Darren Radar

True to it's reputation, Los Angeles is populated with pretty people. The majority of folk are regular looking, but the number of hotties is elevated here. Naturally, I notice the fact that most of the men here are thin and many of them are achingly attractive, but I have to admit that the women outdo the men in the looks department. I've literally been stopped in my tracks by female beauty on the streets of LA. In fact, I walked right passed a winner of America's Next Top Model on an LA street and was quite literally stunned at how attractive she was in person. I'm gay for the beauty, even when it undermines whatever scrape of confidence I have left. I am an unhealthy American trapped by weaknesses that stand no chance against billions of dollars in advertising and the natural instinct to look at shiny things. That is, until they start talking. Then, well, I'd rather I was talking to a magazine advertisement. Having said that, I have to admit to having had...

Like most large cities in this declining country of ours, Los Angeles has its share of homeless people. I saw them in Santa Monica when I first moved here. Stacks of tattered clothes and worried expressions juxtaposed against a backdrop of sail boats, palm trees, and volley ball games. I saw them when I worked at Second City on Hollywood Blvd. where the devastation was sharper; angry, dirty faces, shoeless cracked feet walking filthy star covered sidewalks; aggressive desperation, addiction ravaged arms and eyes. I've seen them in Downtown LA while walking from the parking structure to the LA Stage Alliance offices. The population downtown is bit heartier than the ones in Hollywood and Santa Monica. They seem smarter, more self-possessed and crafty. They each have an angle. Vets, musicians, people with signs to explain their personal plight or condition - one girl with a purple wig and scars across her face sat in front of a Coffee Bean with a pet rabbit asking for money to...

In April 2007 I began a very interesting day job at an arts service organization called LA Stage Alliance (LASA). LASA is a member based organization that offers programs services for performing arts organizations, primarily theater arts. I was hired to administer their co-operative advertising program with the Los Angeles Times. The offices are in a charming historic firehouse in downtown LA and the rest of the staff were lovely, goofy, theatre types of varying administrative abilities. I loved the job and felt like I'd landed in a good place to spend my time. The only real problem at first was the pay. I was told that due to budget issues the staff was currently under a salary freeze . Because my expenses have more than doubled since moving to LA and my hourly rate was significantly less that I was making when I left Denver, this created a problem. At the time I applied for the job at LASA I was working part time at Second City and after some intense schedule juggling I ...

Crossing the street in downtown Los Angeles one day I looked up to see the blinking red hand on the sign post across the way. I quickened my pace. There was a man in front of me and, I noticed, a women in navy shorts, navy polo top, and a bicycle helmet on the corner of the side walk facing us frantically waving her hands. I assumed she was gesturing to the man in front of me. As I reached the other side of the street the lady, who I now realized was a bicycle cop, asked me and the man in front of me to "please stand to the side." Another officer told her that he would take care of me. I was very confused and asked what was going on. The similarly clad male officer explained that I was getting a ticket for crossing the street on a steady hand. I corrected him, saying that it was a blinking hand and asked if he could explain. Apparently it's fine-able offense to cross the street in LA when the walking man symbol was not activated on the cross walk sign. I was in ...

Right before leaving Denver I met and briefly dated a lovely man named Rob. He opened my heart at a time when I was closing it down for extended renovations. After meeting Doug (seriously, I will get to the Doug post), I had to bring our romance to an end, but I have to thank him for keeping the light in my heart from going out. I have missed Denver terribly. Or rather, I have missed my circle of friends and my lover of five years. More difficult than adjusting to a ginormous west coast metropolis has been leaving behind an amazing group of actors, directors, writers and friends. This struggle has been made worse by my own insecurities about writing home. Things have not played out as I had hoped when I first came to LA. I was not terribly accomplished in Denver, but I worked fairly consistently and had work to discuss, dissect, celebrate or regret with my loved ones. In LA I've struggled. I'm new here, with little to introduce me and my age and lack of contacts remain...

AMERICA'S NEXT TOP HOMO When you're poor and you're an actor and you have a computer (which you bought on credit) that can take pictures, you find yourself on that camera a lot. Boredom, vanity, frustration, and unbridled fascination with the difference between reality and photography fuel your need to to see and be seen...by your own eyes. My lovely roommate and I have found ourselves in front of my little camera more than is wise to admit. The upside being that we've learned to take a better picture. The downside being that we have a million pictures of ourselves for no apparent reason nor to mark any particular occasion. And we're not the only ones to fall victim to the lure of the lens. My once neighbor friend, now boyfriend next door (stay tuned for the complete story) has joined us for several of our "sessions with laptop." Any agencies interested in signing the models below can comment on this post and someone will get back at you.

Horatio, my cat, my familiar, my dearest friend and companion for the past 17 years was euthanized on December 16, 2008. He had abdominal cancer and was too far gone by the time he was diagnosed to be treated. I was able to spend a lot of time with him during the month prior to his death. He had a good long life and touched many people. I will never be the same. He was many things... Kitten Face. Bo-par Little man. Pooperstien. Muffin Head. Little furry babies. Burger head. He was my comfort and a balm for my heart and soul on more occasions than can be counted. He delighted and confounded me by turn and turn and I am grateful for each. I am the better for having made his acquaintance and shared in his company. My heart is broken, but beating in gratitude for having had so long a time with this feline charmer. The night before he died Olivier's Hamlet was on TV. Not only was he named after Hamlet's best friend, but the person who introduced me to Horatio was a director (and dea...

OLD BLINKY I love my computer, but it is nearly as high maintenance as my feline companion . I bought the floor model of the Apple MacBook from the Bestbuy near my place in late 2006. It's a great machine, but in order to be able to use it for the transcription job I signed up for when I first moved to LA, I had to partition the hard drive - running the Apple environment from one portion and the Windows environment from the other. This has created a myriad of issues within both operating systems, the most recent of which is that the beta version of the program that I used to partition the hard drive is no longer available and now the only way I can make any changes is to purchase a whole new operating system from Apple. Ya know, I like Apple products quit a bit, but they really have racket going with upgrades and service. Just saying. During one of the colder days in LA, I came home to find the keyboard of my open laptop covered in cat pee. Because I had left the computer o...

CIGARETTES & CAT PEE I am not a neat freak. I wish to god I was, but dust bunnies and grime have had one up on me in nearly every apartment I've rented - the exceptions have been the times when I have lived alone. I have not luxuriated in a single occupancy scenario very often in my life, but for some reason, living alone encourages cleanliness in me. Roommates over the years have ranged from a super finicky acquaintance to a devil may care chimney stack of a best friend. But, it has not been the quality of roommate that has influence my tidying up habits - it is the mere fact of sharing a living space with another that has the duel effect of inviting disorganization to my routine as well as dampening the impulse to set things in order. I find I can live amidst the daily muck as long as the air in my home resembles something clean and/or is pleasing to the nose. I'm not a big fan of scented sprays, but readily employ incense, candles, and oils to fight back less than des...

1025 Highland The Giant People of Hollywood - Part 1 I don't know the dimensions of the signs, but they're huge. Giant pieces of patchwork fabric cover the North and South sides of the building entirely. When I'm looking down on LA from the top of Runyon Canyon I can see the sign clearly from over a mile away. An iPod ad perpetuates its iconography on the side facing the Hollywood Hills and a movie advertisement perpetuates the local industry on the side facing Downtown. The building is at least 15 stories high and half again the width of that, but it is very narrow, like each floor is made up entirely of one long hallway. When I first arrived in Hollywood the the building held up an an ad for the movie of Dreamgirls. Over the roofs of the low houses and buildings and through the palm tree tops, I could see the top half of the sign from the front door of my apartment. The back of three sequin-dressed girls as they take center stage, facing a crowd obscured by glaring ...

Horatio 17 and counting. The year has been up and down for my cat, Horatio. He's adjusted fairly well to California. He looks good and his coat has returned to its original color after having turned slightly orange-red just before the move. He has a couple new enemies, the neighbors cat and the giant raccoon that lives under the apartment building, and he's managed to escape the confines of 818 Las Palmas a few times by pushing out the screen on the large windows in the front room. He still throws up with regularity, but after a recent change to an all-Fancy-Feast-all-the-time diet, he seems to be keeping the food down much better. He has a very nice Indian vetrinarian who has treated him for the annual urinary tract infection as well as for a nasty case of fleas (something new, Colorado being so dry that fleas are rarely an issue). By all accounts he's a healthy old man of a cat (around 85 in human years). The vet and I decided to experiment a bit on Horatio earli...

Here, in no particular order, is a view from the last 365 + or so as seen in reverse reflection from a speeding car. Ahem. 818 Revisited The numbers of my address, having worn on me for a year now, seem symbolic. Mystically the numbers have to do with success and resurrection. The building is about 80 years old. The water pressure is practically non-existent. The bathroom sink and the shower have stopped up a number of times. If the link trap in the sink where the washing machine drains isn't cleanned regularly the sink will overflow. It's happened four times now. Of the four units in the building, we occupy the lower left. Just outside the windows that run along the North side of the unit is a long driveway leading to the garage in the back - a concrete canyon that broadcasts, like a speaker tube, any and every sound coming from within our apartment. Our neighbors upstairs and in the building next door are privy to our conversations, music, and the television we choose ...

Due to new and long-standing issues with time, computers, and discretion I have been criminally lax with the upkeep of this here blog. A Year in Review is scheduled to post before 2007 comes to a close. Perhaps this will calm the clicking throngs who come surfing here for the latest on yours turly...or...at least the two of you with diminished enough lives to check back here more than once - you know who you are. I'm almost ready, my darlings. Ready to reveal a year of so-so survivalism, crazy love, and time spent under the garish, pock-mark-enhancing, light of self-examination. Tune in...very soon...for the not-so glamourous account of an ex-mormon sausage chaser who decides, in the throes of mid-life, to toss his crisis smack dandy in the middle of a shiny cloud of pollution called Los Angeles.

Part I: HELLO DOLLY It was close enough that I could ride my bike from home. On the list of pros for a part-time job at Second City, this was the topper. The pay wasn't great and the hours could be better, but for someone new to the city the location was attractive, both practically and mythically. When I won the job I took it as a sign and immediately quit the full time ocean mopping gig I had across town. On a sunny Los Angeles morning I loaded my backpack-toting body onto my bike and headed North passed apartment buildings and several small movie and television studios. On the map I had printed out I had overlooked a street that bore a resemblance to my last name and was amused when I found Schrader Street on my zig-zagging path. Ten minutes from home, I rounded the corner off of Schrader, slid backward off the seat of my ten speed and - standing a foot on the lower pedal - coasted down the sidewalk. When I came to a stop my running shoe alighted on a pink marble star surrou...

A number of weeks ago I took part in my first casting director workshop. "The workshops are kind of a racket," said the actor who turned me onto them, "but it is a good way to be seen by casting directors and to network with other actors." I haven't shopped extensively for acting instruction, but I've done enough looking around to know that most classes are at least a few hundred bucks and usually lead to more classes in the same price range. At $35 a pop, casting director workshops seemed to be the most affordable way for an actor to keep his teeth white. I audited a workshop before deciding to participate. It appeared to be an awkward hybrid of a professional resource class and a practice audition...and as good a way as any to get started in LA, so I signed up. The night I attended, a casting director for The Office was running the workshop. She was pretty and polite. She spoke briefly about her agency and then grouped actors into twos and three...

Moving to LA from Denver has been a cultural baptism of sorts. While the look of many commercial buildings and cars and boulevards is disorienting-ly familiar, the rest of the city brims with voices, people, plants, and advertising that are anything but. The daily exposure to a diverse population has been overwhelming and reassuring. Somehow standing in line for take out in a Thai restaurant staffed by Korean- Anglo- and, Japanese-Americans with a crowd of patrons consisting of a gaggle of gay Aussies, a pair of botoxed British ladies, and several African-American couples causes me to feel more clearly defined. Defined as what, I'm not sure, but the feeling of definition is there. This exposure to human diversity also involves my employment experiences here. Recently I was hired as a temp at MySpace. MySpace, for those of you who don't know, is a free, on-line social networking and promotion website started two years ago as a little marketing tool for a guy who wanted so...

Two and half weeks ago I had the privilege of taking the small trek to Pasadena from Hollywood to attend a political program organized by the Interfaith Communities United for Justice and Peace. I had never heard of the ICUJP before, but by the end of the evening my indulgent despair over the American government and its people had taken quite a blow and I was faced with the kind of religious/political/cultural alchemy that lies at the core of the American promise. "ICUJP was created to support the work of Faith Leaders from Buddhist, Jewish, Christian, Islamic, Hindu, and Baha'i and other backgrounds who say, "Religious Communities Must Stop Blessing War and Violence." The program consisted of selected readings from Voices of a People's History of the United States, a book compiled and edited by Howard Zinn and Anthony Arnove. From the introduction, "I wanted my readers to experience how at key moments in our history some of the bravest and most effectiv...

Timothy James Brown has drawn Valentine's Day cards every year for his friends and loved ones for as long as I have known him. The cards range from hilarious to disarmingly sweet to just plain strange, but they are always unique and always delightful. I do not possess the skills necessary to draw him a Valentine, but I do love him and I am grateful to have him in my life and I have a keyboard in front of me. So, here's to you Timmy, one of the most romantic men I've ever met. No one can lift the mood of love like you when you smile, laugh, and honor the dizzy, dizzy light of possibility. You are Rumi dressed as an existentialist. No one else understands so clearly what love is and can be. Your stature and your generosity and how you open yourself to a room are inspiring. I don't care what that bitch in your New York singing class said, you have a lovely, lovely voice. You really get love songs. Really. Not just selfishly or because you are in love or because they ...

A few weeks ago Tim Brown, my lovely roommate and friend, managed to swing two free tickets to Carrie Fisher's one woman show, Wishful Drinking, at The Geffen Theater. Ever since seeing Postcards from the Edge I've envied the way Carrie Fisher can take her damaged parts and polish them into shiny, richly colored jewels of comedy and the opportunity to see her live had me practically giddy. We arrived early and found a pre-show reception in progress. We were not on the list of guests but I really had to pee and the reception party was nice enough to point me in the way of the boy’s room. When I returned I found Tim with a glass of wine in his hand and a face about to give birth to some news. "Okay the wine girl just came by and Debbie Reynolds is behind me." I had stopped listening at "wine girl" and started searching the room. "Behind ME, Cinderella." Said Tim with velvety exasperation. Thoughts of free wine spun me as I turned to look over T...

In LA unknown actors are not seen as real people, but they can assume a sort of vague realness in the eyes of others by resembling a celebrity. In my life I have glanced the periphery of LA realness when I've been told I remind someone of Simon Lebon, Neil Patrick Harris, Leonardo DeCaprio, Carry Grant, Garrison Keillor, and most recently Mark McKinney. I have met these comparisons with some flattery, some distain, and more than some confusion. I recently had lunch with an actor/writer friend who told me that I needed to get my look together and asked me what I thought my type was. Drenched in the uncertainty of an actor who has recently landed in LA sans trainer, dermatologist, life coach, and guru I replied, "Oh, I don't know...nerdy dad? Gay office temp?" He agreed with my assessment and said "or someone like the actor who plays the son on Desperate Housewives." Later I was told by my roommate, Tim Brown, that I should get the roles like Mark McKin...