Right now, our nation is in economic turmoil. People are losing their jobs right and left, and big companies, the ones that aren’t going belly-up that is, are laying off large chunks of their work force. The United States is staring down the worst recession in eighty years, and I’m starting anew in a California economy running on life support after a writers strike and an impending actors strike. I am so grateful to have a job right now, you have no idea, even if it is a job meant for seventeen-year olds that need gas money so they can drive to their magic shows or buy magazines to flip through or whatever the hell it is kids do these days for fun.
Tonight was my first night of work. Myself, along with the other one they hired on to do the job had an evening of training. One of the coordinators (think assistant manager) sat us down and went through a packet of information that told us all the ins and outs of the job. We each took a turn reading a paragraph; similar to what you probably remember doing when you were in second grade. Remember how you would groan and roll your eyes when it came time for the kid to read that had problems with all consonants and you just could not wait for them to finish so that someone competent could do their thing and continue the march of time? The other hire had a tough time getting through his first paragraph. It took approximately three minutes longer than it should have to navigate to the space break. He fumbled over words like “similar” and “greeting.” Whatever. I’ve already seen the fruits of the labor of the California school system. This does not come as shocking, simply disappointing.
I proceeded to read my paragraph with the utmost of ease. Thanks for reading to me when I was younger, Mom. Also, for not giving me Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.
Then it came time for the coordinator to read (remember: coordinator=assistant manager). The coordinator was having just as much trouble as the other new hire getting through his paragraph. That was disheartening for several reasons. But you, dear reader, probably see this as disheartening for your own reasons, so I’ll let you fill in the blanks yourself.
After writing my signature and date multiple times on several different sheets of paper regarding protocol we didn’t actually go over, it was time for hands-on training. I liken it to taking center stage at a Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus show, but I have been known to embellish things before, and this time is no exception.
Tonight, we were trained on how to seat guests of the theater. This involves waiting for a guest to arrive with a ticket, walking them up the aisles to their designated row and seat, march back down the stairs and proceed to wait for the next guest. That’s it. And I’m getting paid $9.00 an hour to do it. I worked at a grocery store as an assistant manager for that rate, where a slow day consisted of doing the nightly bookwork, hopping on a cash register when lines got too long, running stock, solving any grievances that came up regarding a food stamp card that had been used so many times the electronic strip would no longer read, and keeping a Bosnian from cracking the skull of some black guy with a tire iron. I worked at a meat packing plant for $9.00 an hour with a man from Laos named Tom Rasavong (enough said). Now I’m getting paid $9.00 to show people to their seats at a movie maybe a dozen times an hour. Once all the movies go in, there is nothing required of me until it’s time for a movie to let out, at which time I open the door and thank people for frequenting our theater. It feels like there is more that I need to be doing. Should I be building something? Maybe do some high dusting? Any pedophiles in a van out front I need to call the cops on? Nope. I was told just to seat and not worry about anything else. After the shows have started, I find myself wandering in and out of theaters, watching tidbits of several different movies over the course of my shift. Within the first week I’ll have probably watched the semi truck flip over in “The Dark Knight” at least two dozen times. I’m strangely drawn to “Vicki Christina Barcelona.” I’m not a huge Woody Allen fan and had never actually seen one of his films until a couple years ago when a certain someone turned me on to them. Yet, I keep coming in time and again to watch it. Maybe it’s because the other movies playing right now include some snobby French film called, “Tell No One,” that has such overt symbolism it would make Oliver Stone blush, a documentary called, “Man On Wire,” (which I predict you will come to know as an Academy Award winning film in 2009) that is really a movie you don’t want to just jump into select parts of (plus, it too, has a glut of French people in it), “Bottle Shock,” a movie about wine (again, too French), “Traitor,” starring Don “Hey, Remember When I Was Bankable In Everything? Remember?” Cheadle, and “Mister Foe,” a movie starring the boy that was Billy Elliot.
As things would have it, I made my first industry connections at Mister Foe. I seated two gentlemen the next night, whose names were Brian Taggert, a writer, and Bob Thompson, a producer. After asking if I were in actor, I explained to them that no, I was a stunt performer/ writer. If I had still had my nametag from the Santa Monica rooftop pool party, there would not have been any question as to what I was. Nevertheless, we chatted until the movie started, exchanged information, and made plans to talk in the future.
When the call of duty is not calling for me and I’m not sneaking in to watch The Joker perform a magic trick, I talk to the other people I work with. Most are high school kids; some are young community college upstarts. As I do so, I carry somewhat an heir of superiority about me, coming as no surprise to anyone that has ever talked to me. However, this is different because I feel this job and the current situation is below me. Yet, seeing as how this is the only job I’m apparently qualified for, maybe my erudition is falsely acquired. Maybe this is exactly where I belong. No, that’s not true. I know the difference between a nickel and a quarter, and I also know not to put them in my mouth and swallow them (we’ll keep working on that one, Max. Remember, baby steps). But hey, it’s a start. Something to keep me in Los Angeles until something more up my alley comes along.
Returning home to the hostel, Ruby and Rose were already asleep, as it was past 8:00. Both need approximately ten hours of sleep a night, and then they awaken early so they can get a start on tilling. That left me alone with a glum Sait. He was sitting at the dining room table, catching up on episodes of “24.” I went up and asked, “Hey Sait. How was your day?”
“I miss Marko,” was his response.
Poor guy. Sait arrived from Turkey around the same time Marko showed up in California andboth hit it off immediately. They would wake up at the same time, spend practically every waking moment together, and both turned in at the same time every night. They were inseparable—like Steven Tyler and Joe Perry, or Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar, or Jay and Skittles. Now, circumstance has driven them apart.
Fortunately, during one of my breaks at work—okay, not so much a break as it was down time—I made a Marko finger puppet for Sait and that kept him busy for hours.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
You Get Job!
Round two of the job interview went down today. This time I had to face down the manager known as Nida. After a grueling twenty minutes of interview questions, she handed me my first job in California—floor staff at The Landmark Theatre. Mark this momentous occasion, September 8, 2008, on your calendars, people. I was informed I was one of two people to make the cut. Take that all you high school sophomores and juniors. I took your job. Guess you’ll have to bum marijuana cigarettes off mommy and daddy for a little bit longer.
For whatever reason, I felt pretty good about myself after this slight victory, so I celebrated. On my drive back up Pico, I hit up a Ralphs and bought a half-gallon of chocolate milk and a bag of chicken.
The celebration continued. Remember the greasy longhaired ponytail guy? He was pretty confident that he dropped a $100 dollar Go America! bill through a crack in the patio in the back yard of the hostel, so I watched him for about half an hour, bent over, ass crack peeking out over his faded black jeans, trying to retrieve this imaginary money with a car antennae smeared with cake frosting on the tip. Even after I lost interest in the spectacle, he continued on, pursuing this $100 bill well into the early hours of the next morning. I also couldn’t help but think that if instead of trying to retrieve this money, if he went out and worked for a day or two, he could recoup his loss. But I think he worked a day already this month, so maybe the antennae/frosting technique is the best alternative.
This job couldn’t have come at a better time. For one, Ruby and Rose will be leaving at the end of the week, so I’m going to need something to do to while away the time. For two, I’m practically broke. I have just about enough money to return to Iowa on, which I don’t want to do. It’s only been a month. I still want to try my best to survive at least until the first of the year out here.
Although later that night, a harsh reality set in—Marko informed us he was heading back to New Jersey. It was abrupt and came out of nowhere. We were all stunned. His plane was to leave early the next morning. Previously, he had been working part-time on a paint crew run by a distant relation. This job was not proving viable to pay for the extremely high cost of living out here. Having already lost Hiro, losing Marko was another constant exiting the hostel.
Such is life; people entering and exiting on a whim. By the end of the week, Ruby and Rose will be leaving. We have cell phone numbers. We have emails. We’ll stay in touch. But it won’t ever be the same. We’ll always have that special bond of the six glorious weeks we spent living the hostel life together, and who knows? Maybe our lives will intertwine again. Stranger things have happened. But no matter what, it won’t be the same as it was. Such is life.
For whatever reason, I felt pretty good about myself after this slight victory, so I celebrated. On my drive back up Pico, I hit up a Ralphs and bought a half-gallon of chocolate milk and a bag of chicken.
The celebration continued. Remember the greasy longhaired ponytail guy? He was pretty confident that he dropped a $100 dollar Go America! bill through a crack in the patio in the back yard of the hostel, so I watched him for about half an hour, bent over, ass crack peeking out over his faded black jeans, trying to retrieve this imaginary money with a car antennae smeared with cake frosting on the tip. Even after I lost interest in the spectacle, he continued on, pursuing this $100 bill well into the early hours of the next morning. I also couldn’t help but think that if instead of trying to retrieve this money, if he went out and worked for a day or two, he could recoup his loss. But I think he worked a day already this month, so maybe the antennae/frosting technique is the best alternative.
This job couldn’t have come at a better time. For one, Ruby and Rose will be leaving at the end of the week, so I’m going to need something to do to while away the time. For two, I’m practically broke. I have just about enough money to return to Iowa on, which I don’t want to do. It’s only been a month. I still want to try my best to survive at least until the first of the year out here.
Although later that night, a harsh reality set in—Marko informed us he was heading back to New Jersey. It was abrupt and came out of nowhere. We were all stunned. His plane was to leave early the next morning. Previously, he had been working part-time on a paint crew run by a distant relation. This job was not proving viable to pay for the extremely high cost of living out here. Having already lost Hiro, losing Marko was another constant exiting the hostel.
Such is life; people entering and exiting on a whim. By the end of the week, Ruby and Rose will be leaving. We have cell phone numbers. We have emails. We’ll stay in touch. But it won’t ever be the same. We’ll always have that special bond of the six glorious weeks we spent living the hostel life together, and who knows? Maybe our lives will intertwine again. Stranger things have happened. But no matter what, it won’t be the same as it was. Such is life.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
An Open Letter to Geneball
Mr. Ball,
I believe it was Wayne Newton who famously said for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. To put it in layman’s terms, if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, so too must there be a tree not falling over and someone is in fact there to hear it.
Which brings me to the concept of the good luck penny. As a scientist of science, you seemed to be the leading authority to turn to on such manners. But first, a little back-story:
The other day someone showed me his good luck penny.
First and foremost, I feel it is necessary to establish if it is within the realm of plausibility for such a thing as a good luck penny to exist. How does one measure the different gradients of luck found in a penny, or is one good luck penny just as lucky as the next good luck penny? If it is conceivable for a good luck penny to exist, is it not also conceivable for bad luck penny(s) to exist? Again, do they have different degrees of bad luck attached to them, or does their bad luck come at a flat rate?
What about an indifferent penny? If superhero movies have taught us anything, it is that nothing is painted in black and white. So perhaps there is such a thing as a gray area penny, a yin and yang penny if you will, that neither affect luck one way or the other.
After showing me the good luck penny, this person proceeded to introduce me to their good luck Go America! dollar, which of course, raised more questions. Is it possible for other denominations of currency to carry with them a specific luck factor—perhaps the pence, the rupee, or peso? What about other objects altogether? Is it possible to have good luck zip cords, love seats, and hot dog buns? Or is the luck a characteristic of only a select few forms of objects, similarly to how Asians are blessed with the ability to do math really well?
It seems like after finding one lucky penny, the chances of finding more lucky objects would increase, lest of course, there are lots of unlucky objects acting against it. I don’t know. You are the scientist. In theory, I am a theoretician that theorizes theories, not a scientist, so aside from proposing these issues, I am useless when it comes to pursuing these issues further than the hypothesis stage. Please let me know what your scientific method finds.
Sincerely,
V.
To read Geneball's beautiful mind, copy and paste the below thing to your internet thing:
http://geneball.blogspot.com/
I believe it was Wayne Newton who famously said for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. To put it in layman’s terms, if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, so too must there be a tree not falling over and someone is in fact there to hear it.
Which brings me to the concept of the good luck penny. As a scientist of science, you seemed to be the leading authority to turn to on such manners. But first, a little back-story:
The other day someone showed me his good luck penny.
First and foremost, I feel it is necessary to establish if it is within the realm of plausibility for such a thing as a good luck penny to exist. How does one measure the different gradients of luck found in a penny, or is one good luck penny just as lucky as the next good luck penny? If it is conceivable for a good luck penny to exist, is it not also conceivable for bad luck penny(s) to exist? Again, do they have different degrees of bad luck attached to them, or does their bad luck come at a flat rate?
What about an indifferent penny? If superhero movies have taught us anything, it is that nothing is painted in black and white. So perhaps there is such a thing as a gray area penny, a yin and yang penny if you will, that neither affect luck one way or the other.
After showing me the good luck penny, this person proceeded to introduce me to their good luck Go America! dollar, which of course, raised more questions. Is it possible for other denominations of currency to carry with them a specific luck factor—perhaps the pence, the rupee, or peso? What about other objects altogether? Is it possible to have good luck zip cords, love seats, and hot dog buns? Or is the luck a characteristic of only a select few forms of objects, similarly to how Asians are blessed with the ability to do math really well?
It seems like after finding one lucky penny, the chances of finding more lucky objects would increase, lest of course, there are lots of unlucky objects acting against it. I don’t know. You are the scientist. In theory, I am a theoretician that theorizes theories, not a scientist, so aside from proposing these issues, I am useless when it comes to pursuing these issues further than the hypothesis stage. Please let me know what your scientific method finds.
Sincerely,
V.
To read Geneball's beautiful mind, copy and paste the below thing to your internet thing:
http://geneball.blogspot.com/
Friday, December 5, 2008
A Landmark Moment
After a night of carefully crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s on my application for the movie theater, I got up bright and early around 10:30am so I could be at the open interview at noon.
A little about the Landmark Theatre:
It’s quite immaculate. First, it takes up an entire side of the mall, it is three stories tall, the bottom floor being renovated to put in a restaurant, and the second two floors house twelve movie theaters between themselves. It has your typical amenities you find at a any movie theater—box office, concession stand, ticket taker, etc.—but it goes above and beyond in so many ways. When purchasing tickets, you pick out the seat you want at the same time. That seat is then reserved for you and you alone. The concession stand has your standard Raisnets (milk chocolate and dark) and Milk Duds, but also has Hebrew National Hotdogs, pizzas, Toblerone (milk chocolate and dark) and something called a Tim Tam, which later I find out is a delicious Australian chocolate wafer snack. Once you pass the ticket taker, there are employees there to show you to your reserved seat. Before the movie starts, someone presents the movie, it’s title, running time, and MPAA rating, all while trying to pimp some wares available at the concierge desk, such as DVDs, soundtracks, and books based on the movie you are about to see.
The place is nice. However, as I sat waiting in the wine bar (there’s a wine bar) with my neatly composed application, across from a bunch of sixteen and seventeen-year olds, one whose application was folded in half, and a girl, who upon learning that I was from Iowa, asked me, “Oh, where’s that at?”, I felt the most humiliated quite possibly ever in my life. On the other hand, right now I’m jobless, so beggars can’t be choosers. On the other hand, upon asking these kids what their plans were after graduating high school, they stared blankly at me before one of them chirped up and asked, “What do you mean?”
After this display of the merits of the California school system, I went into the interview quite confident. Seeing as how I could enunciate words without drooling and understand the first half of this sentence without getting confused, I should be fine. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll be fine, all things considered.
The interview went swimmingly. General interview questions were asked. General interview questions were answered. I was asked back for a follow-up interview, which I had to sign up for at the concierge desk. There, I met someone named Xavier and Spencer. Spencer assured me I’d love working here and wished me luck on Monday.
Part II of my day involved driving down to posh Santa Monica for a meet and greet with a bunch of people in the industry. How did I learn about such an event? A large woman living at the hostel who is quite unpleasant to be around and converse with, informed me of it, and since I ignore all of her other attempts to get me to go to things, I thought today I should reciprocate the offer with a quick appearance just so she’d leave me alone.
After driving around for twenty minutes looking for a parking space, I found one in a supermarket’s lot reserved for customers of that supermarket’s lot only. Violators would be towed at owner’s expense. Gotta love California.
The box social itself was on the rooftop of an apartment complex. A quick description of the party would look alarmingly like the pool scene from “Boogie Nights.” The centerpiece of the get together was of course, the rooftop pool. No one was actually swimming in it, but it forced people to huddle closer together and converse. There was a potluck barbecue to the side where I ingested as much free food as I could. Not ironic at all, so too was the large woman that invited me to the party to begin with.
Everyone was wearing a “Hi, My Name Is” nametag on their shirts. People would give their name and their profession. There was Steve, a director/writer, and Brad, an actor/writer, and Rhonda, producer/writer and on and on down the line. It seems as though everyone here is a writer of some sort. To break the mold, on my nametag, I wrote writer/stunt performer. I listened to several of these people rattle on and on about what they did while I shoveled handfuls of free Ruffles into my gullet. For all of the actors/writers, directors/writers, clergymen/writers in attendance, not a single one of them had directed, acted, produced, lighted, mixed a damn thing. You’d imagine all of that time not doing what they said they did would leave them plenty of time to write. But no, no one had actually written anything either. They all had ideas for things they wanted to write—shorts and features and webisodes—but no one had actually written anything down. This blog entry alone probably has more words written than the cumulative of everyone else on that rooftop. This wasn’t a party for people in the industry. It was a party for industry wannabes to get together and sound like they were somebody. To that extent, everyone was quite successful.
After excusing myself from a discussion with one of the caterers/writers, I hightailed it back to my not towed car and cruised down the Ten back to hostel purgatory for the final act.
Having been in Los Angeles for over a month at this point, outside of Venice Beach, I had yet to do any touristy things. That all changed when Ben took me down to the Hollywood Bowl. This is where the Walk of Fame I skimmed previously rests, along with the Kodak Theater, the Scientology Museum, and other Hollywood attractions you’ve always heard about but have never seen reside.
It’s also worth noting that everything you would associate with Hollywood resides within a two block diameter. It’s also not as glitzy and glamorous as you might think. It’s quite dirty, actually. Bums and panderers are everywhere. So is their poo. But you can spend a lot of time in that area, like Ben and I did this particular evening. In traffic alone for those two blocks, Ben and I were there for an hour and a half. We were in a parking garage for another half hour looking for parking, then spent about 15 minutes seeing all the sights to be seen.
Ben and I went to a rock n’ roll concert so Ben could see a friend. Shortly after our ears started to bleed, we left, agreeing the no-name band performing wasn’t worth permanent hearing loss, nor was the friend, who clearly didn’t mind the thumping bass that jiggled your stomach acids. Fortunately, Gramm’s Chinese Theater was close by and we stood in a bunch of living and dead actor’s cemented footprints. It’s worth noting that John Wayne’s feet are beyond tiny. They are maybe one size larger than a newborn baby’s foot. His tough guy persona must be to compensate for something. Will Smith’s feet are about the size of my forearm. Big Willie Style indeed. But Burt Reynolds’s feet were juuuuuust right.
Being close to midnight at this point, Ben and I decided to pack up and head home—Ben because he had to get up early and work the next day, me because I aged 34 years the day I turned 23 and was tired at this point. So ended another glitzy, glamorous, superficial Hollywood day.
A little about the Landmark Theatre:
It’s quite immaculate. First, it takes up an entire side of the mall, it is three stories tall, the bottom floor being renovated to put in a restaurant, and the second two floors house twelve movie theaters between themselves. It has your typical amenities you find at a any movie theater—box office, concession stand, ticket taker, etc.—but it goes above and beyond in so many ways. When purchasing tickets, you pick out the seat you want at the same time. That seat is then reserved for you and you alone. The concession stand has your standard Raisnets (milk chocolate and dark) and Milk Duds, but also has Hebrew National Hotdogs, pizzas, Toblerone (milk chocolate and dark) and something called a Tim Tam, which later I find out is a delicious Australian chocolate wafer snack. Once you pass the ticket taker, there are employees there to show you to your reserved seat. Before the movie starts, someone presents the movie, it’s title, running time, and MPAA rating, all while trying to pimp some wares available at the concierge desk, such as DVDs, soundtracks, and books based on the movie you are about to see.
The place is nice. However, as I sat waiting in the wine bar (there’s a wine bar) with my neatly composed application, across from a bunch of sixteen and seventeen-year olds, one whose application was folded in half, and a girl, who upon learning that I was from Iowa, asked me, “Oh, where’s that at?”, I felt the most humiliated quite possibly ever in my life. On the other hand, right now I’m jobless, so beggars can’t be choosers. On the other hand, upon asking these kids what their plans were after graduating high school, they stared blankly at me before one of them chirped up and asked, “What do you mean?”
After this display of the merits of the California school system, I went into the interview quite confident. Seeing as how I could enunciate words without drooling and understand the first half of this sentence without getting confused, I should be fine. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll be fine, all things considered.
The interview went swimmingly. General interview questions were asked. General interview questions were answered. I was asked back for a follow-up interview, which I had to sign up for at the concierge desk. There, I met someone named Xavier and Spencer. Spencer assured me I’d love working here and wished me luck on Monday.
Part II of my day involved driving down to posh Santa Monica for a meet and greet with a bunch of people in the industry. How did I learn about such an event? A large woman living at the hostel who is quite unpleasant to be around and converse with, informed me of it, and since I ignore all of her other attempts to get me to go to things, I thought today I should reciprocate the offer with a quick appearance just so she’d leave me alone.
After driving around for twenty minutes looking for a parking space, I found one in a supermarket’s lot reserved for customers of that supermarket’s lot only. Violators would be towed at owner’s expense. Gotta love California.
The box social itself was on the rooftop of an apartment complex. A quick description of the party would look alarmingly like the pool scene from “Boogie Nights.” The centerpiece of the get together was of course, the rooftop pool. No one was actually swimming in it, but it forced people to huddle closer together and converse. There was a potluck barbecue to the side where I ingested as much free food as I could. Not ironic at all, so too was the large woman that invited me to the party to begin with.
Everyone was wearing a “Hi, My Name Is” nametag on their shirts. People would give their name and their profession. There was Steve, a director/writer, and Brad, an actor/writer, and Rhonda, producer/writer and on and on down the line. It seems as though everyone here is a writer of some sort. To break the mold, on my nametag, I wrote writer/stunt performer. I listened to several of these people rattle on and on about what they did while I shoveled handfuls of free Ruffles into my gullet. For all of the actors/writers, directors/writers, clergymen/writers in attendance, not a single one of them had directed, acted, produced, lighted, mixed a damn thing. You’d imagine all of that time not doing what they said they did would leave them plenty of time to write. But no, no one had actually written anything either. They all had ideas for things they wanted to write—shorts and features and webisodes—but no one had actually written anything down. This blog entry alone probably has more words written than the cumulative of everyone else on that rooftop. This wasn’t a party for people in the industry. It was a party for industry wannabes to get together and sound like they were somebody. To that extent, everyone was quite successful.
After excusing myself from a discussion with one of the caterers/writers, I hightailed it back to my not towed car and cruised down the Ten back to hostel purgatory for the final act.
Having been in Los Angeles for over a month at this point, outside of Venice Beach, I had yet to do any touristy things. That all changed when Ben took me down to the Hollywood Bowl. This is where the Walk of Fame I skimmed previously rests, along with the Kodak Theater, the Scientology Museum, and other Hollywood attractions you’ve always heard about but have never seen reside.
It’s also worth noting that everything you would associate with Hollywood resides within a two block diameter. It’s also not as glitzy and glamorous as you might think. It’s quite dirty, actually. Bums and panderers are everywhere. So is their poo. But you can spend a lot of time in that area, like Ben and I did this particular evening. In traffic alone for those two blocks, Ben and I were there for an hour and a half. We were in a parking garage for another half hour looking for parking, then spent about 15 minutes seeing all the sights to be seen.
Ben and I went to a rock n’ roll concert so Ben could see a friend. Shortly after our ears started to bleed, we left, agreeing the no-name band performing wasn’t worth permanent hearing loss, nor was the friend, who clearly didn’t mind the thumping bass that jiggled your stomach acids. Fortunately, Gramm’s Chinese Theater was close by and we stood in a bunch of living and dead actor’s cemented footprints. It’s worth noting that John Wayne’s feet are beyond tiny. They are maybe one size larger than a newborn baby’s foot. His tough guy persona must be to compensate for something. Will Smith’s feet are about the size of my forearm. Big Willie Style indeed. But Burt Reynolds’s feet were juuuuuust right.
Being close to midnight at this point, Ben and I decided to pack up and head home—Ben because he had to get up early and work the next day, me because I aged 34 years the day I turned 23 and was tired at this point. So ended another glitzy, glamorous, superficial Hollywood day.
Monday, November 17, 2008
It Hurts To Swallow
After a wild last week, this week was about as mundane and uneventful as you can possibly imagine. Since the majority of my reader base is from Iowa, you can possibly imagine. The general breakdown is this: I sat at my computer, applying for about five jobs a day, hearing nothing back from any of them, and spending my evenings with Rose and Ruby. I was more than happy to do the latter. Rose and Ruby are great. The hostel and its inhabitants have taken the form of a perverse surrogate family, and Rose and Ruby feel like the siblings I can relate to the most because either, a.) they speak English, b.) are not absolutely bat shit insane, or c.) are closest to me in age and interests. To stick with that analogy, Gweat’s is our older brother that came back from the war…a bit different. I will be sad to see Rose and Ruby leave to go back to Ohio next week. Very sad. But the former, me not being able to land a job, is getting somewhat obnoxious and scary.
As an English major, I am no stranger to feelings of inadequacy. But to have graduated from a respectable college (an oxymoron, and a phrase used maybe more than it should be) at the top of my class, coupled with a strong work ethic and can-do attitude, and still not being able to land a single entry level position job is disheartening. To not even hear anything back from a one of them is simply humiliating.
So be it. I’m in the eleventh hour now. My funds are evaporating. It’s do-or-die time. My options are either to find a job, any job, no matter how below me I think it is in order to stay in California, or trek across the country in the Cougar back home, broke and broken, live with Jay and his current wife until I can land a menial job, save up money to return to California on, and return to California, and start from scratch again. Might as well cut out the middle-man and try to make it out here.
I chewed up my pride and swallowed it. The taste and consistency reminded me of Children’s Tylenol. Then I got out there and pounded the pavement. The Cougar and I strolled up and down Pico Blvd. looking for jobs. I picked up applications for Starbucks, Subway, Barnes & Noble, and any store I saw that might have high turnover rates and low standards for what they hire. I happened across a movie theater that just so happens to be having open interviews tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to work at a movie theater, seeing as how I love movies and they are the reason I left for Los Angeles in the first place, but the opportunity has never been feasible until now. Besides, I’ll need something to do when Rose and Ruby leave.
Returning to the hostel, I banged out a few applications before preparing to meet up with Ben for what is becoming a weekend tradition. Over the past several weeks, we’ve frequented a karaoke bar in Burbank called Dimples. Aside from the Gaza Strip, I think you’ll be hard pressed to find a more unpleasant experience in this world than the one you’ll have at Dimples. But that’s a story for a blog I didn’t write. Tonight, Ben and I met with a fellow Iowan making her way out in California named Christy and her fiancé Wayland.
Through circumstances out of my control, I arrived in Burbank to meet with Ben later than expected. Then, Ben and I got lost on our way to the meeting place roughly three miles away from Ben’s apartment. Christy and Wayland were kind enough to not mind we showed up forty minutes late. Or if they did, they covered it up really well.
It was nice to meet with two people that have a similar background to myself. Even in the global village we all now live in, where everything is homogenized, everyone has access to the same everything, and the world is very much at our fingertips, that common bond goes a long way. We know of the same streets and buildings and things and people, and have similar ideals. That goes a long way when you’re in unfamiliar territory. It gives complete strangers an automatic linking bond.
Christy informed Ben and I that Ashley Tinsdale, a High School Musical alum was eating at the same restaurant as us. Neither Ben nor I knew it was Ashley Tinsdale—we only saw a group of attractive girls sitting at a table outside—one of which happened to be a popular actress. This will be my first run-in with a celebrity to my knowledge in Los Angeles. I could also give a damn less. That’s not to say I don’t find it cool to be eating at the same restaurant as someone famous, but I don’t get too hopped up just because someone has been in a highly popular television movie(s). Now, if Jack Nicholson were to be within a football field’s length from me, chances are I would start to infinitely crap my pants. I respect his work as an actor, I’ve read many an interview with him, and love what he has to say about life and the lessons he’s learned along the way. I would get star-struck for someone like Jack. But it’s based around a respect for what he does and how he does it. It is out of an appreciation for his craft, not just because he is a recognizable face and a marquee name. Oddly enough, I tend to react the same way when I hear an ice cream truck and its driver.
After the celebrity dinner, it was back to the hostel, back to reality.
As an English major, I am no stranger to feelings of inadequacy. But to have graduated from a respectable college (an oxymoron, and a phrase used maybe more than it should be) at the top of my class, coupled with a strong work ethic and can-do attitude, and still not being able to land a single entry level position job is disheartening. To not even hear anything back from a one of them is simply humiliating.
So be it. I’m in the eleventh hour now. My funds are evaporating. It’s do-or-die time. My options are either to find a job, any job, no matter how below me I think it is in order to stay in California, or trek across the country in the Cougar back home, broke and broken, live with Jay and his current wife until I can land a menial job, save up money to return to California on, and return to California, and start from scratch again. Might as well cut out the middle-man and try to make it out here.
I chewed up my pride and swallowed it. The taste and consistency reminded me of Children’s Tylenol. Then I got out there and pounded the pavement. The Cougar and I strolled up and down Pico Blvd. looking for jobs. I picked up applications for Starbucks, Subway, Barnes & Noble, and any store I saw that might have high turnover rates and low standards for what they hire. I happened across a movie theater that just so happens to be having open interviews tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to work at a movie theater, seeing as how I love movies and they are the reason I left for Los Angeles in the first place, but the opportunity has never been feasible until now. Besides, I’ll need something to do when Rose and Ruby leave.
Returning to the hostel, I banged out a few applications before preparing to meet up with Ben for what is becoming a weekend tradition. Over the past several weeks, we’ve frequented a karaoke bar in Burbank called Dimples. Aside from the Gaza Strip, I think you’ll be hard pressed to find a more unpleasant experience in this world than the one you’ll have at Dimples. But that’s a story for a blog I didn’t write. Tonight, Ben and I met with a fellow Iowan making her way out in California named Christy and her fiancé Wayland.
Through circumstances out of my control, I arrived in Burbank to meet with Ben later than expected. Then, Ben and I got lost on our way to the meeting place roughly three miles away from Ben’s apartment. Christy and Wayland were kind enough to not mind we showed up forty minutes late. Or if they did, they covered it up really well.
It was nice to meet with two people that have a similar background to myself. Even in the global village we all now live in, where everything is homogenized, everyone has access to the same everything, and the world is very much at our fingertips, that common bond goes a long way. We know of the same streets and buildings and things and people, and have similar ideals. That goes a long way when you’re in unfamiliar territory. It gives complete strangers an automatic linking bond.
Christy informed Ben and I that Ashley Tinsdale, a High School Musical alum was eating at the same restaurant as us. Neither Ben nor I knew it was Ashley Tinsdale—we only saw a group of attractive girls sitting at a table outside—one of which happened to be a popular actress. This will be my first run-in with a celebrity to my knowledge in Los Angeles. I could also give a damn less. That’s not to say I don’t find it cool to be eating at the same restaurant as someone famous, but I don’t get too hopped up just because someone has been in a highly popular television movie(s). Now, if Jack Nicholson were to be within a football field’s length from me, chances are I would start to infinitely crap my pants. I respect his work as an actor, I’ve read many an interview with him, and love what he has to say about life and the lessons he’s learned along the way. I would get star-struck for someone like Jack. But it’s based around a respect for what he does and how he does it. It is out of an appreciation for his craft, not just because he is a recognizable face and a marquee name. Oddly enough, I tend to react the same way when I hear an ice cream truck and its driver.
After the celebrity dinner, it was back to the hostel, back to reality.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Another Conversation I Had Today
The conversation I had today happens on a different day from the previous conversation I had today. It is a brand new conversation I had today, and a brand new today, so today is not the same today as the before today. Today is its own day, with it’s own conversation, separate from the today and conversation in an older blog, and having had another conversation since that today’s conversation, I have a now taken part in another conversation—this conversation is that conversation. I thought I should clarify, as the title can be slightly misleading.
Reprising his role from “A Conversation I Had Today,” is me, who will be playing the part of I. Her will once again be played by Old French Whore. I, and by I, I mean me, not the character I, who is actually me, still does not know the person that plays Her’s real name.
I exits the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich sandwiched in his mouth. Her is walking down the hall in his direction.
I: Hello.
Her: Do you know anything about computers?
I: Um, no.
Her: Dammit. I can’t get the Internet to work on my laptop and have homework that has to get done right now.
I: My roommate is pretty good with computers. I could go ask him if he would know what’s wrong. Do you use a PC or Mac?
Her: PC.
I exits to talk to his roommate. While gone, Her does whatever it is that Old French Whore did while I (me) was away. I returns.
I: My roommate really only knows Macs. Do you know Ali?
Her: No.
I: Ali used to be a computer programmer. He lives downstairs, but I don’t know which room number. You could ask in the office to see what room he’s in. Maybe he could help you.
Her: Maybe I’ll do that later. I have to leave now.
Her, not believing in exchanging pleasantries, exits abruptly. I is left wondering how much he dislikes Her. Later, I learns he dislikes Her very much.
Later (approximately ten hours later)…
I sits near a window playing a handheld video game system. Her comes up the stairs and sees I.
Her: Did you get a hold of Ali?
I: Um, no.
Her looks disgusted at I.
I: I thought you were going to go talk to him earlier.
Her: Well, I didn’t want to just go knocking on doors randomly.
I: (thinking) And I did? That’s why I told you to go to the office approximately ten hours ago and ask for his room number, so you wouldn’t have to randomly knock on doors, you old French whore. Besides, this clearly wasn’t a top priority for you, so why should it be a top priority of mine?
(said aloud) I don’t know what to tell you.
Her exits angrily. I flips her off as she leaves, unbeknownst to Her.
For the rest of the night, Her looks angrily at I whenever their paths cross, as if he did her wrong. I just flips Her off for the rest of the night whenever she’s not looking.
End scene.
Reprising his role from “A Conversation I Had Today,” is me, who will be playing the part of I. Her will once again be played by Old French Whore. I, and by I, I mean me, not the character I, who is actually me, still does not know the person that plays Her’s real name.
I exits the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich sandwiched in his mouth. Her is walking down the hall in his direction.
I: Hello.
Her: Do you know anything about computers?
I: Um, no.
Her: Dammit. I can’t get the Internet to work on my laptop and have homework that has to get done right now.
I: My roommate is pretty good with computers. I could go ask him if he would know what’s wrong. Do you use a PC or Mac?
Her: PC.
I exits to talk to his roommate. While gone, Her does whatever it is that Old French Whore did while I (me) was away. I returns.
I: My roommate really only knows Macs. Do you know Ali?
Her: No.
I: Ali used to be a computer programmer. He lives downstairs, but I don’t know which room number. You could ask in the office to see what room he’s in. Maybe he could help you.
Her: Maybe I’ll do that later. I have to leave now.
Her, not believing in exchanging pleasantries, exits abruptly. I is left wondering how much he dislikes Her. Later, I learns he dislikes Her very much.
Later (approximately ten hours later)…
I sits near a window playing a handheld video game system. Her comes up the stairs and sees I.
Her: Did you get a hold of Ali?
I: Um, no.
Her looks disgusted at I.
I: I thought you were going to go talk to him earlier.
Her: Well, I didn’t want to just go knocking on doors randomly.
I: (thinking) And I did? That’s why I told you to go to the office approximately ten hours ago and ask for his room number, so you wouldn’t have to randomly knock on doors, you old French whore. Besides, this clearly wasn’t a top priority for you, so why should it be a top priority of mine?
(said aloud) I don’t know what to tell you.
Her exits angrily. I flips her off as she leaves, unbeknownst to Her.
For the rest of the night, Her looks angrily at I whenever their paths cross, as if he did her wrong. I just flips Her off for the rest of the night whenever she’s not looking.
End scene.
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Envelope Please...
And the 44th President of the United States of America is Barack Hussein Obama. Shortly after the voting booths closed on the Pacific Coast, it was a decisive victory for the Illinois Senator, coming away with 364 electoral votes to John McCain’s 163. 52% of the popular vote went Obama’s way to 46% for McCain. McCain conceded in a graceful way I expected from the Arizona Senator. Obama took the stage reiterating the change that will take place for the United States under his presidency. It was an historic day for the United States.
Obama winning seemed like a sigh of relief to supporters who had been holding their breath for the past six months, wondering if the Republicans were going to run away with another elections. News stations across the nation, afraid to call the game early after the debacle in 2000, and in an attempt to drum up ratings, billed the race to the White House “too close to call.” Obama’s landslide victory resulted in a simultaneous exhalation of air.
Shortly after Obama was christened President-elect, I got a text from a friend saying, “We did it!”
I replied back, “We’ve done nothing yet. But the wheels have started to turn.”
In no way, shape, or form did I say that to belittle my friend or to distance myself from the Obama camp. Barack Obama has won. That in and of itself is a step forward in progress for our country as a whole. It suggests some of the bigotry so deeply ensconced in our nation’s history has been eviscerated. But he as a President has done nothing yet. Between now and January 20th, 2009, he will be busy building his cabinet and prepping for when he does take office. This is an important first step. A President’s cabinet has huge influence over the President himself. Look no further than the Bush administration as an example (I’m looking at you Vice and Rummy). The important thing to remember though is Obama has done nothing yet. It will be up to us, the United States citizens to keep him correct. Should he slouch or break his promises, it is up to us to criticize and let our voice be heard, just as it was when we elected Obama to the Commander-In-Chief position. We can’t let Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert do all the grunt work.
Later in the evening, I called my father, a McCain supporter. He said to me, “It looks like your guy won.”
It’s true, the guy I was supporting in this election won. But the second he won, he ceased to be my guy. He became our guy. Our democratic voice was heard. I don’t expect people to simply endorse a President simply because he won, so I won’t say something like, “He’s now our President and you have to support him whether you like it or not.” On the contrary—I think it is up to Obama to prove he is the right man for the job and stick to the policies he promised his supporters in the first place. He also needs to convince the other half of the country that did not vote for him that he can handle such a lofty position. Actions speak louder than words and Obama needs to prove his actions are the right ones for the country and its people.
Noticing a lack of bread in my basket and a hankering for a peanut butter sandwich, I took to the streets in search of sliced staff of life. Driving down the road, people were honking at nothing and anything. In the parking lot, I could hear people shouting, “Obama” as they whizzed past. Entering the grocery store, people were doing the same thing—strangers uniting under the Obama banner. It was really a sight to behold. Never have I seen this kind of celebration for a President elect. Had Bob Dole won in 1996, maybe a similar ebullience would have been present, but I doubt. This display might have been exclusive to my area. Living in Los Angeles, one of the most liberal cities in the country, they were probably more vocal about Obama’s win than in other places. Furthermore, the part of Los Angeles I live in is largely a Black and Hispanic area. Given that Obama is the first Black President of the United States, I can see how they would be thrilled with the results of the elections.
This display is part of the appeal of Obama. He is able to unite people under a common cause. No other Democratic or Republican candidate for the 2008 election had that zeal. It is unique in a politician really in any election. His ability to bring people together is key to his term. A lot of his presidential legacy will be determined by if he can bring a country together that has been separated by a schism for roughly eight years, if not longer.
Returning home, I heard on the radio about Obama parties across the country. It’s great that people are celebrating. Like I said, it was a step forward for our country. Take a night to enjoy it, but it’s back to business now. It’s time to make sure those promises of change are not empty. At the same time, the election proved we have a long way to go. In California, Proposition 8, a proposal to ban gay marriage in California, passed. Not once did I think Prop 8 would actually pass, given the general outcry from everyone in Los Angeles and the huge number of people with influence strongly opposing Prop 8. But California is a big state. Apparently, much of the state is largely conservative. In fact, Bakersfield, CA is one of the most conservative cities in the nation. News to me. A black man is President, but same-sex couples cannot marry. One step forward, one step back.
In short, congratulations Obama. Congratulations America. The first step has been taken. But it’s a long road ahead of us. By Obama being elected, our economic crisis isn’t just magically going to fix itself, nor are our healthcare and social security problems. We still do not have a concrete exit strategy for our occupation in the Middle East. Our country still adheres to the adage that, “All men are created equal, but some men are created more equal than others.” The 2008 Presidential race was one for the history books, but I don’t think Obama wants his legacy to be only the “First Black President of the United States.” I think it would serve him well, and the people of the United States, to have his legacy be the change he promises. This is the beginning.
Obama winning seemed like a sigh of relief to supporters who had been holding their breath for the past six months, wondering if the Republicans were going to run away with another elections. News stations across the nation, afraid to call the game early after the debacle in 2000, and in an attempt to drum up ratings, billed the race to the White House “too close to call.” Obama’s landslide victory resulted in a simultaneous exhalation of air.
Shortly after Obama was christened President-elect, I got a text from a friend saying, “We did it!”
I replied back, “We’ve done nothing yet. But the wheels have started to turn.”
In no way, shape, or form did I say that to belittle my friend or to distance myself from the Obama camp. Barack Obama has won. That in and of itself is a step forward in progress for our country as a whole. It suggests some of the bigotry so deeply ensconced in our nation’s history has been eviscerated. But he as a President has done nothing yet. Between now and January 20th, 2009, he will be busy building his cabinet and prepping for when he does take office. This is an important first step. A President’s cabinet has huge influence over the President himself. Look no further than the Bush administration as an example (I’m looking at you Vice and Rummy). The important thing to remember though is Obama has done nothing yet. It will be up to us, the United States citizens to keep him correct. Should he slouch or break his promises, it is up to us to criticize and let our voice be heard, just as it was when we elected Obama to the Commander-In-Chief position. We can’t let Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert do all the grunt work.
Later in the evening, I called my father, a McCain supporter. He said to me, “It looks like your guy won.”
It’s true, the guy I was supporting in this election won. But the second he won, he ceased to be my guy. He became our guy. Our democratic voice was heard. I don’t expect people to simply endorse a President simply because he won, so I won’t say something like, “He’s now our President and you have to support him whether you like it or not.” On the contrary—I think it is up to Obama to prove he is the right man for the job and stick to the policies he promised his supporters in the first place. He also needs to convince the other half of the country that did not vote for him that he can handle such a lofty position. Actions speak louder than words and Obama needs to prove his actions are the right ones for the country and its people.
Noticing a lack of bread in my basket and a hankering for a peanut butter sandwich, I took to the streets in search of sliced staff of life. Driving down the road, people were honking at nothing and anything. In the parking lot, I could hear people shouting, “Obama” as they whizzed past. Entering the grocery store, people were doing the same thing—strangers uniting under the Obama banner. It was really a sight to behold. Never have I seen this kind of celebration for a President elect. Had Bob Dole won in 1996, maybe a similar ebullience would have been present, but I doubt. This display might have been exclusive to my area. Living in Los Angeles, one of the most liberal cities in the country, they were probably more vocal about Obama’s win than in other places. Furthermore, the part of Los Angeles I live in is largely a Black and Hispanic area. Given that Obama is the first Black President of the United States, I can see how they would be thrilled with the results of the elections.
This display is part of the appeal of Obama. He is able to unite people under a common cause. No other Democratic or Republican candidate for the 2008 election had that zeal. It is unique in a politician really in any election. His ability to bring people together is key to his term. A lot of his presidential legacy will be determined by if he can bring a country together that has been separated by a schism for roughly eight years, if not longer.
Returning home, I heard on the radio about Obama parties across the country. It’s great that people are celebrating. Like I said, it was a step forward for our country. Take a night to enjoy it, but it’s back to business now. It’s time to make sure those promises of change are not empty. At the same time, the election proved we have a long way to go. In California, Proposition 8, a proposal to ban gay marriage in California, passed. Not once did I think Prop 8 would actually pass, given the general outcry from everyone in Los Angeles and the huge number of people with influence strongly opposing Prop 8. But California is a big state. Apparently, much of the state is largely conservative. In fact, Bakersfield, CA is one of the most conservative cities in the nation. News to me. A black man is President, but same-sex couples cannot marry. One step forward, one step back.
In short, congratulations Obama. Congratulations America. The first step has been taken. But it’s a long road ahead of us. By Obama being elected, our economic crisis isn’t just magically going to fix itself, nor are our healthcare and social security problems. We still do not have a concrete exit strategy for our occupation in the Middle East. Our country still adheres to the adage that, “All men are created equal, but some men are created more equal than others.” The 2008 Presidential race was one for the history books, but I don’t think Obama wants his legacy to be only the “First Black President of the United States.” I think it would serve him well, and the people of the United States, to have his legacy be the change he promises. This is the beginning.
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