Author
Bio:
Christopher
Paul Meyer writes noir and nonfiction. He is a former bouncer, comic,
soldier, firefighter, actor and prison chaplain. In addition
to Icarus
Falling,
he has written five screenplays, three of which were optioned and/or
commissioned. When not writing, he enjoys Brazilian Jiu Jitsu,
improv comedy and political rants delivered in an angry mumble at his
reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Author
Links -
Twitter:
ChristopherPaulMeyer @TheLoadedPen
Book
Genre: Memoir
Publisher:
Amazon Digital Services/CreateSpace
Release
Date: 12/22/14
Buy
Link(s):
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=icarus+falling
Book
Description:
The
true story of a failed actor, who - still tantalized by the promise
of LA - reinvents himself as a nightclub bouncer. Working both
downtown and on the Sunset Strip, he is thrust into the bloodstream
of LA. Amidst the unending parade of strung-out transients,
shimmering miniskirts, enraged gangbangers and unhinged party people,
he avenges his history of cowardice, atones for his past infidelities
and tries to become something better than another Hollywood casualty.
Excerpt:
I
followed George up an escalator to a plush mezzanine area with
subdued lighting. George took a long minute, studying my resume. I
acted like I didn't care. I gazed vacantly at the escalator,
watching the parade of bodies step off the moving stairway and veer
towards what was labeled the "Rooftop Elevator." There
were nine-to-fivers in khakis and Polo shirts. There were packs of
Armenians, their gold chains, 8 o'clock shadow and swagger outpacing
their blazers and t-shirts. There were Silverlake-type hipsters, with
po' boy caps, vintage shirts and tight jeans. There were black dudes
in FuBu and meatheads in TapOut. In a city as self-segregated as LA,
this seemed to be one of the few spots where you could find all 31
flavors of the city.
George
finally looked up from my resume. "Why do you think we're
called Guest Relations?"
Because
when people come to diddle themselves in a place with overstuffed
couches, subdued lighting and models walking the lobby, they don't
want to be told what to do. "Because great security starts
with caring about your guests."
George
nodded. "That's exactly right." He seemed impressed.
Hey, I could spit flowery bullshit for hours. Especially if it was
going to keep me around this place. "Sorry for keeping you
waiting."
"Not
a problem." Fake tan, perky tits and nice legs could take the
edge off any wait.
"You're
very patient." Seemed like George was reading a lot into it.
It made me wonder if he'd kept me waiting on purpose. "Is that
from being a prison chaplain?" I wasn't surprised he went
there. It's the kind of thing that tends to stand out on a resume.
"That must have been a hard job."
Yeah,
right. I wasn't telling the inmates where to sit, sleep, shower
or eat. I wasn't breaking up fights. Now that's a hard job.
I only had to talk to men who wanted to talk to me. "It's easy
to talk to people at the bottom. It's the ones in the Hamptons that
don't wanna listen."
George
nodded. I got the feeling this wasn't the typical interview for him.
He seemed intrigued. Well, I hoped he seemed intrigued.
"You know you may need to get physical here though."
"I
got no problem with that."
George
was a great listener. He gauged my reactions, read my mannerisms.
He kept the questions sparse, letting me fill in the blanks.
Fortunately
for George, I love to talk.
Yes,
I was looking for as many hours as possible. No, I had no other
work commitments. Yeah, I'd played a lot of judo and rugby. No, I
wasn’t gonna be some MMA thug. Yes, I was religious. No, I wasn't
a Puritan. I had no problem working with people that were high,
drunk or naked. I didn’t tell him how much I was actually looking
forward to it.
By
the end of the interview, George and I had clicked. We had a few
things in common. We were both college grads. We were both walk-ons
at NCAA Division I teams -- him for Clemson's basketball team, me for
William and Mary's football team. I mean, we weren't BFF's
spray-painting hearts and our initials on freeway underpasses or
anything. But we seemed to understand each other.
George
put down his list of questions. "You ever been called a fucking
whiteboy?"
Say
what?
“Or
cracker?” George’s voice was low and calm. “What if I called
your mom a whore?” His eyes drilled into me. “What if I told
you to suck my dick?”
I
could see the hypothetical looming behind his poker face, so I didn’t
bite.
George
smiled. "Be ready. You’re gonna hear all of that. And more.
There's a lot of nights you're gonna go home angry." I didn't
doubt it. "You're gonna wanna take it out on your girl."
That
was an easy fix. "I don't have one."
A
bemused smile wafted across his face. "You're gonna wanna keep
it that way. Relationships are…" He searched for the right
words. "...difficult here." One of the models strutted
past us. "You know what I mean?" He smiled knowingly at
me.
Being
told to stay single? "I'm OK with that."
George
extended his hand. "I think you will be." I hoped he was
right.
"So,
you wanna take a look at the place?"
I
wasn't sure if that meant I had the gig or not. But either way, the
answer was yes.
Guest Post: 5 Fun Books I'll
Never Forget
In the face of brutal criticism, Mickey Spillane once said “Those bigshot writers
could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts
consumed than caviar.” I’ve rarely been that guy in the black
turtleneck reading James Joyce with a tear in my eye. More often, I’m mercilessly, ruthlessly
in search of a compelling, fun read that I can’t put down. As a reader, I respect caviar, but I these
are the peanuts I just gotta have.
The
Kid Stays in the Picture by Robert Evans. I read it during the summer before I moved
fulltime to Los Angeles. I didn’t know
how prophetic it would become for me. I
was too busy smirking at the one-liners, shaking my head at the stories and
developing my own crush on Ali McGraw. I
hated that the book had to end.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. This was a
high school assignment that I couldn’t believe I liked. It’s horrifying, moving and gripping, but you
know all that. My favorite part? The narrator.
Something about this objective third party finding himself trapped in
the story always intrigued me.
Hells
Angels: Into the Abyss by Yves Lavigne. I read this during my acting days while I was
on a national tour. We traveled by bus,
crisscrossing the Dakotas, Minnesota, Texas, West Virginia, staying for, at
most, two nights in any one place.
Reading about the exploits of the FBI’s first confidential informant in
the Hells Angels, while crossing paths with bikers on the highway made the book
3-D for me. A fascinating character study
that I’ve never forgotten. When the
author lives on an isolated farm due to death threats and the protagonist lives
in motels and sleeps in the bathtub with a shotgun to avoid retaliation, you
know it’s going to be one hell of a ride.
I,
the Jury by Mickey Spillane. My dad bought this for me, since he had loved
reading Mickey Spillane as a kid. I
loved it. Sure, the characters and plot
are almost stereotypical now, but that’s what happens when you set the bar for
your time.
Ghost
Wars by Steve Coll.
OK, it’s not your average fun, summertime read. It’s a monstrous 736 pages. I read it in four days. I had just landed in LA, I was unemployed and
on the verge of homelessness. Burying
myself in a nonfiction account of spy games during the Cold War might have been
the most useless thing I could do. I
still did it.
Schedule
June 23 - Reviewed at Virtual Hobby Store And Coffee Haus
June 29 - Guest Blogging at Bellevue Book Reviews
July 2 - Guest Blogging at Infinite House Of Books
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