The worst about California = my last two years in Bel Air.

I'm moving back to Wisconsin next Wednesday the 9th. And I've been reflecting on my 11 1/4 years here in Los Angeles. Thought I'd dish the bad news first.

For seven years I lived a surreal life in a gorgeous two-story guest house on 10 acres high above Sunset. A life only a few people can relate to. The first five years were great. It's the last two years that were shit.

2004 was when I got whacked in the eye by the gardener. Whacked bad. My boss and property owner, Barbara Bollenbach did nothing. I forgave the guy who injured me - it was a stupid act but he didn't mean to hurt me. Barbara, however, did nothing at a time when I needed her the most. She didn't give me a WC claim form to fill out. She never confirmed with me that she had WC and she never reported it. I gave her the benefit of the doubt for two years (under CA law) and she did nothing. I sucked it up for TWO YEARS - waiting...and she made no offer to rectify the situation (there are more details but I'm giving you the watered down version). Only after I moved out in 2006 and sued her did she THEN report my injury to her insurance company. She even had the balls to say to me when I told her I had an eye doctor visit on a day I was to be working on her property, "You had a doctor visit on my day last week...I feel like I'm getting the short end of the stick."

I've been fighting with her insurance company since 2006. And the cheap bitch millionaire who didn't report my injury to her insurance company (for what I assume to be many reasons) has now purchased and razed two multi-million dollar properties adjacent to her own so she can expand her own acreage in order to construct a compound in order to allow her children to live close by (each of whom owes me $10 by the way).

So, as I reflect about those last two years in Bel Air and think about Barbara, I'm reminded of the words Marlon Brando spoke in a scene from Last Tango in Paris:

"You cheap, goddamn, fucking, godforsaken whore. I hope you rot in hell. You're worse than the dirtiest street pig anybody could find, and you know why? You know why? Because you lied. You lied to me and I trusted you. You lied. You knew you were lying! Go on, tell me you didn't lie. Haven't you got anything to say about that? You can think up something, can't you? Go on, tell me something! Smile, you cunt! Go on, tell me...tell me something sweet. Smile at me and say I just misunderstood. Go on, tell me. You pig-fucker! You goddamn, fucking, pig-fucking liar."

I pray you or someone you know reads this, Barb. All that money you give to charity? All those honors bestowed on you by charities - for being charitable. Bullshit. Where I come from charity begins at home. And you failed miserably at it. (Go ahead - tell me I need to "let go". Yeh...when I settle with her insurance company. Until then, go back and read the quote above.)

NOTE: If you're curious to see a virtual map shot of the property where I lived in Bel Air, click on READ MORE!


The red denotes Barbara's property line when I lived there. The blue denotes property she added while I was there but razed after I had left. The yellow is where a famous singer lived (can't tell you who) and last time I checked, that house had been razed as well - for Barbara's compound. Yet she couldn't report my WC injury to insurance company.