jobs

Oggy worked at Paramount studios for a while. He served soup. Chicken Breasts. Salads with grated cheese. He bought the motorcycle and decided he would be better off if he fixed it instead of working.
so that is what he did.
then he worked some temp jobs at the airport lugging boxes.
then he got a job writing online poker strategy columns. why not?
then he thought he would be a school tutor. but the materials were horrible. and he had to drive miles and miles to tutor. it didn't add up. then his students got cancelled. so he quit.
then he got a job soldering beauty products. hairsensations.com might tell you something about it.
hair extension heater units. insane.
he is an electrician
and he worked in the art department of a film that was soft core porn. he didn't know. he bought the chinese food that is in one of the scenes. and he has been invited to be an extra in an S&M party scene in a movie called "trapped in perfection" awful movie. awful title. there is bondage. middle class angst. stupid. Oggy will walk around with a leather cock ring and his girlfriend will lead him through the party. for 50 dollars. he needs the money.

he wrote a play that is pretty good. The Sons of Job.
he'll post the play one day because this is the only place that anyone will ever see it.
and a sit com
and some stories.

Oggy takes what he gets. he has been playing a lot of poker online. that is why he started writing the columns. here is an example:

Killer Flops
By Oggy Bleacher

If a flush flop falls and you are not holding a relevant suit then you have some quick decisions to make. Bet heavy to represent a flush draw or allow your opponent to lead. This decision is made all the more difficult when you are holding a high pocket pair.
Learn your lesson: This is where betting early with top pairs or royalty makes sense. (See my pre-flop strategy column)
By the time the flop comes it is too late, but betting with top pair will drive out the odd hand that is helped by unusual flops. That is the point of betting. Sure, someone will call a bet with suited cards, but not with off suited connectors. So if you are still facing four or five opponents then you can only blame yourself for not betting before the flop.

blah blah.
interesting stuff. it might pay enough to allow Oggy to lose it all gambling.
Still Oggy is on the lookout for new jobs.
did he mention that he writes movie reviews for the 213 magazine?
check it out. you might have to magnify the picture, but there he is under his pen name in the Los Angeles Times calender section.

Martin Eden Script Sample

FADE IN:
Darkness. Sounds of SEAGULLS, TROLLEYS. Main Credits appear during every “beat”
MARTIN EDEN
(v.o.)
He opened up the door with a key...
(beat)
The man opened the heavy door...
(beat)
The sailor opened the wooden door...
(beat)
The young fellow followed his friend into the room after removing his cap.
(beat)
The good-looking one opened the door with a latch-key and went in...
(beat)
The one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by a fellow...a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap.
(beat)
He wore sea clothes...
(beat)
He wore clothes of the sea.
(beat)
He wore clothes that smelled like the ocean.
(beat)
He wore rough clothes that smacked of the sea, and he was out of place, really out of place...
FADE IN:
Fishing shack, 1895 Oakland. Arthur enters. Martin Eden is laying on a MATTRESS on the floor. He is writing on a piece of paper.
ARTHUR
Let’s move, Eden. Fight starts in ten minutes.
MARTIN EDEN
What’s another word for “really”?
ARTHUR
You ready?
MARTIN EDEN
Manifestly?
(as he begins to write)

...he was manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in which he found himself.
ARTHUR
Go for the throat. If you don’t knock the wind out of him then go for the eyes. Blind him.
Martin Eden stops writing and stand up into the light. He is handsome and rough bearded. He is perfectly at home in a fish shack. He is poor. But he is young and in excellent health despite scars on his face. He places a fisherman’s cap on his head and lights a hand-rolled cigarette.
MARTIN EDEN
Blind him? Naw. I’ll fuckin’ murder that guinea motherfucker.

This is oggy's 1981 Honda cm200t Twinstar motorcycle.
he rebuilt the top end of the engine. fixed everything else. he rides it around los angeles. The other day he drove it up the PCH going about 60 miles an hour to meet some agents about a job. He probably didn't get the job but he drove fast and didn't care. He was going fast. the motorcycle is part of the reason why he hasn't been posting blogs. he has been busy. there is also the depression to consider. but he made it. Oggy Bleacher doesn't quit. he just keeps going.

Pink Floyd

Pink Floyd

Ethan smuggled The Wall to his room in his shirt. His parents never would have allowed us to listen to it. Listening to Rock Music was the equivalent to huffing Pledge rags. Hell, his mom complained when he put too much mustard on his ham sandwich.

“You just can’t say ‘No’, can you, Ethan?” She’d shake her head.

Ethan would give her the finger as she walked away.

Ethan was 11 years old. He was the best speller in our class. He knew the multiplication table too, even the 12's. We were in 5th grade.

I knew Ethan was bad, but I thought I could save him. For instance, he was a terrible football player. If he could learn to catch the football then he would be a better person. He would be redeemed. But every Sunday he would drop the ball and then pick it up and kick it. It was a NERF football and required soft hands to catch. Ethan had hands like a clock.

“My friend did acid and listened to Floyd,” said Ethan as he tossed aside “Mozart’s Best” and put the record on the turntable.

“Acid?”

“Acid. Then he got laid.”

I nodded my head gravely.

“Here we go,” I thought. “I’m about to take acid.”

I started to sweat. My life was over.

Ethan put the needle on the record and nothing happened. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. Very faint accordion. Ethan turned the volume up. 15 seconds. More volume.

“Just static,” I shrugged. “Forget it. Let’s play Whiffle Ball.”

Like a tiger springing on its prey, the music blasted from the speakers at 20 seconds exactly. Electric guitar. Organ. Drums. Cymbals. A slow march into hell. A decent from a pure world into a land of sin.

“So ya, thought ya, might like to go to the show,” sang a sinister Roger Waters like a carnival clown who lures children to a strip club.

I was terrified. My heart pounded in my chest. Ethan’s mother burst into the room.

“I knew it!” she screamed. “Ethan!”

She took the record off the turntable. Ethan tried to hide the record jacket. Ethan’s mom looked at me.

“Oggy, I’m going to call your father. Go home.”

“I didn’t know,” I stammered. “I didn’t want it. He made me.”

I plunged out of the room, fled the house as the argument began.

“It’s mine,” yelled Ethan through his tears. “You can’t.”

“It isn’t music. This is not music. This is trash!”

I twisted my ankle on the way home so I hopped the rest of the way. My father used a pair of tweezers to pull a pebble out of my knee.

“Don’t be such a baby,” mocked my brother. “You’re a stupid baby. Waaaaah!”

The next Sunday I sat on a park bench and watched my friends play football. My ankle still hurt. Ethan caught a ball and spiked it in celebration. I hated him. I hated him so much.