N.Y. Boy in L.A.

There is "worn out." There is "tired."

And then there is flat-out, ridiculously insane exhaustion.

‘Tis 2:28 AM on Sunday morning, August 13, and I am attempting to start a new entry based on one of the most mentally and physically draining days of my life. I must finish before the vanilla-coated Tylenol PM kicks in.

Previously on "Hiko"…I had mentioned that I was a coordinator for a celeb-filled event called Hot in Hollywood, a one-night-only show benefitting the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. Last night was the main event. Picture me with a headset and clipboard, running around like a beheaded chicken on cocaine and you might come close to visualizing what I went through. I was in charge of 80 volunteers. That’s 80 people whose names all sounded the same, 80 individuals for whom I was responsible, 80 pairs of eyes that would turn to me whenever they had a question ("Who do we let into VIP?" "Does the ATM machine in the lobby work?" "Where’s the cash bar?"). And it didn’t help that my fifth week at Anonymous had been my busiest (Boss in Bucharest, insurance drama with our XBox shoot, etc).

On the menu: Making sure Jaime Pressly’s dressing room was perfectly scented with candles and bouquets. Sending two volunteers to get four cases of bottled water to replenish the green room. Running out of parking passes in the VIP lot. Trying to find a handler for Shar Jackson (yes, the former Mrs. K-Fed) who was scheduled to deliver a statistics speech on AIDS among women of minorities (the one heavy moment of the night). Catching a glimpse of the actor from "Passions" who performed a disco number with an actress who’s starring in a new network drama premiering this fall. Checking in with my security guys to make sure the VIP rooftop cabana didn’t fill to capacity. Checking in with the front house to make sure tickets were selling. Checking in with Matt Czuchry from "Gilmore Girls" to see if his stalker was waiting for him backstage…Checking my pulse to make sure I wouldn’t fall into cardiac arrest.

Three years ago I had been an attending volunteer at one of these types of events. And now, as a Man With A Clipboard, I was exposed to the underbelly of the dog-and-pony show. Running on the fuel of popcorn I had consumed earlier that afternoon at a screening of "Pulse" (Godawful, in case you’re wondering), I moved my feet and darted to and from each post throughout the crowded venue. Yes, it was hell, but at the end of it all, we raised over $70,000. We brought awareness to hundreds of people, touched thousands of lives - all that feel-good crap.

And of course, it wouldn’t be a Hollywood benefit without gift bags. Here’s where I cut to the chase - nothing to write home about. Just rest easy knowing I can get $75 off my next session at Hollywood Tan.

I did make new friends and acquaintances out of this spectacle. My MySpace profile got a few extra connections out of it as well. And all of this is why my butt was firmly planted on the couch in front of the TV all day Sunday.

‘Twas the beginning of the end of a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it summer.

Most of my summer was spent obsessing over a new rock band I discovered on iTunes as a Free Download of the Week. Under the Influence of Giants debuted in stores last Tuesday, and I am seeing them perform live for a third time this Thursday. Hello, I am a Giant junkie.

Last Thursday I saw them perform at the Key Club on Sunset with Jenn. The kids waiting outside were just that…kids (Unfortunately it was an all-ages gig). Dressed to the nines in slutty-peasant one-pieces, as if lifted from an episode of "Laguna Beach," or worse,"The Hills," these material girls stood on the curb like they were practicing poses for certain future nighttime jobs. Jenn and I looked at each other and shook our heads trying to comprehend the motives of these born-in-1990 Paris wannabes. I had a good laugh.

The show started near 11. Aaron, the lead singer who could be the love child of Mick Jagger and Barry Gibb, encouraged everyone to dance and stay for the afterparty which was originally guest-list-only (naturally, I’ve attached a pic). I later managed to get my poster signed by David, one of the guitarists and backup vocals, while geekily informing him how I bought their album with the bonus remix disc that is available only at Best Buy.

Luckily my obsession has now been redirected at the film "Little Miss Sunshine" (it’s going on my top 10 for ‘06) and Christina Aguilera’s "Back to Basics" (same for music).

There are few albums one highly anticipates, and when said album is actually purchased, little does one know that some expectations can be shattered.

Or swiped into oblivion by a wrecking ball.

Ladies and gents, if you thought Miss Christina Aguilera-Bratman could NEVER top the masterful "Stripped," please think again. "Back to Basics" is the most mesmerizing melting pot of jazz, soul, hip-hop, and sweeping Danny Elfman-esque orchestration (yes, you read that correctly) ever to fall upon listeners’ ears. To simply call it a pop album would be like calling Mount Rushmore a pile of rocks. Normally, I wouldn’t push a CD (let alone a double-disc) so strongly, but "B2B" deserves the praise it has been receiving from reviewers. Bow your heads in shame, all you Rihannas/Nelly Furtados/Cassies of the world. And Christina? Get your dress and acceptance speech ready for the 2007 Grammys.

I’m sure my next obsession is waiting for me around the corner of next month, but while I dwell in the present I shall continue to ride out the rest of August like the nagging bull that it is. And by "ride" I mean "check the following off my calendar": attend a dinner with the HIH committee, a red-carpet benefit at LAX (the club), a Michael Kors party on Rodeo, a screening of "Snakes on a Plane," a rock concert in Echo Park, a work luncheon at Ivy by the Shore, a guest-list-only function at Geisha House, get-togethers for the Emmys and VMAs (can anything top the suckage of last year’s mess in Miami?), and finally…three more birthday parties.

Bring on the long nights, the chill, the dead leaves. Bring on the launch of The CW.

I’m ready for fall now.

H.P.M.

"It’s like someone’s shaking the bed."

You hear the blinds on the window move as if a slight wind has rustled them, but you remember the window is closed, so that can only mean one thing: Earthquake.

My mother always assumed the entire West Coast would fall into the Pacific the moment she’d arrive in Los Angeles. She liked to amuse the rest of the family with her catastrophic visions of the first time she’d visit her only child on the other side of the country.

I am happy to report the earth never crumbled and swallowed the Southland whole during the four trips my mother made to L.A. No crackling of the boulevards. No flash floods. No raging fires.

I remember my first EQ. It had been on the morning of the day before Halloween 2004 (the farms of the Midwest have roosters; southern Californians have the San Andreas fault). It lasted three seconds. I sat up in bed expecting an intruder in my room. All was quiet. The digital clock read 8:00. "Cool," I whispered, realizing what had just occurred. Later that morning I walked down to the kitchen and, like a kid spying Santa Claus flying through the night, I asked my roommate, "Did you feel the earthquake this morning?" Leah shook her head no and carried on with her breakfast. Of course she didn’t; the girl’s from San Diego. For the natives a little shaking of the earth is as mundane as buttering toast.

Too bad "Baby’s First Earthquake" wasn’t included as an entry in the baby book my mother kept in the early 80s.

I still get a kick out of the whole thing. Like this morning. 5 AM. The bed shook (for all the wrong reasons). The blinds rattled. All in two blinks of an eye. My mind conjured up images of the 1974 disaster flick in which Charlton Heston had to rescue Ava Gardner and Genevieve Bujold in a city ripped apart by devastation…and George Kennedy’s scowl.

I was obsessed with disaster films as a little kid. "The Towering Inferno" (a before-its-time "Backdraft"). "Meteor" (a before-its-time "Armageddon"). "Airport" (a before-its-time "Snakes on a Plane"). I studied the TV Guide as my second Bible and watched these movies whenever they aired on TBS or TNT. For my fourth-grade science project I did earthquakes, complete with the wrecked model town I had built for my non-existent train set. In the sixth grade I played the pivotal scene from "The Day After" on a loop as a part of my project on nuclear energy.

Death and destruction - it’s what’s for dinner.

Needless to say, I did not need the early wake-up call from my friendly neighborhood plate shift. My schedule has been filled to the brim with…well, work…and the extracurricular activities in which I have been involved. That’s right. You’re looking at (or receiving this from) the volunteer coordinator for "Hot in Hollywood," a celebrity-filled charity event benefitting the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. I had my first meeting with the board last week at Starbucks. Tonight is a barbeque for board members who will be offering progress reports as we near the party date, August 12. My report? I still have a crapload of people to contact and wrangle on my list.

For more information on how you can help, visit: http://www.hotinhollywood.org OR http://www.myspace.com/hotinhollywood.

My other venture is that of the theater kind. Troupe West is a non-profit organization founded by some of my alumni friends who performed in BU Stage Troupe back in Boston. Together we will try to put on a small show in the fall, theater space permitting. TW’s first stab at it took place this past April at the Raven Playhouse in North Hollywood, a small blackbox reminiscent of the one we played in during college.

During those more innocent, rent-free days, I was exposed to the drama behind the dramas performed in our little underground theater at the Armory on West Campus. Playing a Jewish doctor in "Six Degrees of Separation," I enjoyed the ethnicity-blind casting. However, a line or two had to be altered since the actor playing my son was Korean. "I mean, I’m Jewish. My grandparents died in the War." The persecuted group in question was easily switchable with "Japanese." Then, it was sophomore year that saw me play another doc, a guy actually named Doc, in "West Side Story." Please refrain from your Jet or Shark riffs. Thank God I didn’t have to embarrass myself in an elaborate dance number. I still shudder at the memory of frosting my hair gray for the part.

Theater people are a hoot. The in-jokes. The marijuana-tinged cast parties. The biting sarcasm that manages to stay fresh despite the post-ironic times we live in. I look forward to what we’ll do, who we’ll touch, where we’ll drink when the curtain falls.

Next thing you know, you’ll be getting headshots of me attached to future emails.

As. If.

Earthquake-proofing my bedroom when I get home,
H.P.M.

One of my favorite movies of all time had piqued my interest in jumping into the fun mess of L.A. culture. This was the film that had made me curious about the randomly desperate lives that populated the very unglam spots of the city.

"Go" came out in theaters in April of 1999. I was a freshman in college, clueless yet collected in my thoughts concerning what I wanted to be when I grew up. To the eyes of a just-turned 19-year-old, Los Angeles seemed like a vast fairground of chemically-charged social circles and numerous possibilities that would rival any Choose Your Own Adventure entry.

"Life begins at 3 AM."

The tagline for the film suggested excitement could be found on the other side of the night. Another world came alive after midnight. You could buy yourself a ticket to some dangerous fun, live on the edge, that whole spicy enchilada.

Now, if you’re expecting a story about how I cruised downtown L.A. and stole a credit card from a drug dealer whose prostitute girlfriend shot my neighbor while interrupting a threeway involving a Scotish midget named McFeely…go rent a DVD from your local Blockbuster. The most daring thing I’ve ever done (this week) was steal Coffee Mate creamers from the snack bar at the Ford Amphitheatre.

As I drove home at two in the morning from a Saturday night screening at the Vista in Silverlake, I stopped at the Vons supermarket on Sunset to purchase some cereal and milk for my Sunday morning plop-on-the-couch-and-watch-TV ritual. The doors slid open as I squinted at the near-nuclear flourescent lighting in the store. I navigated my cart through the labrynth of baked goods and dental hygene products, past racks of publications picking on the latest anorexic Sundance starlet, glided by gallons of cheap wine and imported ales on sale for those looking for a last-minute way to drown sorrows that will always come back to torment.

I reached the cereal aisle, a gauntlet of colorful packages promising wholesomeness and natural flavors, cartoon action figures buried under mounds of sugary morsels, and most importantly, a slimmer waist within ten days. A Hispanic clerk was stocking the shelves while Backstreet Boys’ "Shape of My Heart" played over the loudspeakers. He let out a startling "Shit," left his cartload of boxes and walked away, apparently upset over a mistake he had made. But his anger was short-lived; he proceeded to sing along to the boy band ballad as he disappeared from sight. I grabbed my Honey Bunches of Oats (damn Vons for not carrying my Special K Yogurt & Berries) and headed to the dairy section.

A young dude was hanging out by the milk. He wore a striped polo and gray cargos. The standard Silverlakian hipster. I imagined Katie Holmes and Sarah Polley playing Dead Celebrities in the freezer behind the shelves of orange juice (seriously, just watch the movie). I also imagined this guy was probably sleepless and craving some eggwhites to scramble as a late-night health snack. Scenario A: He was up all night writing in his cramped studio off Vermont Avenue and thought a stroll to his neighborhood grocer would help him clear his head. Scenario B: Guy was a dealer looking for some sweets to satisfy the sugar craving he got from all the Ecstacy he consumed at 4100 Bar and mistook the dairy section for the candy corner.

I grabbed my quart of skim and checked out. My nightly commute home would take me down Sunset to Highland, Highland to Olympic, Olympic to the ubiquitous La Cienega. I coasted along the empty three-laned street, my window down, my iPod blaring some Groove Armada, the perfect soundtrack for an afterhours run among the phantom traffic of Miracle Mile.

While I drove I recounted the busy day I had completed. Helping Swaga paint the living room and entryway in his new condo. Attending the "Book of Daniel" Outfest screening at the DGA Theater and reuniting with some the writers of a television treasure too few tried. It had been good to see Jack and some of the crew. Afterwards, Steve Kmetko had moderated a discussion panel and Q&A with Jack and some of the actors. Everyone, the panelists and those in the audience, had expressed their sorrow and frustration over the unnecessary "controversy" and early cancellation.

There is a hypocritical, Nazi-like minority in this country that has a very powerful voice and will do everything in its capacity to bring down harmless change and those who simply want to express their feelings…But my soapbox is in the shop, so I’ll save this for another day. Instead, THIS IS WHERE I PROUDLY PLUG AWAY: "THE BOOK OF DANIEL" ON DVD SEPTEMBER 26. Visit your Best Buys and Targets and Circuit Cities and make a purchase, won’t you?

The remainder of my Saturday called for a quick trip to the gym. I had neglected to go for a week, and my energy levels had been that of an octogenerian librarian sipping chamomile in a La-Z-Boy chair. Dinner for the evening had taken place at Cheebo with Molly (my first time). Drinks were on the house (Molls knew the bartender). I was on the floor. Next: said screening at the Vista. And…

Back to my drive…

I arrived at my beloved South Bedford, climbed the stairs to my apartment, and collapsed into bed. No discreet drug trades in littered alleyways. No neon raves in abandoned warehouses. No car chases throughout the potholed streets of Inglewood. Just me. And my toothbrush. And some dreams about deadlines and timeshares in far-off places.

3 AM came and went, but my life had already been in progress.

H.P.M.