markc@teklds.UUCP (markc) (07/26/84)
[] A Portland Innocent in L.A. by Mark Christensen [copied without permission from Portland Quarterly] O, California. O, especially, L.A. -- Paradise. Go to Malibu. Fabulous. The most unstable piece of real estate on the West Coast. And the most expensive. A two bedroom cottage above the beach is a bargain at $4,000 a month. And those are winter rates. Or what about neighboring Brentwood, where the average home goes for $455,000 a pop? Of course you're paying for the ambience. Like on the freeways, it's impossible to drive more than about two miles without seeing some Arab potentate's gold-plated 280Z spread like Nucoa Imperial margarine all over about 600 yards of guardrail. Then there's the atmosphere--half the time you can eat the air, it's got so much stuff floating around in it. It takes the edge out of the colors. Down here even the traffic lights are pastel. And people! With a lot of these folks you'd have to check their green cards just to make sure that they are Earthlings. Then there's the police. In Portland, when some guy goes bananas, the cops rope off a sixteen block area around him and call a shrink from the medical school who stands atop a patrol car with a megaphone and shouts, "O-K.! THIS! ALL! STARTED! WHEN! YOU! WERE! THREE! YEARS! OLD! ON! ACCOUNT! OF! YOUR MOTHER! RIGHT? SO! LET'S! TALK! ABOUT! IT!" Down here they don't waste that kind of time. The LAPD has SWAT teams composed of guys who make Darth Vader look like Mr. Peepers. Before they go to bust a bookie joint they mortar it first. The most exciting thing about L.A., though, is that there is no middle class. The entire place is run by Moguls and Mexicans. The Rich and the Poor. It's great. Slam your $150,000 Rolls Royce into a bridge abutment and Pedro or Manuel or Jose will be at your door in a trice, offering to fix the whole thing for $160 and "just a lettle Bondo." Down here, anything can be enfranchised. Critic Ben Stein has said, "Most of the commerce in L.A. is based on the stupid gulling the stupider." People make tidy incomes selecting other people's "best colors" and lucky numbers--and those are the Republicans. In many ways L.A. is the inevitable result of what happens when red-blooded Americans encounter Shangri-la. Oil derricks among the palm trees. Fast-food stands and gas stations at the hem of every beach. In a word, L.A. is what would happen if Tahiti were in Pittsburgh. All the same, Los Angeles is a cashgusher non pareil. There are people down here who make more money than countries, who are richer than Scrooge McDuck, and who could hire most of the fat cats of Portland as houseboys. It's crazy. Television producer Aaron Spelling, for example, is said to make $350,000 a week. A [4mweek[0m. And the real story of Los Angeles remains show business, the subject of the book my partner Cam Stauth and I have just finished. Our ticket to the big time. Or at least the medium time. Our hero and leading man: Corky Hubbert, a Portlander and a rising star in Hollywood if there ever was one. I'm writing this column poolside at the Breakers Motel in Santa Monica where Cork has set up his HQ prior to getting off to London to appear with Tom Cruse in Ridley Scott's latest feature film [4mLegend[0m. You remember Corky, don't you? A little guy. Less than five feet tall. The one who used to write "Corky Hubbert's Conspiracy Digest" in [4mOne Dollar Magazine[0m (sample headlines from his Patti Hearst expose: GIDGET GOES GUERILLA, HEIRESS NABBED AFTER "ZANY" FOUR MONTH SHOPPING SPREE). But Corky has made the quantum leap from Portland's shortest investigative reporter to Top Midget in Hollywood. Blessed with buggy eyes and an uncombed explosion of curly blonde hair, Corky looks like a combination of Bob Dylan, a bottom fish, and several Marx Brothers. Having gotten his start playing a sperm cell down at the old "Fool's Paradise" nightclub off Burnside in Portland, this four-foot-eight-inch mouth-watering combination of talent, charisma, energy and shortness has gone on to appear in such film epics as Hunter Thompson's [4mWhere the[0m [4mBuffalo Roam[0m, Ringo Starr's [4mCaveman[0m, and to tri-star, so to speak, with Chevy Chase and Carrie Fisher in [4mUnder the Rainbow[0m. Cork just finished a featured role in yet another block-buster-to-be, [4mNot for Publication[0m, and was about to fly off to London to play an alcoholic leprechaun in [4mLegend[0m. For which he will be paid a weekly sum that would make him able, were it his desire, to purchase four only slightly used Volkswagen Rabbits for every month he works for Mr. Scott. "Cork," I say, "what do you miss most of all about Portland?" "The traditional values," he admits. "Portland's much more conservative. The junkies in L.A., for example, don't even have enough class to shoot real smack." Cork's story is the story of about-to-be superstars everywhere. He's come a long way since he was forced to grub for money by running "Cork Hubbert's Cheap Theatrics" acting school after hours at the Food Goddess restaurant down the street from the Portland Public Library. But Cork's had to claw his was to the top, and it hasn't always been easy. For a while he made egg money in L.A. by appearing on game shows. An iffy resource. Like the time he won on [4mThe Dating Game[0m by wowing the Farrah Fawcett look-a-like girl when she asked him, "What is the most important thing in life that your parents couldn't teach you?" and he answered "Trigonometry. I had to learn that in the streets." But when he stepped from behind the partition and she saw he wasn't much taller than Shirley Temple in her prime, she sort of wigged out, and he never got the free trip to the Bahamas that the game guys promised him. Once he even resorted to an appearance in a porno film, [4mUltraFlesh[0m. It was a desperation move to pay the rent and Cork had played it supersafe. His job was "comic relief" and he insisted on wearing a fake goatee, a rubber nose and a sweater over his head and keeping all of his clothes on at all times. Still, it was weird trying to do dialogue with nude women in that getup and Corky was forced to seek more substantial gigs. Then there was the sheer aggravation of life in the Big Orange. Recently, he'd been involved in two serious dukeouts: "The other night," he said, sipping a Henry's, "I was in El Coyote eating an enchilada. I'd had a couple double Margueritas and we decided to go to the Hard Rock Cafe. I'm walking out the door and this guy hisses, '[4mHey, midget[0m!' At first I'm angry. Second, it's the battered wife syndrome; it must be my fault. Third, I think I must know the guy." So Cork goes back to the table and introduces himself. It's a couple. The girl is obviously a wall-to-wall sweetheart. And totally embarrassed. Cork kisses her hand. Then he picks up a water glass and throws it in the guy's face. The guy stands up and Corky pulls him out of the booth. The schmuck back-peddles into a wall. Corky, who at four-feet-eight-inches tall is built like something between a butterball and a pit bull, literally climbed the guy, grabbing him by the lapels and vowing into his face, "[4mMidget[0m, huh? Maybe you ought to pick on a paraplegic next. One more word to me, dirtbag, and I'll put you in the hospital." Then Portland's fastest rising star let the bad guy go and headed toward the door. But he was still P.O.'ed. So he turned, said to the girl, "Debbie, I really like you," then picked up her dinner, a delicious El Coyote Super Tostada with shredded chicken, guacamole sauce, chopped olives and sour cream, and threw it in the guy's face. Pretty satisfying. But then, a few nights later, Cork got his comeuppance, walking down Sunset Boulevard. Two black guys stopped their car and offered to give him a ride, then drygulched him. Jumping out of the Caddy, they slammed Cork to the ground, divesting his back pocket of $140, and knocking him around on a dark sidewalk where there were no El Coyote Super Tostadas or cops or anything else to come to his rescue. An ugly scene. He'd holed up at the Breakers for a few days recuperating, then gone to Disneyland with my daughter and a couple other kids. People were oohing and aahing and saying things like, "Look! It's the famous dwarf, whatshisface!" but it's a bitch putting on the dog for your public when you've got scabs all over your face. Still, Cork rose to the occasion. He was the beau of the ball in Fantasyland, signing his autograph and having his picture taken left and right. I came to Los Angeles just about a year ago, driving down with Corky and my partner, Cameron Stauth, the former starchblocker magnate and "The Smartest Man in Eugene." Remember when he challenged Ken Kesey to a novel-writing contest and the top surgeons at the Mayo Clinic to a laser-neurosurgery duel? History shows that these folks were so intimidated by my pal and partner that they didn't even have the nerve to reply. Anyway, Cam and I had been sitting around my house on S.W. Taylor's Ferry for six months putting together a dynamite list of book ideas. Finally, I got on the horn to our agent in New York. A fabulous guy. And totally into the elite rarified air world of Manhattan book publishing. Like, on his arm he's got a tattoo of a skull and crossbones above a telephone with the words BORN TO REPRESENT inscribed beneath. Naturally, I knew he'd be impressed with our book idea list. "What if we did like a 500,000-word definitive biography of Jesus Christ?" "Nah," he said, "Too esoteric. You got to go for a big name. Victoria Principal, Charo, somebody more mainstream." "Well," I replied, "Cam had this idea to do a novel about a poor beautiful girl who rises from rags to riches, marries a prince that's also a movie mogul and becomes the first female president?" "Jeez, Mark, sometimes I wonder about your partner. Who's he think he's writing for, [4mTri-Quarterly[0m? That's way too literary. Not nearly commercial enough." "Okay then," I said: "What about my concept for a novel about a group of sex-crazed militant lesbian bikers who conspire with the PLO to build an H-bomb and blackmail the transvestite publisher of a skin magazine into turning over all his centerfold girls for purposes of anti-Zionist white slavery in the Sinai desert?" "Sorry, guy, but it's been done before. Besides, it's way too realistic. I mean, maybe if it were a little more vulgar and not so Goody Two Shoes type of concept and maybe a little more implausible and escapist." Finally, I played our trump card. "What about," I asked, "if we did a story about the beginning of time?" "Huh?" "The beginning of time," I repeated. "I've just talked to this guy Alan Guth at M.I.T. in Cambridge and he and a bunch of these other physicists have proved that the whole universe came from an area a billionth the size of a proton but that weighed 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000 metric tons." "Don't shuck me, Mark," he replied, "I was kicking back a couple hooters with Guth at P.J. Clarke's just the other night and he said the whole universe weighed only 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 metric tonnes and not an ounce more." "No, look," I said, "I swear by the Catholic Jesus it actually tips the scales at 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000 metric tons." "Look, Mark, I've been your and Cam's representative now for how long, five years? And you know what's wrong with you guys? Neither one of you can ever stop exaggerating." I didn't know what to say. I like my agent a lot and didn't want to offend him. Plus, he's really going places--one of his clients just got a Pulitzer [4mplus[0m a $1,500,000 movie deal for her [4mRitalin Addict's Diet Book[0m which was then number three on the [4mNew York Times[0m Best Seller List. Then, suddenly, it came to me. "Wait a sec," I said, "When you said 1,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 did you mean 1,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 tons or tonnes?" "Why," he replied, "tonnes, of course." "I was talking tons," I said. "Sorry." "So that explains it. Where were we?" "The idea for a book about the beginning of time. These guys are out to discover the reasons for the creation of the universe, hence possibly the meaning of life and the existence of God." "Mark, how many times do I have to tell you: quit messing around with the oddball stuff and go for the things that matter. Think big! For God's Sake." So when Cam walked through the door a few minutes later I wasn't in the best of moods. "All our ideas just got shot down," I said. "Six months of planning all for naught." Fortunately, Cam is a hearty sort, a diminutive he-man given to long distance running, extensive weight training, and the kind of mental discipline usually associated with FBI agents and space travelers. So I was not entirely surprised to discover that he suffered from only minor rope burns when I cut him down moments later from a noose knotted to my dining room chandelier. "Look," I said, "Lemme get you some Mercurochrome, we'll kick back a couple of brewskis, catch the Blazers vs. the Knicks on the tube and try to rebuild our lives." I turned on the television and Cam, already reenergized, said, "Most people have these things in their homes, right?" "What?" "TV sets." "Yeah. So?" "Maybe we could do a book about television." I wasn't so sure. "Writing about TV seems to me to be sort of like dancing about brain surgery." "Sure. But," Cam said, "Face it: it's commercial, it's vulgar, it's mainstream, it's ephemeral, it's implausible ..." I was already back on the phone. A couple of weeks later our checks were in the mail.