Letters From Hollywood

I will always remember that angry look on my mom's face. Rarely had I seen her as mad as the day my dad gave her the news that he had broken one of her cardinal rules and bought a motorcycle.

So naturally, as adolescence goes, I couldn't wait tell her when I decided to follow in my father's footsteps.

Getting my parents out to visit me has always been... well, a chore, at best. Oh, they've been out here. Once. In four years.

I have never seen my dad act so quickly ... ever. Before I knew it, he was on a plane to LAX for the 4th of July weekend. And that's despite the fact that for the past year he's taken a hiatus from riding.

No plan... and no gear, pops showed up adorned in a shirt brighter than a California sunset... and not much else. Lucky for him I was happy to spare an extra pair of gloves ... and my ultra large, hyper-white Oakley's. Oh man, was he stylin'!

After picking up the rental wheels, we hit the streets. I wasn't sure how well pops would handle the six-lane, 75MPH highways. He certainly wasn't in favor of lane-splitting -- a habit I've picked up out of both impatience and necessity. He handled them pretty well... even if it was only the slow lane.

I refuse to put GPS on the bike because I feel like it takes away from the raw manlihood that is the essence of the motorcycle.  Despite how much pops harassed me about it. My argument was solid... until I got us lost.

In a good way.

Disorientation paid its toll with a ride through California canyon country. Surrounded by mountains, I felt like I was young again, playing hide-and-go-seek with my dad, where he would cover me with his comforter, and then run outside while I tried to find my way out.

Before long, I did find my way out. The sun in front of us had just begun considering setting, while we rode north on the waterfront highway. Each stop light along the coast brought another father-and-son bonding moment as we pulled along side each other and smiled as if to acknowledge each other's importance, without actually exchanging any words.

It was a closeness I haven't felt with my dad since he drove across county to move me out here.

After the ride, we parked the bikes long enough to take a hike through the wild, wild ... Malibu. An hour trek put us over looking the coast of somewhere beautiful. Somewhere practically my back yard.

During our six-hour excursion, we shared asphalt, smiles, conversation, and tri-tip sandwiches. Last minute plans are the best plans.

In fewest words possible, my weekend with my dad was an eye-opener. Living far away from family can be hard. We make it work with phone calls, emails and video chats, but at the end of the day, there's nothing like sitting across the table from someone who cares ... someone who will love you regardless of your lifestyle, differences, or the mistakes you make.

Thank you Dad.

Until next time don't do anything I wouldn't do,

Kemer

By Kemer Stevenson

There’s nothing better to make a guy feel better about himself than a good set of tools and a day in the driveway. After my first thousand miles on the two wheeled wonder, it’s finally time to make her my own. 

Every Harley owner knows, that the real appeal to the bike is in customizing it to match your personality. It’s a very cult-like culture. A trip to the dealership means a visit with my own personal mechanical stylist. Anita helped pick out all the parts and modifications my bike needs now, and for time to come.

Step one, swap out the traditional handlebars. Why? Well, the main reason is I think the traditional bars look girly. The new drag bars have a lower profile and forward lean, giving her a more aggressive, streamlined look.

After the swap, I realized that my mirror visibility was essentially shot. Looking into them reflected my arm, and nothing behind me. The solution was to invert my mirrors below the handlebars. 

Sounds simple enough... but, not so much. The stems hit the turn signals. Which led to me to relocating the blinkers from the handlebars, to much lower down on the front forks. 

The end result left the speedometer as the highest point on the bike, and the rest looking very aggro. Exactly the look I was going for. 

While the lone-wolf rep is very suave, I find the single seat of the Sportster it’s biggest shortfall. The bad-boy rep doesn’t do you any good if you can’t throw a hottie on the back. 

Of course, this also meant installing a set of foot-pegs. It took me three attempts to get these installed correctly. Unfortunately the solo bag I added, sort-of, kinda, gets in the way. Minor detail. It looks sweet. 

I love my dealership, but I’d be lying if I said they didn’t try to overcharge me for service. They quoted me over $400 to perform all the that work. I spent about four hours doing it myself. Not to mention the boost to my self esteem and bragging rights to be able to say I did it. 

Now Aurora is all ready for the visit from my dad next week. We’ll be heading north up the Pacific Coast Highway in a 4th of July weekend father and son ride. And I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am. Stay tuned, more details to follow.

Until next time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. 

Kemer

At sixteen, I was given an extraordinary opportunity.

Dave Buffington offered his assistance as a last minute chaperone replacement for Creation 2000. A week long christian music festival. 

Had he not come forth in the literal eleventh-and-a-half hour, neither I, nor any of my half-dozen friends would have been able to embark on an unknown-at-the-time, life-changing journey. 

It was a tough position. He was the only “actual” adult on that trip. Managing several teenagers -- especially those not-your-own -- cannot be easy. His solution was different than any other adult figure I had known to date: he treated each of us... like adults. 

We made our own decisions. We made our own plans. We were in charge. We were responsible for both the successes and failures of our trip.

I want to talk about one of those failures. 

Two unnamed accomplices and I decided it would be hilarious to embark on a water-balloon slingshot escapade. Armed with a three-man-slingshot we began launching H2o bombs from atop the church vans to both unsuspecting and undeserving victims below. 

Cut the scene of Dave using his pocket knife to slice through our rubber-bands of decree... right in front of us.

Right. In. Front. Of. Us. 

Depending on what you buy into, I am either incredibly wild, or have one hell of an imagination. You decide.

I realize that my recent article may seem irresponsible, immature and generally lacking in good judgement. True, true, and true. 

Maybe... I’ve never grown up. Or maybe ... everyday, in front of our eyes, water-balloons take flight. They may not hit your tent, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t splash damage. 

For several hours, we all hated Dave. How dare he try to silence us. Yes, hell yes, there was resentment! 

In the middle of a concert, Dave sought each and everyone of us out. He firmly grabbed me by the arm, dragged me out of the crowd, looked me in the eye, and said the words, “I’m sorry.”

Was he sorry for cutting the bands? No. 

Dave was wrong for using his pocket knife. Just like each of us is wrong for ignoring things that happen right in front of us everyday. Just because you put your hands over your eyes, ears, or mouth, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And it certainly doesn’t mean it won’t continue to happen.

I will not attempt to justify my actions. In the end, you’ll believe what you want to believe. 

Should we cast rocks alongside our own glass houses? We are quick to notice specks in others eye, but not logs in our own. 

I do apologize if I’ve offended any of my readers. I am deeply sorry for that. It wasn’t my intent to upset anyone. I assure you, I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, rebel, or otherwise project a bad influence. 

“The difference between you and everyone else, is that you’re willing to put it all out there for the rest of the world to see... and judge.”

But I did want to tell the truth. This is real life. Real. Life.

By all means, judge me.

Let’s not forget, at the end of the night, I took a cab home... instead of driving my car down the railroad tracks. 

No individuals were harmed during the filming of Episode 62. 

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. 

Kemer

“Now WHY didn't you write this week?  This is completely unacceptable.....I look forward to Thursday's mail.”

First, let me apologize for any disappointment due to lack of last week’s episode. There’s not much point in trying to hide my neglect. I’ve already used every other excuse in the book. No, I wasn’t cut for advertising space.  Much to the frustration and disappointment of my boss, I didn’t turn in an article last week because... well, I was too busy... partying. 

But, at least there’s a good story. 

If you’ve been following me on Facebook or Twitter (Or if you aren’t, maybe you should be.), then you already know that I have finally entered full blown manhood, in the form of turning the ripe old age of 25. Yes, I can now legally rent a car. 

What better reason for crazy celebration than a quarter-century landmark! Bring on the quarter-life crisis, an addiction and a carefree attitude towards monetary spending. Maybe now you’re starting to understand where the motorcycle came from. 

From the top... both the party and hangover lasted over a week-long each. I’m not going to lie, the details are fuzzy, specifics a blur, and even main elements remain crystal unclear. Following is a recap made possible only through friends and incriminating photos. 

It’s always a good start when the tooth fairy makes an early visit. Yes, someone lost a tooth. It was a girl, and yes it was my fault. Sorry, those are all the details I can’t divulge until after a later court-date.  Oh... apparently I’m an aggressive hugger. 

Whenever my eyes came into focus, I had drink in hand. Often two. Occasionally three.  I wish I were kidding. To my credit, I was still standing at the end of night. A close friend visiting from Sun Country said, “when in doubt, ‘Puke and Rally!’” Poor girl, that will forever be her nickname. 

The night actually started the next morning. My iPhone, missing. Jeans, still on. Shirt... in two pieces. Queue recap. I vaguely remember feeling like Pierce Brosnan, having my shirt ripped off, in a scene straight out of Mamma Mia. And I had the shirt to prove it. I’m told this was executed on a dare. I do not recall. 

After which was severely downhill. After being kicked out of the club, apparently the beachfront coppers didn’t appreciate suggestive behavior on their park benches. Despite my complete obliviousness of the fuzz less than 50 feet in-front of me, shamelessness continued without hesitation. Sunrise stories revealed some nonsense of fleeing from drunk-tank apprehension. Something, something, something... PDA. 

So after denying a sketchy, creepy, dude from getting in the cab with me and three women (come on, those are just good odds), we head home. Three women, four purses.  No, I do not carry a murse. 

Almost back at crashing grounds, a ringing sound occurred. It’s at this point I try and answer my Pop-Tart. (See LettersFromHollywood.com for further explanation of what I like to call, The Pop-Tart Theory.) FAIL!!! The cab driver, completely frustrated with a very loud Kemer, three estrogen producing individuals, and Kellogg's crumbs EVERYWHERE, literally throws us out onto the street, completely unconcerned with fair. 

The next morning, still drunk, could only be corrected by a good oceanside run. 

Quick and dirty morning-after questions: What was purse-leaving clueless blonde thinking? Where the hell is my iPhone? Why is this pink phone missing a battery? Why do I have five-dozen Facebook messages? Why is there a Pop-Tart in my back-pocket? Why are my jeans still on? How did we even get home? 

Fast forward to one week later; I’m still drinking, still partying. It’s week long deja-vu. Still celebrating my youth. 

At the tail end of the erratic weekend, we tried to compare to the current blockbuster, The Hangover. I’m not going to lie... there is no comparison. We blew that out of the water. 

Common, no. Justified ,yes. Have youth, will party. Turf... insignificant. 

Until next time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. 

Kemer

“In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is Freedom, in water there is bacteria.” - Benjamin Franklin

Big E and I spent the Memorial Day weekend in Napa Valley, otherwise known as wine country. 

On the drive up, the sun was up and the top was down as we made the six hour drive up the beautiful coast. Wind in our hair and smog behind us, we were ready to begin our weekend of palate broadening. 

The weekend remains a blur. But I do recall amazing green scenery and fresh air strikingly similar to back home. And here I thought clean air was a thing of the past.

We toured the remote countryside, rode mountain gondola's, climbed castle walls and saw underground caves. All, with glass in hand. 

Three days, ten vineyards and an absurdly unknown amount of alcohol. And of course, now 14 new bottles of wine sitting in my apartment. Good weekend. Great weekend.