open the front door!”

The front door opened by wireless butler, and in walked Carla, a tall, long-haired actress in her early 40s who was carrying a small white dog in her arms. The dog and the actor excited Selena who hadn’t said a word to me yet ran up to Carla and the dog and embraced them.

“Do you love Fergie? Isn’t she amazing?” Carla asked blue-eyed Samantha.

“Yes! She’s like the most amazing dog ever!” Samantha responded.

Selena, the wife, who had been curled up on the sofa, jumped up and asked Carla if she wanted something to drink.

“Do you have any red wine?” Carla asked.

“Yes, try this. It’s so amazing!” Selena said as she poured two-buck chuck into a glass.

Selena patted Carla’s hair. “I love your hair. The color is so amazing.”

“Thank you. I go to Ronnie. Your guy in Venice. He is so amazing,” she said.

“I know. He is just like the most amazing haircutter ever. Amazing,” Selena said.

“Is Pushkin coming?” Carla asked.

“He’s supposed to,” Jason responded.

Pushkin was their friend, a 5’6, NJ born, reality TV producer who reinvented himself mid-life, painting $7,000+ artworks out of Crayola crayons, which featured renderings of 6 foot high, childlike disciplinary commands from grade school, “I promise not to throw spit balls in class!” which were drawn 20 or 30 times on one oversized canvas and were now beloved by all of Abbot Kinney and that 30ish crowd from the Church of Amazing.

“Pushkin just spent $40,000 on succulents at his new house! And then they had to rip them all out because his new girlfriend hates them,” Jason said as if he were recounting a story of horrific tragedy.

“This is my buddy from Reseda,” Jason said to Carla, introducing me.

“Oh hello! I heard about you. Don’t you do watches or something? You design them and sell them online?” she asked.

I had given Jason a wristwatch in November, which somehow was now on Carla’s wrist. “I love this! Jason gave it to me! It’s your company right?” she asked.

It was the watch I had given Jason as a gift, which he re-gifted to Carla.


It was like that with Jason, you found out about something he did by accident, his duplicity was never an outright lie, just an omission of fact. You were never quite aware of the whole honest story with him.

A few years earlier we had been together on a Sunday morning for breakfast in Santa Monica. I asked him what he was up to for the rest of the day. “Oh, nothing. Probably go home and crash on the couch,” he said. A few days later on Facebook were photos of his daughter’s birthday party that day with some of our mutual friends.


“It’s such an amazing watch. I wore it to the art show and Pushkin complimented it. If Pushkin likes it, it must be gorgeous!” Carla told me.

We nibbled at various small plates that Jason produced. He was enamored of a certain French butter that came in a small straw tub and he insisted we all dip our potato chips into the butter and savor its exquisite foreignness.

“This butter is amazing!” Carla said.

Selena and Samantha also dipped their potato chips in and said, almost in unison, “Oh my God. This butter is amazing.”

Carla spoke about her home in Sardinia and she invited Jason and his family to come visit her in July. “We probably will stop over in Sardinia because we are going to Egypt, Russia and Japan in August.”

“Do you think Pushkin will be in Sardinia too?” Carla asked.

“I know he is going to the art show in Rome so I assume he will be able to go. But “The Slob” is going into production in August so I’m not sure he will be able to.

“The Slob” was a new reality show with Britney Spears where she transformed slobs into stylish men and women. It was, sadly, going to be Pushkin’s final Executive Producing job in Hollywood. His art career was taking off, and he was starting to sell each Crayola creation for $15,000.

“I think the concept is so fucking brilliant. I mean it’s so amazing to take a slob and make him look great. Only Pushkin would think of that!” Jason said.

We drank a few more glasses of wine and then Jason took out a jar of olives. “Try these. They are so amazing!” he said.

Towards the end of the evening, Igor came up to me, rather empathetically, and asked if I wanted to look up at the moon through his high-powered telescope.

We went out onto the deck and peered into the heavens, contemplating a universe above and beyond Los Angeles.

Option A: High Level Cabinet Meeting


Peter Scholz

Los Angeles is the second largest city in the United States, but aspects of it can seem almost small town. A sprawl built of people who came from somewhere else, infamous for its superficiality and temporality, it sometimes, surprisingly, produces individuals, deeply rooted in its soil, who live and work here their whole lives, sometimes in an area a few blocks wide.

Such is the case with Peter Scholz.

He was born in Van Nuys, 53 years ago. He lived at 5812 Lemona Ave in Van Nuys, CA. in a German-American family along with Michaela, his younger sister.

His parents, Heinz and Herlinda, had met in Vaduz, Liechtenstein in 1954. They married, and in 1959, emigrated to Los Angeles, where they found work, as driver and maid, in the Sidman Family estate in Beverly Hills. They stayed there only briefly.

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Motivated by ambition and hard work, Heinz left his chauffeur job to work as a baker. Meanwhile, they had two kids, Peter and later Michaela.

In 1968, Dad opened Scholz Cabinets on Aetna St. in Van Nuys, a location where he did business for the next 20 or so years.

Peter worked part-time with his father, graduated from Notre Dame High School and then enrolled in Pierce College “because that’s where the best looking girls were.” He attended two years and graduated in 1984.

He continued to work part-time with his dad, closely learning the craft of custom cabinet wood making. He was, in effect, going to school overseas, by learning the German way of doing things here in Van Nuys: precisely, exactly, and diligently with strict attention to quality and integrity.

Yet Peter had other ideas and passions in his head. He was excited by art, by creative people, by wealth and Hollywood, and by that whole rich world, over the hill, where sculptures, luxurious homes, paintings and grandiosity were on display.

Remarkably, he didn’t try and become an actor. He didn’t intern at William Morris. He didn’t affect affectation. He still built cabinets. He used his skills in making them to enter a rarified world.

It was the late 1980s, an era of big shoulders, fat cigars, overpowering perfumes (Giorgio, Poison, Opium), Joan Collins, The Brat Pack, Wall Street, Greed is Good, and the explosion of personalities in the art world.

He wanted, somehow, to take the modest and self-effacing excellence he embodied and make custom cabinets and custom showcase podiums for architects, designers and clients in Beverly Hills, Hancock Park, Brentwood, Pasadena, Malibu and Westwood. He was introduced to notables who became clients, such as Eli Broad, real estate mogul, art collector and philanthropist; and Robert Graham (1938-2008), sculptor, born in Mexico, married to actress Angelica Huston.

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Eli and Edyth Broad at home with Robert Rauschenberg

Still only in his early 20s, he started Showcase Cabinets, a name reflecting that his creations, his products, were showcases (custom pedestals and bases) to display art, objects, sculptures.

In 1984, at age 20, he married ( eventually divorcing after 20 years), had two kids, Niko and Jessica, and he has two granddaughters as well.

Annie, his girlfriend of eight years, also works in the shop. They live with their son Erik, 14, in a 1950s modern house near Valley College which they gutted and remodeled. It has white walls, a backyard pool, orange front door, and solar shades. The house is filled with a cacophony of eccentric and colorful artwork, sculpture, bright colored chairs and, most imaginatively, a graffiti painted bathroom that seems inspired by the interior of a NYC subway car, circa 1985.

He seems to have started everything, work, marriage, fatherhood, at an early age. In 2009, he also bought the building where he now headquarters Showcase Cabinets, Inc. He and Annie travel, often to her home country, Bulgaria, where they use her family house as a base point to explore Europe, including Greece, Italy and Germany and everything two hours or less from that point.

Annie and Peter

He employees some 10 people in his bright, 4,200 SF, well-run shop. Last year, they invested in a $30,000 Striebig Compact Vertical Panel Saw, made in Switzerland, which is accurate to 1/100 of a millimeter or 0.0003937008 of an inch.

His business, which is very healthy, is all word-of-mouth. In an era of social media, of pretending to be successful by posting doctored images and endorsing products, Peter earns his money in the real world of tangible, material substances made out of trees. There is no need for Photoshop when you rub your hands over a smoothly buffed, 30 foot long, walnut bookcase.

His location, 20 minutes from Beverly Hills, and within easy distance of the 405 and the 101, is ideal for clients, designers and architects who often want to drop by the shop to choose finishes, to see the craftsmen at work, to witness what they are paying top dollar for. And Peter welcomes them. He has everything to show and nothing to hide.

His raw materials come predominately from Valencia Lumber in Lake Balboa and Phillips Plywood in Pacoima. He also sends work to GL Veneer, Inc. in Huntington Park. Showcase gets the orders and this is passed up and down the economic food chain.

He deals with stress through kickboxing, the gym, and yoga.

He has some very nice bottles of Japanese whiskies lining an office shelf, in a room built of concrete block, anodized steel walls, and a one-way detective style mirror to keep an eye on the shop floor.

The wall facing his long desk is decorated with large format photographs of drug busts, tattooed gangsters, guns and illicit substances which his son-in-law, a cop, shot from an Iphone.

There is an air of bad boy badness in Peter Scholz but it seems to be more artistic expression than real life activity. But one would not care to incite him. He acts formidable…. and it doesn’t look like an act. If he were an actor, he could play a felon or a cop convincingly. He exudes menace and kindness equally.

Because he is happy in his life and work he projects his good fortune onto Los Angeles. “There is no better place to live,” he said, without irony.


Option A: Metro Plans to Demolish 33 Acres of Industry for One Big Rail Yard.

 

Ed Kirakosian, Peter Scholz, Ivan Gomez, Daniel Gomez.

Hanging over all this is the “Option A” scheme by Metro Los Angeles which might condemn Peter’s shop and 185 other small businesses, covering 33 acres, in an area north of Oxnard to Calvert, from Kester east to Cedros. This is ostensibly for a future light rail maintenance yard.

Opposition to the scheme immediately sprung up and Peter produced big yellow banners against Option A now hung all over the area.

Boldly, by instinct, in his customary manner, Peter marshaled his creative connections to hire artist Guy Ellis (#dcypher_dtrcbs) who painted a long mural on the exterior wall of Showcase. It is in the style of 1930s social realist protest. It is powerful and jarring, screaming, in deathly ashen gray, and living bright yellow, a cry against the potential destruction of the area.

If Option A is withdrawn, and the area is permitted to continue existing, Peter has plans to keep the mural up on his building, and even more plans to revitalize the district with the help of his neighbors, friends, investors, architects and innovative developers.

Showcase Cabinets, Inc. and the life and work of Peter Scholz, is yet another reason to drop the idea that wiping out a section of Van Nuys, and scattering her most creative and productive class, is progress at its finest.

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Evangelizing Cask Ale.


 

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Yesterday was the two-year anniversary party at MacLeod Ale, here in Van Nuys, held at the brewery on Calvert St.

It coincided with one of the hottest days of the year.

A hot wind baked the concrete front yard set with white tents for ticket sales, another tent housing a barbecue preparation area.

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A black cook loaded meats into a black steel smoker under a cloudless blue sky.

Inside MacLeod, workers, guest workers and guests hunkered down in dimness, air-conditioned. 30 or more firkins from various breweries were built into groups of six, laid down on inclined, mobile lumber units on wheels. Each cask was plugged on top with cork. And at the bottom each one employed a white plastic faucet for pours.

The Pasadena Scots Bagpipers warmed up in preparation for their opening march through the brewery.

Owner Alastair W. Boase made a last minute run in a small Mini Cooper and came back with bags of ice unloaded by the guest workers and brought in and laid on top of each cask to keep them cool. The drooping, dripping ice kept the beer coldish with the weak efficacy of wet towels on the sweaty heads of Indonesian soccer players on the field at halftime.

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Last year, MacLeod held its one-year anniversary.

To me, hyped up on IPA, a lover of Full Sail and Lagunitas, MacLeod served a weak, warm, sweet, low alcohol malty authenticity called British Style Ale.

To my uninformed palate and to my unschooled-in-beer mind, the brews were something new but not always enjoyable.

The ideology of MacLeod Ale was firmly entrenched by a young and serious head brewer who rigidly and strictly obeyed his self-imposed dogma of what constituted proper British beer. Dour and dressed in leather braces and a tweed-driving cap, he affected a uniform of anti-social seriousness. He was obstinate, at times argumentative, sometimes on the warpath with owners. Others respected and admired his fastidiousness, commitment and exactitude. The truth of his tenure at MacLeod is subjective.

At 27, he was the head brewer of a new brewery. So that alone made him an object of envy. And maybe some of an element of Schadenfreude popped up when he fell down and was thrown out.

There was an upheaval within the brewery in late 2015 and the young cultist was fired and replaced with a new brewer.

The happy result, seen in profits and popularity, has been an artistic renovation melding historic beverage preservation with robust technological innovation.

New Head Brewer Josiah Blomquist came from an engineering background but he also had made his own alcoholic beverages, including beer, whisky and other exotic intoxicants. With investment in new equipment, and a new investor named Jerry Cohen, MacLeod now has advanced water purification, new tanks, and new filters to remove impurities. But there is also a fervent energy and openness to allow for colder, stronger, more aggressively flavored beers to come into the fold.

 


Last year, the one-year anniversary seemed to revel in presenting discussions, where brewers sat on a podium and talked in a panel about their various beers. There were two or three of these, lasting several hours.

This year, there was just one set up and it was dismantled after an hour. Afterward came a variety of jazz performers, including one terrific, 1920s inspired trio of musicians. The choice of music: individual, idiosyncratic, whimsical, embodies MacLeod.

MacLeod Ale today is no longer the ingénue. It occupies sort of a higher ledge above the goofiness of American, macho-man, craft beer. If it were a fragrance house it might be Diptyque or Le Labo where whispers of greatness spread quietly among the cognoscenti, and the scent of cultivated, curated success enters the room confidently without shouting.


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Yesterday afternoon, I met one gentleman, Ryan Bell, who worked as a sales rep for a downtown brewery,  Iron Triangle. He was dressed in a dark black shirt with company logo and a straw hat over his bearded face.

We walked over to try his company’s ale which was rich, deep, malty and reminded me of Old Rasputin. He said (if I remember correctly) it was somewhere between a porter and a stout and had an ABV of about 9%.

I expected the discussion to continue about beer.

But after I asked him what he did before he was a beer rep he told me he had been a 7th Day Adventist Pastor. And he was now, fully, committedly, devoutly, an atheist.

He said he wrote a blog, “Year Without God” and was the founder of “Life After God” where he wrote, spoke and consulted the happily godless on their journey of self-enlightened rationality un-poisoned by the imagery of the all mighty.

I was in the company, once more, of an evangelist, another hybrid in the spiritual community of Los Angeles whose own self-awakening constituted a new reality and a new philosophy for explaining and understanding existence. That it might be done by imbibing beer and abandoning faith seemed utterly logical to me, especially inside that hot, crowded brewery party after six or more ales.

My mind wandered from the packed brewery to the national scene and back again to the heat wave.

I was thinking of God and God’s successor, Nothingness. I was looking at Men and their Gods: beers and beards. I was wondering about intelligence and stupidity and how they were so often interchangeable. I was uncertain about what I should believe in or fear: Donald Trump, Radical Islamic Terrorism, certain atheism or certain faith, the NRA or Orlando, porter, ale or IPA.

Lubricated by alcohol, surrounded by many flavors of casks, some beers flavored with chiles, vanilla and rosemary, nothing seemed wrong or right, just there for the taking. I was elated by the possibilities of dropping long held beliefs, and flying into new consciousness by picking up new flavors, guided unintentionally by the atheist pastor beer salesman.

On that Sunday summer sirocco I was on the verge of a breakthrough. Or I might just collapse from alcoholic dehydration.

Fortunately, outside, there was Amy Crook, in a peach pleated skirt, whose hyena laugh and flirtatious giggle danced around the driveway as I recorded her. I joined her under the hot tent and helped check in guests. I tore off tickets, and peeled sticky armbands onto arms gleefully carrying glasses into a raucously animated party, one I knew I would later misinterpret truthfully.

Friends in Low Places.


 

One of the first lessons new arrivals to Hollywood learn is that you make friends with people who can do something for you.

It’s a secret that is out in the open, one that many imagine they alone own.

I was as guilty of it as anyone else when I moved here in 1994 and thought a 15 year friendship with a television producer would lead to work and connections. Instead it just ended in bad words and we never spoke again.

Poisonous as it is, the tendency to believe that high connections produce happiness and fulfillment leads people into dead ends. And the idea that every single new friend should have some mechanical use is part of the reason people here have so many friends, and hardly any good friend.


This was one of the weeks I was back at work turning people I hardly knew into friends. Because I have written a webseries. And I want people to work on it. And I’m pitching it around and thinking that I’m getting somewhere by speaking personally to those whose skills or interests might correlate to mine.

 

You own a studio and you build sets?

You went to film school and you’ve shot video?

You are funny and you act?
You’ve never acted and you want to?

You’re a producer because you call yourself one?

 

I’m going to be your next friend.

 

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This is the time of year when the weather turns colder and leaves turn golden and I think of those times I would cook Thanksgiving dinner with my mother and father in Woodcliff Lake, New Jersey, and she would rip out the entire food section of the New York Times and we would try and create something artistic like Creole Oyster Wild Rice Stuffing that would later be eaten and despised by my father and brother.

And when my parents were here in California, on a holiday visit, or living here,  we would all gather at a relative’s house. And my mother and I would drink many glasses of wine and eat several helpings of turkey and stuffing, potatoes and pie, and wander around, not talking to anyone, but just enjoying a stuffed stupor, while outside Christmas lights twinkled and cold winds blew. And life was bracing and lovely and numbingly satisfying.

Those occasions were times I had to testify to my mother on plans and ideas and money-making schemes I had dreamed up. “I think I might work on a new documentary in January Mom. Nobody is hiring in December. The whole city is dead.” Some of those Thanksgivings, especially in the 1980s and 90s, involved a blonde woman named Carmel on my arm, and a message handed out by matriarchal authority that I was only welcomed home as a heterosexual.

Everything is gone now, the house, my youth, my Ralph Lauren tweed jackets and wool pants, my mother and father. My brother and his family escape to luxury in San Francisco and eat burritos and sushi in the Mission District while I stay back and think about which friends or family are really true and who are not.

Thanksgiving (like Halloween, Christmas, Hanukah, Easter and the Fourth of July) is not thought of too highly by my Malaysian born partner, but he is willing to eat everything provided it is drenched in maple syrup.

This year we were invited to several places but we will cook at home. It sounds cozy and dull. But I should be thankful I think.

Some friends from out-of-town, people whom I know from years back, may visit Los Angeles and I will see their photos on Facebook but they will never call. They will be busy, they will be showing off their children, their production photos, their visits to Disneyland. And I will still call them my friends.

One poetic and articulate friend is now an executive producer rebranded as an authentic Southern voice and storyteller. He was one of the quality people I met when I moved here. If I live here 20 more years I will probably encounter others of great self-importance.

Living in Hollywood for twenty years I still have idea how to quantify or recognize authenticity.

 

Under the Tent Selling Salt


Will Lemay and son O'Shea at Hollywood Farmer's Market last Sunday. photo by ABH.
Will Lemay and son O’Shea at Hollywood Farmer’s Market last Sunday. photo by ABH.
Hepp's Salt Barrel.
Hepp’s Salt Barrel.

For the past few months, I’ve worked at an improbable profession, selling salt part-time at the farm markets, chiefly at Hollywood on Sunday and up at Yamishiro, on Thursday evening.

The work starts when I drive to a six-story high concrete storage facility in West LA, punch in a code, and ride up in a cavernous steel-floored elevator. The door opens, and in front of me are rows of metal doors, numbers and lights that turn on as you walk under them. Air-conditioning blasts down the empty corridors.

It’s a good place for murder because nobody would hear you scream. And your corpse can be locked up for years.

My key unlocks the unit and up goes the door. Inside is a hand truck onto which I load up two plastic tables, canvas cloths, plastic cash box containing money, inventory and a Square space reader to plug into my iphone. There is a large tent on wheels, a 5-gallon container for water, clip- on lights, extension cords, salt samples in Ball Glass jars, and the inventory consisting of various packets of spicy, finishing, smoked and imported salt.

I ride back down the elevator and load it all into my Ford Focus and drive on Olympic over to LaBrea and up to Yamashiro, arriving 4pm, on a day that will predictably be hot, sunny and baking. The market opens at 5pm, so I have an hour to set up on the asphalt.

Around 7pm, the sun gets lower, the winds blow up into the hills and it turns into a dusky and dark affair, lit up with wine, beer and beautiful girls, all seemingly thin, in torn denim and long shiny hair, wearing sunglasses hiding wide, wondrous eyes not yet exposed to sorrow. A band plays early 1970s mellow rock.

Under my tent I watch the guests arrive and walk past me and my fellow vendors. The other tents cover organic strawberries, heirloom tomatoes, a red-faced guy hawking “the world’s best cake”; candy apples, green juices, humus and olives, homemade peanut butter. The guests stroll until they reach the end, near a cliff, where lightly intoxicated beauties seduce at round tables in high altitude.

The people remind me of the ones I saw in Roddy McDowall’s 1965 home movies of his Sunday afternoon beach barbeques in Malibu attended by Suzanne Pleshette, Tuesday Weld, Lauren Bacall, Julie Andrews, Jane Fonda, Paul Newman and Lee Remick.

Those notables from the mid 60s would recognize the Yamashiro crowd: blonde children, skinny men in skinny jeans with checked shirts, greased back hair and razored sides, and those diaphanous, theatrical Hollywood moms: pretty bronzed women in straw hats and sundresses cavorting, dancing, posing and feigning happiness under the palms.

And for me it is all business as people come up, all night, and I give them tastings of truffle salt, smoked salt, and blithely talk of the magic properties of salt from Himalaya.

The old young me, who once walked fast down the streets of New York, and entertained guests at The Polo Store while doing the most monotonous and soul deadening work selling clothes, that magician who could take the long hours standing on my feet, he has come back to Hollywood and is appearing, for a command performance, selling salt and liking it.

The market closes a little after 9pm. The sky is dark and I am exhausted. It is time to count the salt and the cash. After paying the market, I pay me, take a pee, load up my car, and drive back to Van Nuys, feeling satisfied and wealthy with $80.

The Quiet Hour.


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Crescent Heights at Selma

Passing through Sunset, near Crescent Heights, early in the evening, I abandoned the idea of crawling over Laurel Canyon to get back into the Valley.

Instead, I stopped and parked, a block east, and walked with Nikon up into the dark, winding, empty lush streets, meandering and mesmerizing roads, where historic houses hide people and lives behind storybook cottages, thatched roofs, and ornate doors.

This city is full of pain and struggle and disappointment.

But as long as the eyes can see, the legs can walk, the lungs can breathe, the scented and bewitching segments of Los Angeles are placed within reach; silent and mordant, mysterious and seductive, within grasp for gapers and wanderers, dreamers and photographers.