***** The first thing I notice when his motorcycle rolls up the long, cracked-cement driveway to his bungalow house is the 1959 Cadillac hearse. ” Brandon shoots me a mega-watt, chipped-tooth smile, “It’s great for camping.” “You’re not doing the whole James Dean thing are you? “After you, milady,” he offers the beanbag like a Seventeenth Century highborn baron-robber straight off the set of The Three Musketeers. It isn’t until the fifth message that I realize what’s happened. I search for a weapon I can brandish other than my tennis shoes when I hear a woman’s voice, emotional, urgent…
The series is based on the 2010 film Catfish and is co-hosted by Nev Schulman and Max Joseph.
You want him to are aware of that he can truly relax around the customer.
He does not want to feel stressed when with that you.
He’s confident, cocky and romantic, but rarely vulnerable. He played Flea, a hard-edged incarcerated criminal, and I sat in the front row of the audience so close to him I could’ve plucked the cigarette he inexpertly sucked right out of his mouth.
He’s larger than life, given to grand gestures and grandstanding. But it wasn’t until he walked onstage, chock-full of charisma, that my heart throbbed like a teeny-bopper at a David Cassidy concert circa 1975.
Legendary martial artist and actor Bruce Lee’s charismatic son, Brandon Lee, was carving a name of his own in film when he died tragically on the set of the gothic, comic film is Here. I figure it’s my old college roommate calling after anchoring the eleven o’clock news at KSBW Monterey. I jump in my shoe-skate Honda and pull out of my garage in sixty seconds flat. When I arrive I find Brandon in his bedroom huddled under his heavy duvet. I climb into bed next to him, put my arms around him. In the grainy footage Bruce Lee’s corpse rests in an open casket displayed to all in a throng-filled square that’s a paparazzi/media circus. Brandon’s mom, Linda, wearing short brown hair, maintains a stoic expression behind dark sunglasses until she’s led to the casket and sees her husband. I sit at a table despondently finishing my beer when I feel two hands placed on either of my shoulders. “I guess I am.” “Good,” I say with a confidence I wish I had when it came to auditions. On the day Brandon dies I work the lunch shift at a Santa Monica restaurant called Ocean Avenue Seafood. But when I get home around three o’clock there are twenty-three messages on my answering machine.