The Poor Man's Phillip Seymour Hoffman

At Bob Hope Memorial airport it was a crystal clear day 

just north of that Los Angeles existence, 

the palms were still out on North Hollywood Way 

with the Metrolink clanging in the distance. 

Against the backdrop of Angeles National Forest 

The Poor Man's Philip Seymour Hoffman emerges
spilling out with stars and tourists 

to satisfy the most disgusting of habitual urges. 

He slips on his shades as the doors slide back 

he reaches for a smoke but there's none in the pack.

“Damn...” he spits seeing only smokeless lips, 

“better check again” patting down his pockets and hips. 

"Nobody smokes in Burbank."

The carousel switched on and started to rumble 

as he scanned new arrivals all shaded under sill, 

the first bag hit with a thick thud tumble in that 
No Smoking palazzo for packs, if you will. 

He spots some cat standing alone with a cigarette 

puffing away at the edge of the sun, 

he played piano with Miles' second great quintet 

but as far as smoking he's the only one.  

Thinking up something clever to say 

The Poor Man's Philip Seymour Hoffman went his direction,

gotta be quick 'cause he's just a few steps away, 

something cool with nonchalant inflection. 

You had better be desperate askin' for a smoke 

'cause in California nothing could be bolder,

for a better chance at a toke he made nicotine the joke

after tapping Herbie Hancock on the shoulder.

No shit.

The PMPSH rolls up and taps Herbie.  “Excuse me. I hate to hassle you or anything. Uh, I was wondering if...”  He paused and tented his fingers in front of a clenched smile, Herbie began reaching into his suit coat for a pen with an 'awe shit, I've been recognized by a white boy' look.

“And they're really expensive now and all, but I've been in coach for like, four hours and had a really shitty connection...can I get one of your smokes?”

Herbie stopped and sized him up over the rim of his sunglasses, then went for the opposite coat pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. Without a word, but a grin just tight enough to keep his lit cigarette in place, Herbie angled the open box toward him.

“Ah, thanks so much.” he said, tugging on one of the filters. Herbie said to take two, they're small, then handed him his lighter.

The two stood there side by side in silence for a minute, inhaling and exhaling that sick, succulent smoke. Tastes like shit. So good. The PMPSH is shitting himself at the idea of standing next to one of his jazz heroes, smoking after a little 'boop, gotcher nose...', cool as a cucumber. Then without breaking his gaze off  the hazeless forest foothills, the PMPSH delivers a line I'm sure blew Herbie away.

With the cigarette in his mouth and two fingers across his lips he says to Herbie, he says “By the way...I think you're incredible.”

That's how cool the PMPSH is. On stage he's a chameleon, he can take you from Victorian London to the swamps of Florida by just rearranging his beard. Letting his hair grow out or cutting is close. But it's when you really listen to him, when you really pay attention to what he's doing onstage that you start to get the idea he does just as much homework (if not more) as the real Phillip Seymour Hoffman. With the PMPSH, you get all the look and commitment at fire sale prices. Give him a decade and he'll be the Reasonably Priced John Lithgow. Actually, I'm gonna say twice the commitment because that's one of the things I really admire about this guy. He never let go of the dream.

It's always a big to-do when he comes through town on one of his thrice annual sojourns. He's the crazy brother that never shows up empty handed and fits in with any situation. We catch  up in the push-and-shove of getting ready for a dinner party in a kitchen that would be small on a two-man submarine. 

He can charm the paint off the wall, this guy. I'm always glad to see him come through, but imagine how I felt when he told me that on his most recent visit, we'd be in the second row to see Elvis Costello and the Imposters. Lemme give you an idea...this is the guy that introduced me to Tom Waits. Now, Elvis Costello is to the PMPSH what Tom Waits is to me. He's rabid about the guy. And it's contagious, this enthusiasm. Me, I've always liked Elvis. After that show, I'm a devotee. When he plays a ballad his guitar purrs, dripping of sex. Next it's got you jumping a rattle-trap train before taking a break and starting another set screamin' like a son-of-a-bitch. Elvis sweat through at least two suits, for cryin' out loud. Played for three hours, lots of crowd interaction. He walked right by, like a yard away fer crissakes. Only one little bit of disappointment, I thought I might be able to steal some of his guitar tricks but, no dice. I only saw him from the waist up when he was playing guitar, my view excellently blocked by a large, solid podium painted deep red to match The Wheel in the background. 

I had to settle for watching his Go-Go dancer jiggle.