L.A. Stories- New Edition, with more missing limbs!

It used to be, when I'd see or hear a helicopter, I thought, "tourists sightseeing." When I first moved to Hollywood, I assumed their presence indicated some celebrity sighting.
'Lindsay is flashing her vag again, activate AirBeaver Alpha Squad.'

When I was working Halloween Horror Nights, several choppers kept making passes over our maze, and I thought they were filming the celebs at the nearby Igor Awards ceremony- instead, I learned that there was a gang-related shooting at ShittyWalk.

The locals taught me that instead of something positive, Hollywood Helicopters are usually an ill omen. Someone is bleeding, someone is dying, someone is dead, someone is running from the police. It reminds me of a line in a Meatloaf song:
"A killer's on the blood-shot streets."
A Hollywood helicopter always means something is wrong.

Last night, there were helicopters, which is not unusual. There were also cop cars and ambulances surrounding our building, which, sadly, is also not unusual. When they blocked off our street, though, I figured there might be a little somethin' extra going on, and as it turns out, there was!

Someone O.D.'d in our building, (standard practice) which accounted for the first battalion of cops and paramedics, aaaaaaand, a bus tried to make it up the steep hill our street is on, its brakes failed, and it slid out of control down half the length of our street, taking out 5 parked cars and obliterating a scooter before crashing through a cinderblock wall and gate, and finally came to a stop, pinning a motorcycle against what's left of a Ford F-150. Awesome!!!
The debris and carnage is still there this morning- it's pretty exciting if you're into debris and carnage!

My neighbor told me the story as we walked to the Farmer's Market this morning. She and her girlfriend had heard the crashes and gone out to investigate, and the cops told them the whole story.
They also told her that earlier in the week, a three-car accident on our block had caused a car to go up on the sidewalk, pinning a woman to a building. The police said that the woman lived, but they had to amputate her legs.

For those of you playing the Home Version of our game, that makes a total of FOUR SEVERED LEGS since I moved to Cherokee Street.

With a bag loaded with tangelos and kale, I walked from the Market up our street with Courtney to see the mangled bus and the destruction. It was a bright sunny day. Most of the vehicles had been towed, but the bus, motorcycle, F-150 and chunks of wall and gate remained. At some point, someone had parked their car (perfectly legally) along the curb, but it was blocking part of the crash site so no more towing could be done.

Someone had placed a note on the driver's windshield:
"Move your F*cking car you idiot, can't you see you're in the F*cking way?"

Ahhh, Hollywood.

L.A. Stories- "You have to arrest me, there's blood everywhere!"

Near the corner of Hollywood and Highland, there's a large billboard featuring a stylized graphic of a cop car with lights blazing, an intense-looking cop, and bright swatches of crime scene tape. At first, I thought it was advertising a TV show, but it is, in actuality, an ad for the CRIME SECTION in the Los Angeles Times. At first I was slightly disgusted with the sensationalism, but hey, it's Hollywood. Then, I got to call the LAPD myself, and now that I know how truly awesome it is, I'm totally sold! Go cops go!

Here's what happened:
Shortly after Jay and I moved into our apartment on Cherokee Street, I went for a walk and saw some police hanging out on my corner. I told them I was new in town and asked if they could give me an idea about how safe the neighborhood was. They both burst out laughing, then stopped abruptly.
"Like, safe in terms of how," one asked.
"Like, 'can I go for a walk by myself at night' safe?"
They exchanged a 'look.'
"Naahhhh. I wouldn't do that." He answered.
"Stick right on Hollywood Blvd. and you'll be OK but don't go anywhere else," said the other cop.
"Stay away from the side streets."
"Or take someone else with you."
Yikes.
Due to the city noise, I'm now in the habit of sleeping with earplugs in. A couple of nights later, at 4:30AM, I awoke because I heard a woman screaming. I took out my earplugs- yup- definitely a woman screaming. Not just "yelling," full-on terrorized "NO! STOP!!! NOOOOOOO!!! GET AWAY FROM ME!!! NOOOOO!!!!" I immediately reached over to grab Jay, but he wasn't in bed.
Next I reached for the phone and dialed 911. The screaming had mutated into a howling at this point. Someone was dying.
"911 what is your emergency?"
"I'm at the X Building on Cherokee St. and a woman is screaming bloody murder."
"What is she screaming, ma'am?"
"Nooo, stop, get away from me- can you please come rescue her???"
"Is she being attacked?"
"I dunno- it sounds like it."
"Can you see her?"
At this point I hear a slamming sound and glass exploding. It sprinkles onto the concrete sidewalk in our courtyard like demonic rain.
"Can you please just come? Glass is shattering everywhere and I think she's dying."
"The police are on their way- is there a gate to your building?"
"Yes."
"If it's locked when the police get there can you make sure it's open?"
I hear more slamming popping sounds- gunshots?
"Ohhhhhkay..."
I hang up and go out to the living room where I find Jay looking out a window. I'm a totaly wreck.
"What is happening to her?"
"I dunno," he answers. "Cops are here."
From outside someone shouts "Gimmie the key, gimmie the key" and our gate flies open and at least seven huge LAPD shadows race across our darkened courtyard. Broken glass crunches under solid boots.
Several tense moments go by- more yelling and screaming, punctuated by staccato barkings from the officers. A few cops come out and stand in the courtyard.
Jay decides to go out and learn what's going on. Terrified, I stay put on the couch. I'm convinced bullets will fly at any moment. Paramedics arrived and trooped a medical parade through the courtyard.
Jay later told me that he saw one of our neighbors in handcuffs, saying, "you have to arrest me, there's blood everywhere."
From my window, I saw an older man being marched out through our courtyard by the cops. They had him in some ninja-grip, but he was doubled over and sobbing. Shortly after him followed the paramedics, who had folded a gurney into a wheel-chair position, and the person in the chair was handcuffed to its armrails- the person was wrapped from the neck down in white sheets stained with bright red blood, and from my vantage point, I swear to god, IT LOOKED LIKE HER LEGS HAD BEEN CHOPPED OFF. Dark red stains seeped down the front of the sheets. The woman in the chair lolled her head around and stared vacantly, moaning softly.
Jay finally came back and relayed what he'd seen- he said the cops were laughing and joking around after the arrests. Another night in Hollywood.

After not getting back to sleep and a long day at my internship, I came home, saw the broken glass in the courtyard still and saw a shattered window on the thrid floor. I wondered if he'd tried to push her legs-first out the window and that's what caused the gashes...
I went to the apartment complex's office in the basement of my building. I wanted to know what had happened. The people down there are perpetually rude, but I was freaked out. I didn't feel safe.
When I got down to the office, I was met with the typical blank stares of the Morlocks who work there. "Hey, I just wanted to know if there was any resolution to what happened this morning."
Blink blink. "What do you mean what happened this morning?" asks an irritated woman.
"You know, the screaming, possible gunshots, the police?"
"Ma'am nothing happened here at this building."
I'm amazed- is she denying this? "There was a woman screaming bloody murder- we all heard it."
They look around at each other, sheepishly.
The woman finally rolls her eyes and says, "There was a domestic disturbance, that's all. No big deal."
"Ah, so something DID happen."
She doesn't like being called out. "It's really none of your business."
"None of my business? No big deal?!? There's broken glass all over the courtyard,and I had to call 911 at 4 in the morning. I think that qualifies it as 'my business.'"
"Well, it doesn't concern you, it won't happen again, so you can go back upstairs." Wow she was a bitch.
"OK, well, it concerns me if there's some psycho in our building- I think I have a right to know whether or not I'm safe in my own building."
"It's a domestic disturbance, which means it's not random- and it happened on the third floor- you're on, what..." she pauses.
"The first floor," I answered.
"See," she said, throwing her hands up. "They're not even on your floor."
I'm more than a little sarcastic at this point. "So if they're firing gunshots at each other, it wouldn't even hit me?"
"Exactly."
"OK, well, I feel better. Thanks so much!"

Two weeks after that, I awoke to news vans literally lining our street. A reporter was just wrapping up her spot, and as her cameraman wrapped cables, I asked her what happened. "One of your neighbors was found dead this morning. He was naked and tied to a chair, stabbed over thirty times. Care to comment?" The camera man flips his camera to his shoulder and starts recording, and suddenly a microphone is in my face.
"Uh, no. No thank you."

I'm not worried at all- it didn't happen on my floor.

L.A. Stories- Duck and Coverage (Reading a Known Killer's Screenplay)

This is the true story of the time I was asked to give my opinion about a screenplay written by a very scary person, who would then have access to my full name and where I worked. Awesome.

"Coverage" is when a Reader- intern (usually an unpaid volunteer blindly groping in the dark at a falsely whispered promise of paying work) reads a script, then writes a small 2-page book report about the script. These interns can be highly qualified, or, not.
In addition to the 2-page synopsis of the script, a Reader is also expected to write 1 or2 pages of professional opinion about the commercial potential of the script.
Finally, the Reader is asked to either "pass" on a script or recommend it. A Reader can pass or recommend just the script itself, just the writer, or the entire package. For example, you can love the concept of a screenplay but hate the way it was written. Or, you can love the writing of a really stupid concept. Or, it can rock or suck out loud all the way through. Either way, you have to form a strong opinion, back it up intellectually, then stand by it as your name and opinion travel up the ladder and eventually get back to the screenwriter's literary agent, who submitted this project in the first place.
On the second day of my Culver City internship, my mentor-intern, the girl who'd trained me the previous day, approached me with a script in her hand. She lowered her voice.
"Hey, you like horror, right?"
I nodded enthusiastically, eager to prove my expertise in my favorite genre.
She weighed the heavy screenplay in her palm.
"Listen- I'm leaving in two days, so I can't take on any additional scripts- I've been hanging on to this one for a while, because I really wanted to do it, but I won't have time now because they put me on another project- I like you. Do you want it?"
"What's so special about it," I asked.
"This guy- the writer- he was an established horror writer- I know you've seen his stuff. Anyway, a few years back he had a really horrific personal tragedy, and this is his first screenplay since that. I just know it's gonna be good, and if you're the one to identify a good screenplay, then, you know."
"It's good for me."
"Right."
She handed me the screenplay gently, almost reluctantly.
"I know it's gonna be so twisted and great," she said, a twinge of jealousy in her voice.
"Thank you for this," I said.
A few hours later, I was relieved of my front desk shift and allowed to go read. Reverently, I peeled back the title page, and delved into what I thought, at first, was a joke.
This can't be right, I thought.
The characters were so one-dimensional, I thought for sure I was reading the next Scary Movie VI- I kept waiting for the Wayans brothers to appear.
There was some gore, sure, but it was unimaginative and nothing I hadn't already seen in "Ghost Ship" and "The Exorcist."
Really? REALLY?
Thinking my trainer was playing some sort of hazing prank, I googled the writer. "Horrific Personal Tragedy," I thought. Sheyah, right.
...Holy Shit- here is the TRUE STORY of what the writer did:
In 2001, shortly following the massive success from a huge blockbuster remake he wrote, writer X was driving his Cadillac Escalade. At an intersection in Santa Monica, X approached a red light and caused a tiny fender-bender with the smaller car in front of it. The driver of the smaller car and his girlfriend were OK, but the driver got out of his car to see if X was OK.
The driver approached X's Cadillac, and saw X slumped over the steering wheel, with bright red eyes. When the driver asked if X was OK, X responded by pressing his foot down on the accelerator pedal. The driver yelled at X to stop, but X continued to accelerate, pushing the tiny car (with the screaming girlfriend inside it) into oncoming traffic.
A few other cars slammed into the tiny car, killing the girlfriend instantly, and forming a massive pile-up of twisted metal at the intersection. X continued to accelerate, and eventually the plastic bumpers of the wreckage gave way and his Cadillac shot from 0mph to 55mph, rocketing through a crowded glass bus-stop where pedestrians were gathered to gawk at the accident scene.
X drove through the crowd, maiming a few more people, before driving across the sidewalk and through the plate glass window of a crowded bar. His joyride came to a stop at a marble countertop with two dead people pinned against it, crushed from the chest down.
But wait, there's more!
X calmly gets out of his car, completely unscathed, and takes a survey of all the destruction he's caused. He then approaches the shattered glass window, picks up a large shard of broken glass and SLASHES HIS OWN THROAT.
Paramedics arrived shortly afterward, and were able to get writer X to the hospital in time to save his life. However, he refused to tell the doctors his real name, insisting instead that he be registered as "Akin Roam."
X had never used a pseudonym before, but people were later chilled to discover that "Akin Roam" is an anagram for the phrase, "I ran amok."
Wowwwww...
So I finished this piece of crap screenplay, and found myself between a rock and a hard place, which, granted, is better than a Cadillac and a countertop. X never went to jail. X went to rehab and got a slap on the wrist. X was still out there...
This was his first screenplay since this "accident," and I was sad to see that none of the real-life horror found its way into the script. It was awful, awful, awful. And stupid, predictable, ridiculous and boring to boot.
However, he is a known "name" writer. So if I trash it, I run the risk of looking like a fool. If I recommend it, thought, and they read what utter garbage it is, I also look like a fool.
Bottom line is, I had to be honest. So I tactfully, carefully, delicately passed on it, citing reasonably stated concerns with the material.
When I passed on it, my company notified X's agent, who then told X that it had been rejected.
To this day I expect a Cadillac Escalade to come crashing through my windows, with a demon-eyed coked-up X behind the wheel.
He may hate me. But his screenplay totally sucked.