Words for My Enjoyment

I Have Got A Really Sad Entourage

July 25th, 2005

This isn’t about you. It’s about me.

It’s about the fact that when I watch HBO’s Entourage there are three things that enter my head. That, for one, I would never pay to see a movie version of Aquaman. That, two, I would probably never cast Mandy Moore as the female lead in such a movie. And thirdly, that I’ve got the saddest, most depressing entourage on the face of the Earth.

For example, on HBO’s Entourage consists of their leader (a hot actor), his brother (a B actor, but an actor nonetheless), his manager (a manager) and their friend Turtle (comic relief). Each of them fill a certain missing spot in a group — covering social aspects (women, et al), business aspects and levity. It is the food pyramid of entourages and I tip my hat to their well-oiled machinery.

Not me.

My entourage is different in that it’s made up of people who I am not necessarily friends with, but who have sought me out through the most unlikely of situations.

There’s Maria, the tickettaker from the parking structure booth at my allergist’s office. I go there twice a week to get shots for a variety of things I’m supposedly allergic to, which include everything from dust, scallops and mushrooms to honeydew melon and cattle. Maria, it seems, isn’t too pleased with her current job situation and we talk at length about the fact that the a/c unit in her little booth has been broken for the last month. With the temperatures here in LA reaching inhuman levels (90 degrees) — well, she’s none too happy about the whole situation. There’s a Burger King down the street from this office, as well, which I ended up visiting one day after my allergy shots. And guess who was there? Maria.

It was a clashing of cultural and social worlds and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation — but Maria handled that for me. She sat down next to me with her huge breakfast sandwich and we talked for at least 15 minutes about how paying $.55 cents to park in a structure for five minutes is the biggest rip on the face of the Earth. Ever since then, it seems as though Maria is a part of my entourage. She won’t lift up the little arm and let me leave the parking garage before we’ve at least had a conversation that lasts 5 minutes. Last Thursday’s was about how hot it still is in her ticket booth.

But Maria is just one of the four in my really sad entourage.

There’s Unnamed Dog Walking Neighbor Girl who I never stop to talk to for fear of actually finding out what she’s like. She always seems to be pulling up in her car (the license plate reads something about her daddy giving her the car) whenever I happen to be walking past her house and she’s always got a quick barb or saying that is either sexually explicit or having to do with my dog. They usually range from “You got something in that bag for me!?” to “Oh, I’ll walk your dog for you!” She has never asked to be a part of my entourage but now other neighbors are starting to think we hang out because of the interaction they’ve seen while I walk my dog. Just the other day, a neighbor asked me how long I’ve been friends with her…and the scene had been set. Unnamed Dog Walking Daddy’s Girl which I’ve changed her label to, is a part of my really sad entourage.

While talking about my mind-numbingly bad entourage, we can’t overlook Rite Aid Guitar Playing Homeless Guy with Mind-Reading Cat. He hangs outside the front of the local Rite Aid Pharmacy and always intends on locking me into a conversation about either politics or the fact that his cat can tell the future of politics. Apparently, “Buster” is currently foretelling the fact that there will be a “one world government before 2012″ and that all the wars currently being waged are the result of a conspiracy that was enacted by the Freemasons, who apparently also built the Denver airport. I do not know much of what Buster has to say, but now my neighborhood locals also consider Rite Aid Guitar Playing Homeless Guy with Pyschic Cat which I’ve changed his label to, as either my long lost father or my old high school gym teacher. It is the result of me, once, telling him my name out of pity. And now, I’m reguarly greeted with phrases like, “Hey, Paul! Buster wants you to know that you should stock up on lots of water and canned food to prep for the Apocalypse.” or “Hey, Paul — great seeing you today, would you like me to play your favorite Supertramp song?” I can, sadly, no longer shop for cheap Thrifty ice cream and sad little cheap-ass toys without Mr. Guitar Man and his cat being considered a part of my group.

And finally — what’s a really depressing entourage without the comic relief? An even more depressing entrouage, as I have no comic relief. Instead, I have my gardener who I will refer heretoforewith as Passive Agressive Plant-Man — who will routinely pull me out of my house to tell me that I am killing all living creatures on my property as a result of having yet to grasp the complicated VCR-like electronic scheduling mechanisms of my watering timer. From afar, if you were to ever witness a conversation between me (head down, embarrassed looking) and my gardener (finger pointing, shaking, more pointing) you would assume I was being punished for something. Which I am. Every single week.

It is an entourage that no one has ever seen before: quirky writer, parking lot ticket taker, rich barb-throwing daddy’s girl, guitar-playing psychic cat owner and over-zealous gardener. We are a team far more eclectic than The A-Team and the Misfits of Science and far more depressing than those on HBO’s signature show. It’s probably because we never hang out, really. Actually, hardly at all. In fact, if I had my way, we’d never hang out ever.

I can dream, can’t I?

Posted under Depression, Entourage, Me. |