Note: This event came at the eclipse of 2008, if I’m not mistaken. Being a few months short of a year from this date in time, and without giving anything away, I hope the leak was dammed up once again and is not still running like a civ.
Los Angeles is considered one of the most stressful cities in the United States. Between traffic, hippies, and the cost of living, it is easy to see why. But it goes further than that. Even simple daily errands cannot be completed without a song and dance number.
Like paying my phone bill. Having some time to spare on my way to work, I stopped into my cell phone provider’s store in Koreatown (or K-Town, as the natives know it as). The simple task of leaving my car, strapping on a bullet-proof vest, doing the “roadie run” to the nearest cover, and walking into the Verizon store was complicated in a way only Los Angeles can make it.
Within moments of stepping out of the Cougar, a man either missing or ignoring my Iowa license plates waddled up to me and said, “Excuse me, neighbor. My name is…”
The man gave me his name at precisely the exact same time I started thinking about eggplants, so it escapes me.
“…And I have a favor to ask of you. You see I am a man that has been affected by AIDS. But don’t worry, you can’t get it from just standing here with me.”
With that information, it made me wonder how this man did get AIDS. My guess was unprotected gay sex while doing heroin intravenously and sinning against a Republican in the Eighties. The man proceeded to lift his right shirtsleeve to show me how AIDS has ravaged any muscle he might have had at one time. Then he continued.
“…Please good neighbor. I am a man that believes in keeping his word. My family is not home and I have started to bleed anally.”
At which time the man turned around to show me the ever-accumulating anal blood stain on the seat of his light blue jeans. At which time, I forced myself from laughing. Unfortunately, I could not stop myself from cracking a smile.
“…I am in need of an anal suppository immediately if I want to stop the bleeding. I have a prescription here in my hands…”
Now the anal suppository prescription was in my hands. I read it over. His blood plug was to be picked up at Rite-Aid. It came at a cost of thirty-seven dollars and some odd cents. Boy, anal suppositories have sure gotten expensive. And how am I not laughing uncontrollably right now? I’ve been handed a prescription for someone’s anal suppository.
“…I am short seventeen dollars, kind neighbor. I am a good man with a good family. If you can please give me a ride and the money to make up the difference, I will return you your money and give you extra for gas. Oh, don’t worry about the bleeding. I have a towel I could put down in the seat of your car.”
The immediacy of the issue forced me to think quickly. My thought process was along the lines of, “Okay, a man with AIDS has just run up to me asking me for money and a ride to the suppository store (giggle) to stop his anal bleeding, and he plans to put a towel down in the passenger seat of the Cougar to keep the AIDS blood from reaching my seat. I can’t wait to blog about this.”
My response was, “I’m sorry sir, but I can’t do it.”
His eyes widened and his mouth fell agape.
“I can give you a little bit of money to help pay for the suppository, but I don’t have seventeen dollars on me to cover the difference. But I’ll give you what little I can.”
This is true. I really did not have seventeen dollars to give. But I forked over a couple of dollars, said he did not have to worry about paying me back, and tried to get away, feeling slightly guilty, but at the same time, not wanting a complete stranger who was bleeding out of his ass in the passenger seat of the Cougar.
“Please sir. I have very good karma and will pay you back for your kindness just as soon as my family returns.”
His karma must not have been that good, as he was bleeding anally due to his immune system being destroyed by the AIDS bug, and I was turning him down for a ride to the drug store, where upon arrival, would have to purchase and use a suppository. I didn’t tell him this part. It sounded like he had enough problems going for him right now. For me to bring up that I thought his karma was not as good as he perceived it to be would just be adding insult to injury.
“I’m sorry sir. But I just can’t. I really have to go, but I wish you the best of luck and pray things work out for you,” I said.
I left the man whose name I never learned to his own devices in trying to find a gooder Samaritan than myself. With my two U.S. dollars in his possession, he would have enough for a bus fare, and I’m assuming if he showed up at a Rite-Aid in the same state he was in for me moments ago, they’d have no problem waiving the prescription cost and fix him up. If anything, by the time he arrived, they’d show more sympathy for him because his jeans would look like the elevator doors had opened up in Stanley Kubrick’s “The Shining.”
After paying my phone bill, I saw the man across the street still looking for a ride. A sting of guilt hit my conscience. It was probably the severity of the situation sinking in. This man clearly had a serious malady and I was treating it like just another day in La La Land. On the other hand, this is just another day in La La Land. It’s this kind of thing that happens all the time here. Complete strangers come up to you and ask for help ranging from going into a store and buying them CO2 cartridges to watching their pet llama while they take a piss on a head of lettuce being held by a grade school aged boy in gym clothes.
But the man with AIDS and the line at the cell phone store had chewed up what spare time I had to reconsider my decision. I still had a job to get to, and there are 9 million other people in Los Angeles that can probably aid the man with AIDS. This is me paying it forward.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Jack, Me, & Dupree
Note: This blog entry comes to us from the tail end of 2008. Nothing this cool has happened in the world since. So go ahead, Kremlin Joe—let fly with the nukes.
In a previous blog, I was quick to assume that were I ever to meet Jack Nicholson, my favorite actor, and quite frankly, someone whose life philosophies deeply intrigue me, I would begin to “infinitely crap my pants.” As it turns out, this is not the case at all.
On this day (December 19 for those keeping score at home), I arrived at work that morning only to find out in our morning huddle that we were to have a special screening that day upstairs and a VIP guest in attendance. It turns out this VIP is none other than Jack Nicholson. While everyone else looked around and murmurs of how cool that was could be heard, I stood with my mouth agape that the man himself would be frequenting my theater this day. My knees buckled a little and my heart was sent aflutter. I felt the same way I’m sure thousands of women have felt over the years after Jack has made passionate love to them for days, if not weeks, on end.
We have a little unwritten rule at our theater, but one that is abided by nonetheless: if an employee’s favorite actor pays a visit, that person gets to help that guest out. The night Al Pacino was in attendance, I was set to help him out, but another worker informed me Pacino was his favorite actor, so I stepped down and let him take my place. I’m not sure what happens if two people share the same favorite actor. It hasn’t come up yet. I assume it will be up to the actor him or herself to choose a favorite then.
While setting up box office, I was flitting around like a humming bird, hovering from one stanchion to the next. The next hour was essentially me talking at a rapid-fire pace about how awesome Jack is and how awesome it is that he was going to be there with my friend Jeremy between selling guests tickets. Jeremy being an aspiring filmmaker himself and also an admirer of Jack had lots of input on the subject. His favorite actor is Daniel Day Lewis, so if he is ever to appear at our theater, wearing mismatched socks and an overcoat that doesn’t match his pants, I predict a role reversal.
In no time at all, the people arriving for the special screening ambushed us—you know, the one Jack was supposed to be a part of. 250 people stormed up the stairs at once. They skipped the box office line and headed straight for the concessions. My bosses, being awesome and doing everything in their power to accommodate the unwritten rule, sent me over there to mingle with the crowd and get me in the middle of the action where Jack would be. Wave after wave of people came—producers, agents, Brendan Fraser, but no Jack. The guests got their complimentary foodstuffs and left behind nothing but dust and straw wrappers. Phooey.
Returning to Box, Jackless, Jeremy and I started making light of the situation. Whenever a new face would appear from the tip of the escalator, we’d both start jumping up and down, yelling in a hush, “Jack, Jack, Jack!” only to follow it up with a, “Nope. Old lady. False alarm,” or a, “Wait, no. Only Martin Scorsese,” or, “Never mind. It’s just Bruce Springsteen.” This went on for a while. Too long come to think of it. The novelty should have worn off well before it did. Come to think of it, the novelty never wore off. We just wore ourselves out physically from doing our little joke so many times.
After waiting all morning for our VIP, the fervor died down and we all accepted the fact that we had been duped. The movie was about to let out and still there was no Jack to be found. Jeremy and I were back to talking about movies, in particular, “The Aviator,” which has been a point of conversation for a couple of weeks now, and this and that, these and those.
And then it happened. Who should appear from the escalator? It was him. It was Jack.
I turned to Jeremy, who was busy texting underneath the box office counter.
“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy,” I said over and over.
He looked up and saw what all the to do was about. As reported earlier, I did not begin to infinitely crap my pants, nor did Jeremy. But we were both in awe of the silver screen icon there in our midst. The man we grew up knowing as the Joker and later in life would come to recognize as Jake Gittes and Randall P. McMurphy and a deranged Johnny Carson. And just like that, he was out of our sight and on his way upstairs for the screening.
Reaching for a walkie, I radioed management to let them know our VIP was finally here. Based on their mannerisms coming out of the office, they were pretty excited to hear this too. Plans were set in place to accommodate the actor and the fellow he arrived with, who if I’m not mistaken, was a producer on the film. Bless my manager’s hearts, they assigned me the task of making sure director’s chairs were set up for the guests and that they had water bottles and microphones for the Q&A that was to follow the film.
The movie ended, the crowd applauded, I did my job and sat back and watched the Q&A. Had anyone have asked me to return to work, I’d have refused outright. Fortunately, such a ridiculous request was not desired of me.
Jack and the producer took the microphones and bottles of water in their director’s chairs, although both remained standing rather than sit in the director’s chairs I set up. The producer introduced the man that needed no introduction (Brendan Fraser looked a bit befuddled, but such is life for Brendan Fraser), and he spoke.
His voice was a bit raspy, but most definitely his signature vocal croon. He went on to talk about independent cinema and how hard it is for them to get made these days compared to back then (remember, Jack was involved with “Easy Rider,” one of the most successful independents of all time), because the studios don’t like competition, and how it is such a relief to see that the movie shown on this day at my theater could still get made in the current climate of filmmaking. It was a brief speech, but powerful and endearing. Jack sat the microphone back down on the director’s chair, took his water, and exited to a round of applause. He scuttled past my managers and me, and just like that, it was over.
Until one of my managers turned to me and said, “Go with him.”
Okay.
I hurried to catch up to Jack. He was making his way down the escalator this time. I called out, “Mr. Nicholson.”
He turned to me and we locked eyes. I couldn’t believe this moment was happening. I won’t say time slowed down or sped up or anything cliché like that—rather, it remained the same. It’s just at a moment like that you realize how quickly a few seconds goes by.
“Mr. Nicholson. I just wanted to let you know that you are my favorite actor and I wrote a screenplay with you in mind and I hope someday we’ll get a chance to work together,” said I. Ugh. So stupid. He hears crap like this all the time. Way to be a jackass in front of Jack, ya jackass.
“Well thank you, I appreciate that.”
Huh. Did I just get a thank you from Jack Nicholson? I turns out I did, and from there we continued to make small talk. He asked me my name, I told it to him, and we shook hands. Now on the escalator, I asked him what his affiliation was with the movie today, not having seen it when I last checked his filmography on IMDB. Turns out there was no affiliation with the movie whatsoever. Tommy Lee Jones was supposed to show up for the Q&A but could not make it, so the producer, a longtime friend of Jack’s, asked him to come down today to say a few words. Whatever works, I guess. I’m not complaining.
From there, we continued our small talk. Jack told me how he never had a problem knowing if a movie was going to suck or not, and neither could people that work at the box office. It was around this time we passed the box office, Jack and I side-by-side, when another one of my managers saw us. His eyes got wide and had a kind of, “What?” look on his face. It was delightful.
We made our way down another escalator to an elevator that would lead to the parking garage floor where Jack was parked (G2). It was here that we parted ways. Jack wished me luck on everything, and I thanked him, and told him it was an honor to meet him, which it was. The elevator door popped open, Jack did a funny-looking hop, asked if it was going down, and was gone, probably making whoever was in the elevator’s day.
Back at work, the managers wanted to know every little detail. I thanked them for letting me do everything I just did, and they sort of played it off with a, “Well, we can’t just let Jack Nicholson leave the theater by himself.” Thanks managers. You’re the best.
Over the next several days, lots of actors will wander the halls of Landmark Theatre—Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei, Evan Rachel Wood (all there for a Q&A of, “The Wrestler,” and Benicio Del Toro was there for the special road show edition of “Che” (of note, Jack and Benicio worked together on the movie, “The Pledge”). Diane Keaton, who teamed with Jack in the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give,” also came through box that day, but nothing quite lived up to the golden standard, nor could it.
Thus far, California has had some major lows, but some serious highs too. For every Pas’Ta Weat playing “Kandy Store” at six in the morning there is a Jack Nicholson wishing you the best of luck on all things. Neither of the above examples would’ve happened were I still in Iowa.
In a previous blog, I was quick to assume that were I ever to meet Jack Nicholson, my favorite actor, and quite frankly, someone whose life philosophies deeply intrigue me, I would begin to “infinitely crap my pants.” As it turns out, this is not the case at all.
On this day (December 19 for those keeping score at home), I arrived at work that morning only to find out in our morning huddle that we were to have a special screening that day upstairs and a VIP guest in attendance. It turns out this VIP is none other than Jack Nicholson. While everyone else looked around and murmurs of how cool that was could be heard, I stood with my mouth agape that the man himself would be frequenting my theater this day. My knees buckled a little and my heart was sent aflutter. I felt the same way I’m sure thousands of women have felt over the years after Jack has made passionate love to them for days, if not weeks, on end.
We have a little unwritten rule at our theater, but one that is abided by nonetheless: if an employee’s favorite actor pays a visit, that person gets to help that guest out. The night Al Pacino was in attendance, I was set to help him out, but another worker informed me Pacino was his favorite actor, so I stepped down and let him take my place. I’m not sure what happens if two people share the same favorite actor. It hasn’t come up yet. I assume it will be up to the actor him or herself to choose a favorite then.
While setting up box office, I was flitting around like a humming bird, hovering from one stanchion to the next. The next hour was essentially me talking at a rapid-fire pace about how awesome Jack is and how awesome it is that he was going to be there with my friend Jeremy between selling guests tickets. Jeremy being an aspiring filmmaker himself and also an admirer of Jack had lots of input on the subject. His favorite actor is Daniel Day Lewis, so if he is ever to appear at our theater, wearing mismatched socks and an overcoat that doesn’t match his pants, I predict a role reversal.
In no time at all, the people arriving for the special screening ambushed us—you know, the one Jack was supposed to be a part of. 250 people stormed up the stairs at once. They skipped the box office line and headed straight for the concessions. My bosses, being awesome and doing everything in their power to accommodate the unwritten rule, sent me over there to mingle with the crowd and get me in the middle of the action where Jack would be. Wave after wave of people came—producers, agents, Brendan Fraser, but no Jack. The guests got their complimentary foodstuffs and left behind nothing but dust and straw wrappers. Phooey.
Returning to Box, Jackless, Jeremy and I started making light of the situation. Whenever a new face would appear from the tip of the escalator, we’d both start jumping up and down, yelling in a hush, “Jack, Jack, Jack!” only to follow it up with a, “Nope. Old lady. False alarm,” or a, “Wait, no. Only Martin Scorsese,” or, “Never mind. It’s just Bruce Springsteen.” This went on for a while. Too long come to think of it. The novelty should have worn off well before it did. Come to think of it, the novelty never wore off. We just wore ourselves out physically from doing our little joke so many times.
After waiting all morning for our VIP, the fervor died down and we all accepted the fact that we had been duped. The movie was about to let out and still there was no Jack to be found. Jeremy and I were back to talking about movies, in particular, “The Aviator,” which has been a point of conversation for a couple of weeks now, and this and that, these and those.
And then it happened. Who should appear from the escalator? It was him. It was Jack.
I turned to Jeremy, who was busy texting underneath the box office counter.
“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy,” I said over and over.
He looked up and saw what all the to do was about. As reported earlier, I did not begin to infinitely crap my pants, nor did Jeremy. But we were both in awe of the silver screen icon there in our midst. The man we grew up knowing as the Joker and later in life would come to recognize as Jake Gittes and Randall P. McMurphy and a deranged Johnny Carson. And just like that, he was out of our sight and on his way upstairs for the screening.
Reaching for a walkie, I radioed management to let them know our VIP was finally here. Based on their mannerisms coming out of the office, they were pretty excited to hear this too. Plans were set in place to accommodate the actor and the fellow he arrived with, who if I’m not mistaken, was a producer on the film. Bless my manager’s hearts, they assigned me the task of making sure director’s chairs were set up for the guests and that they had water bottles and microphones for the Q&A that was to follow the film.
The movie ended, the crowd applauded, I did my job and sat back and watched the Q&A. Had anyone have asked me to return to work, I’d have refused outright. Fortunately, such a ridiculous request was not desired of me.
Jack and the producer took the microphones and bottles of water in their director’s chairs, although both remained standing rather than sit in the director’s chairs I set up. The producer introduced the man that needed no introduction (Brendan Fraser looked a bit befuddled, but such is life for Brendan Fraser), and he spoke.
His voice was a bit raspy, but most definitely his signature vocal croon. He went on to talk about independent cinema and how hard it is for them to get made these days compared to back then (remember, Jack was involved with “Easy Rider,” one of the most successful independents of all time), because the studios don’t like competition, and how it is such a relief to see that the movie shown on this day at my theater could still get made in the current climate of filmmaking. It was a brief speech, but powerful and endearing. Jack sat the microphone back down on the director’s chair, took his water, and exited to a round of applause. He scuttled past my managers and me, and just like that, it was over.
Until one of my managers turned to me and said, “Go with him.”
Okay.
I hurried to catch up to Jack. He was making his way down the escalator this time. I called out, “Mr. Nicholson.”
He turned to me and we locked eyes. I couldn’t believe this moment was happening. I won’t say time slowed down or sped up or anything cliché like that—rather, it remained the same. It’s just at a moment like that you realize how quickly a few seconds goes by.
“Mr. Nicholson. I just wanted to let you know that you are my favorite actor and I wrote a screenplay with you in mind and I hope someday we’ll get a chance to work together,” said I. Ugh. So stupid. He hears crap like this all the time. Way to be a jackass in front of Jack, ya jackass.
“Well thank you, I appreciate that.”
Huh. Did I just get a thank you from Jack Nicholson? I turns out I did, and from there we continued to make small talk. He asked me my name, I told it to him, and we shook hands. Now on the escalator, I asked him what his affiliation was with the movie today, not having seen it when I last checked his filmography on IMDB. Turns out there was no affiliation with the movie whatsoever. Tommy Lee Jones was supposed to show up for the Q&A but could not make it, so the producer, a longtime friend of Jack’s, asked him to come down today to say a few words. Whatever works, I guess. I’m not complaining.
From there, we continued our small talk. Jack told me how he never had a problem knowing if a movie was going to suck or not, and neither could people that work at the box office. It was around this time we passed the box office, Jack and I side-by-side, when another one of my managers saw us. His eyes got wide and had a kind of, “What?” look on his face. It was delightful.
We made our way down another escalator to an elevator that would lead to the parking garage floor where Jack was parked (G2). It was here that we parted ways. Jack wished me luck on everything, and I thanked him, and told him it was an honor to meet him, which it was. The elevator door popped open, Jack did a funny-looking hop, asked if it was going down, and was gone, probably making whoever was in the elevator’s day.
Back at work, the managers wanted to know every little detail. I thanked them for letting me do everything I just did, and they sort of played it off with a, “Well, we can’t just let Jack Nicholson leave the theater by himself.” Thanks managers. You’re the best.
Over the next several days, lots of actors will wander the halls of Landmark Theatre—Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei, Evan Rachel Wood (all there for a Q&A of, “The Wrestler,” and Benicio Del Toro was there for the special road show edition of “Che” (of note, Jack and Benicio worked together on the movie, “The Pledge”). Diane Keaton, who teamed with Jack in the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give,” also came through box that day, but nothing quite lived up to the golden standard, nor could it.
Thus far, California has had some major lows, but some serious highs too. For every Pas’Ta Weat playing “Kandy Store” at six in the morning there is a Jack Nicholson wishing you the best of luck on all things. Neither of the above examples would’ve happened were I still in Iowa.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sorry I’m Late. I Was Stuck In Traffic
Hey there what’s left of my small but devoted fan base of readers eagerly awaiting an update on things that occurred months ago. Sorry to keep you waiting for a new entry, but not really, because I know you weren’t waiting. In the interim, you went out, got married, signed a loan on a nice but modest home on the corner that doesn’t have much of a yard, but it’s in a good neighborhood and you like the school district, so you took it, settled in, had kids, got that promotion, and it’s a good thing too, because braces aren’t cheap, and set up online banking. With all those things going on, how could you find time to read my anemic blog?
I’ll keep this one short, and hopefully, you can fit this little nugget into your schedule. I also apologize for not getting a new entry out sooner. Hell, even Dallas has updated since I last posted. But I have my reasons:
First, this past year has been extremely busy. I think you would agree if I had had time to write about those incendiary times throughout the past eleven months. Unfortunately, I did not, so you will forever be left in the shadows. When I have not been bogged down with work, things have just been hectic overall and not conducive to anything productive.
Second, the lack of an Internet connection played a large part in me not posting anything. Supposedly, there is a whole mess a Internet out here in Californee, but they want you to pay for it. Not being a believer in paying for things that are basic human needs—food, shelter, and Internet—I refused to buy me up any. That’s also why I’ve lost about fifteen pounds and have lived in squalor.
Finally, I’m just damn lazy. I like to write. But like all things you enjoy, you never want to actually do them if you are supposed to. Someone could come up to me and say, “I want you to sit around in air conditioning all day, playing video games, listening to music, having noncommittal sex with an assortment of beautiful women, eat Oreo cookies, and re-alphabetize a movie collection,” and the first thing I would want to do is tar a rooftop under the noontime sun all while doing wind sprints in full Eskimo gear and Crocs.
I won’t lie to you and say this is my return blog and that there will be frequent posts from here on out, although I am going to try to post more often. However, the aforementioned hurdles mentioned above (see: above), are still present. But I will post some of the blogs I wrote over the past few months of latency and hopefully come at you with an ample sampling of more current blog writings.
Keep your eyes to the skies. This blog and the anniversary of my expedition out to California is coming up (one year already!), so expect a retrospective entry some time in 2011.
I’ll keep this one short, and hopefully, you can fit this little nugget into your schedule. I also apologize for not getting a new entry out sooner. Hell, even Dallas has updated since I last posted. But I have my reasons:
First, this past year has been extremely busy. I think you would agree if I had had time to write about those incendiary times throughout the past eleven months. Unfortunately, I did not, so you will forever be left in the shadows. When I have not been bogged down with work, things have just been hectic overall and not conducive to anything productive.
Second, the lack of an Internet connection played a large part in me not posting anything. Supposedly, there is a whole mess a Internet out here in Californee, but they want you to pay for it. Not being a believer in paying for things that are basic human needs—food, shelter, and Internet—I refused to buy me up any. That’s also why I’ve lost about fifteen pounds and have lived in squalor.
Finally, I’m just damn lazy. I like to write. But like all things you enjoy, you never want to actually do them if you are supposed to. Someone could come up to me and say, “I want you to sit around in air conditioning all day, playing video games, listening to music, having noncommittal sex with an assortment of beautiful women, eat Oreo cookies, and re-alphabetize a movie collection,” and the first thing I would want to do is tar a rooftop under the noontime sun all while doing wind sprints in full Eskimo gear and Crocs.
I won’t lie to you and say this is my return blog and that there will be frequent posts from here on out, although I am going to try to post more often. However, the aforementioned hurdles mentioned above (see: above), are still present. But I will post some of the blogs I wrote over the past few months of latency and hopefully come at you with an ample sampling of more current blog writings.
Keep your eyes to the skies. This blog and the anniversary of my expedition out to California is coming up (one year already!), so expect a retrospective entry some time in 2011.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Work?
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.
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.
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.
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