.45 Caliber Headspace

Frustrated by various snags I’ve hit during the making of LOBO: The Motion Picture, I decided I needed to take some time to clear my head.

Nagging doubts began to seep into my conscience. Not about the movie -oh God no; this script is the best thing since Citizen Kane- but about Hollywood in general. It just seems like if it’s not a flick about gay cowboys or an abused chick dyin of cancer, nobody cares.

And that’s the problem with this city: Nobody cares.

Maybe it’s a Karmic thing. Perhaps all I really need to do is do a good deed or two. Once I fool a few people out here into believing I actually give a crap, maybe all this bad luck will turn around.

From Hollywood to San Francisco is about a seven hour drive. But I don’t get to California often; it would be criminal to not to pay a visit to one of my favorite bloggers .45 Caliber Headspace. Besides, I was already broke and didn’t have an inch of usable footage; I desperately needed a place to stay where I could mooch from a goodly supply of Tecate and peanut butter.

So I shoveled my trunk full of viable potting soil and went to the gas station. There, I signed over my government rebate check for a full tank and set off for San Francisco.

My first attempt at Karmic healing took place on the drive. Normally I drive like a banshee. But I tried to do the whole thing at exactly the legal speed limit, resisting the peer pressure of angry people trying to pass.

But after a while I just couldn’t take it anymore; I was trying to read Catcher in the Rye, and all that cursing was making it impossible to concentrate.

.45, clearly, didn’t live here anymore.

At this point, I started getting a little panicky. The apex of my Karmic journey was to find .45, and save him from the clutches of Satan; if I brought him back into Jesus’ fold before his Eternal Damnation, this would surely fool God into thinking my movie was worth making.

Despite my sinking hope, I dragged my heavy suitcase into his former residence.

Filled with issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease .45’s transition into Salvation, the suitcase weighed a ton.

But inside, I found nothing but cobwebs and chalk outlines of mice. And in the kitchen, there was no evidence of Tecate or peanut butter; all I found was a big pot with a chalk outline of a lobster at the bottom.

As a fan, I knew but few sketchy details about .45 and his personal habits.

Where had he gone?

Five hours later, I screeched up at Jumbo’s Clown Room back in L.A.

The guy at the door charged me $8 for admission, and $4 for my suitcase.

“But clowns give me the willies!” I protested.

“Wow,” he says, fondling my suitcase. “That’s a heck of a coincidence. Willie is the guy that gave me the X I’m rolling on. Say, is this real leather?”

Once inside, I was utterly shocked.

Women were walking around completely naked.

My deeply religious sensibilities were so offended, I wrested my suitcase from the guy in the bathroom and immediately dressed the nearest one in the only thing I had: the police tape I had ‘liberated’ from .45’s former household.

Three hours later, she came back.

“Wow!” she says. “I made $600 with this outfit. That was a great idea!”

“Well thanks,” I says. “But do you know where I can find .45?”

“Sure,” she says. “He lives four blocks down the road.”

“I’m not hauling that damn suitcase four blocks,” I says. “Screw him.”

Byline: When not Googling information on penis reduction surgery, LOBO writes for the clothing-optional internet publication called Predator Press.