LA Stories: Rack Focus

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank God for unanswered prayers... I wrote this a few months before I met my boyfriend. I really wanted to share this story, because it's a good reminder that great lessons can be learned from relationships that don't work out the way we want. This helped me learn to appreciate the right qualities, and recognize my Soul Mate when I met him.
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Rack Focus is a camera term for changing the focus of a lens during a shot. Things that were far away suddenly seem crystal clear and close, and things that were very close somehow blur and obscure themselves. It's a cool trick, but it's also a total mind f*ck when it happens to you personally.



Over the last month I'd been dating an independent filmmaker. A very good one, too- creative, insightful, socially-conscious, kind. In getting to know him better, I discovered that the reason I'd never found the qualities I wanted in the actors I'd been dating was just that: I'd been dating ACTORS. They're lovely, but while I would stare at their beautiful bodies and faces, watching them shakerball yet another protein shake and pretending to be fascinated by the details of their work-out experience that day, I'd forgotten that actors ACT. They PRETEND to do stuff. I somehow blinded myself to the fact that putting on an Egyptian God costume does not make one an Egyptian God, no matter how well they fill out the headdress. *

*My actor friends- if you think I'm writing about you, I'm not. The fact that you're self-aware enough for that concern eliminates you. The ones I'm referring to are not my FB friends or blog readers. You're wonderful and have treated me well. Go back to your protein shake. ;)



This guy, a Producer, Produced. He made things happen- and he didn't brag about it. We chatted about a film festival and went off on some tangent about bats. He didn't mention he'd won the festival. It wasn't until I visited his home and noticed the gold records on the wall that we even spoke about his musical career.

Me: "Um, wow."

Him: "Oh- thanks. Those were a lot of fun."

Me: (looking closer) "Wait- they're gold but they say platinum on them?"

Him: "Yeah, they're technically platinum, but these were freebies from the record label and I didn't wanna spend money on some award that's just gonna hang on my wall. I think you have to frame them yourself, too."

Me: "Riiiiight. I totally hate it when I have to do that."



When I first met him, I wasn't sure if I was attracted to him or not. He definitely wasn't my "type," but then, to date, my "Type" has been a terrible choice. Once I was able to get to know the Filmmaker better, I'd become a smitten kitten. His home, his attitude, his acoustic guitar collection, everything was warm and inviting and authentic and real. I was completely blown away by how his mind worked and his ability to create and actually DO the things he set out to do. He writes, directs, produces, works equipment, on-set landscaping, everything. We watched a movie together and he sat at his piano and effortlessly duplicated the musical scoring. Suddenly I realized- my bar for dating had not merely been set higher, it had been moved to another PLANET. I'm so used to being dazzled by someone's (shall we say) package I stopped looking at the content. This man amazed me with his quality of character and actual substance. Granted, I have a puppyish enthusiasm for people but whereas I'm easily impressed, it takes a lot to inspire me... and I was inspired. Seeing all the Good this guy was able to accomplish for others reminded me that I want to work harder so I can do more Good, too. Jesus isn't that why I started writing in the first place? So I could provide a voice and make a difference? This guy is making a difference. I wanna play too.



Gradually, date by date, over sushi, stargazing/shivering in a hammock, curled up for a Netflix night or holding hands at the Arclight, I became convinced- THIS was who I wanted. I never once saw the man drink a single protein shake. It seemed like he was actually enjoying my company, rather than looking for another fan to worship him. (Again, something new to me.) He listened to my ideas, read my writing, encouraged my suggestions, and even gave me a shot pitching to his production company. He didn't need me, and I didn't need him- but it was really nice to feel brave enough to want someone again. And I wanted him to want me too.



In addition to all this, he was super respectful of my limits and my comfort level progressing with beginning a physical relationship with someone. I was looking for something real, and I wanted to be smart and take my time. We actually talked about it and seemed completely on the same page and kept things at a PG-13. He invited me to spend the night, and I did, sleeping so soundly in his massive soft warm bed. The beautiful shades of sunrise woke me up in the morning, casting stripes of amber and gold on his antique wooden furniture. I was startled at how natural it felt, and began to sense the beginnings of a closeness I'd not felt in a long time.

Slowly focusing in, becoming clearer as some stray dust motes dance lazy choreography trails across a 6am sunbeam. I swear my life has lens flares.



So when he called at 6:30pm on a Sunday and asked what I was doing, like, RIGHT NOW, and did I want to go to the Hollywood Bowl for some outdoor music, I leapt at the opportunity. I met the Filmmaker and his best friend in Studio City and we headed for the show.



The Hollywood Bowl had been on my Bucket List since childhood, when Looney Tunes would always set Bugs Bunny's operatic fiascos there. Bugs would swap places with the conductor and shenanigans ensued. As a child, I was given a snowglobe with some LA landmarks inside: Griffith, the Hollywood Sign, the Capital Records building and of course the Hollywood Bowl. Time and time again, I'd wind it up and gaze into the world of swirling glitter, watching it settle in the itty-bitty amphitheatre seats leading down to the miniature famous scallop shells, as "Cal-i-fornia, Here I Come" twinkled and chimed from the music box in my hands.



I'd seen the Bowl while hiking, too, still from far away- about on par visually with the size ratio of my snowglobe- so distant, so unreachable. Still very much behind glass and a thing for cartoons and fantasy.

And suddenly, there is was. Or rather, there I was: walking up the winding pathway which deposits you BAM right there in the perfect spot to take it all in. From our seats, I could see the stage beautifully- there was the exact spot Bugs always stood. There was the place the conductor got trapped in the tuba. And wayyyyy up there in the hills, beyond the twinkling lights, was the place I'd hiked and dreamed of this very night.

Rack Focus: It had become real, in the form of an amazing concert next to amazing people. I had my Filmmaker and his friend on my right, and a fun stranger on my left who kept sharing box wine in delicate plastic cups with us. The show was beautiful, and a genial sense of happiness and community permeated through the crowd. We were all the swirling glitter. For an hour or so everyone shared this magic snowglobe existence, and I was elated to check Hollywood Bowl off my bucket list in such a sweet way with a man I was so excited about. Sure, he seemed a little "off" that night, but I attributed it to the uncertainty of PDA in front of his friend. No big deal- I hoped to make up for lost time later.



The Filmmaker had received the tickets from an actress he'd directed before, who was now a performer in the band. When she texted him after the show to see if we wanted to meet her backstage and say hi, we took her up on the opportunity. We'd made it 80% of the way out of the parking lot, but this was too good to pass up, so we turned around and made our path back upstream, where we met her behind the Bowl.



She'd seemed so tiny and far away onstage, and yet, here she was.

Rack Focus: this glimmering 6-foot-tall Music Goddess barefoot in a seafoam green gown. She was gorgeous, and I instantly sensed a connection between her and the Filmmaker, who had seemed uncharacteristically nervous and distant throughout the evening yet lit up in her presence. Especially when she mentioned that she'd be quitting the band and moving back to Los Angeles. This girl is an amazing musician, a talented actress, wickedly smart, and phenomenally beautiful. She was also really, really exceptionally nice and gave off the same aura of kindness and do-goodery that the Filmmaker does. I began to wonder how well they knew each other, but that thought was cut short when the Music Goddess was joking about Hollywood crushes, and how she had a huge crush on an actor. I thought of my old stand-by Hollywood Crush, Jake Gyllenhaal, WHO SUDDENLY WALKED AROUND THE CORNER AND APPROACHED OUR GROUP. He was friends with the Music Goddess (of course,) and chatted with us amicably for a bit before ducking out. Another bucket list item checked off for me.

Again, Rack Focus effect- from a small image on a screen and a tiny portion of my imagination/fantasy, there I was instantly face-to-face in reality with something (in this case Jake Gyllenhaal) which had formerly seemed so unattainable and far away. at one point he'd tilted his head back and laughed, and it was just like when his characters laugh in the movies. I grinned too, enjoying the blur of Hollywood and Real Life backstage at a place I'd only seen on postcards.

As we walked (and I floated) back to the car, the Filmmaker's friend jokingly asked me what I would've done if Jake Gyllenhaal had asked me out.

"I would've simply had to tell him sorry, I was out with someone," I said, gesturing towards the Filmmaker.

"Yeah," the best friend replied, "but it's not like you two are dating..."



It was as if I hadn't realized a knife had been plunged into my heart until I felt it violently twisted and wrenched.



Rack Focus: Everything close and clear suddenly became blurry and wrong.

In the brief moment between the opening of the wound and the start of the bloodflow, I chittered happily away, blowing it off. Denial is kind that way. It wasn't until the Filmmaker mentioned how amazingly funny the Music Goddess was that it really began to pour out.



Uh oh. So she's funny too, hunh? ...This might need some stitches.



Temporarily bandaging my rip with a smile, I continued to wrap my injury with the excitement from the night as we dropped off his friend and grabbed a milkshake and a burger. We were talking, we were laughing. He was looking me in the eye for what seemed like the first time that night. Maybe things were OK.

He invited me back to his house. Delirious from blood-loss and giddy from snowglobe life, I went with him. And life sped from a PG-13 to an R before I really knew what I was doing.

Let me repeat: What I was doing. Me. My choice. Looking for some way to prevent hemorrhaging.

But it was too late and I bled out in a pair of apathetic arms.

As close as the lens was, I realized I couldn't regain his focus.

Later, the words "not quite on the same page" would tumble from his lips, and even though he held me as he slept (as HE slept,) I knew the knife had gone too deep and it was over, like a leaking snowglobe that lost its glitter.

I kissed him goodbye in the unmistakeably cold grey light of a foggy dawn and slipped out the door.

He suddenly seemed very far away.

LA Stories: Ambien Nights

Zolpidem Tartrate: Generic Ambien. Or at least that's the excuse I gave my boss after I texted her semi-nude photos of myself in a wolf hat at 2AM. Fortunately, she's a nature lover and has an awesome sense of humor, so aside from moderate humiliation, little damage was done that night.
But that was just one of so many Ambien Nights...
Ambien is a hell of a drug- it's a sleep aid, and I've been prescribed it several times throughout my storied career as an Insomniac.

My first time using it, I lay in bed next to Jay and proceeded to wave my arms in front of his face.
"Jay," he asks me in a cautios tone. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to keep all the buffalo off you," I answer.

Later, living in the heart of Hollywood, both my internal monsters and the ones outside our windows got me rattled- Life in LA had me pretty spooked, and I was again prescribed Ambien to help me sleep. Things often got scary around our building... Our upstairs neighbor tried to throw his wife out the window. The corner of our street was affectionately reffered to as "The Rape Corner," and there were often desperate, hungry people lurking in the shadows. I was perpetually nervous, and one night, when a violent fight broke out in our courtyard, I was terrified. I shook Jay awake as two men threatened to kill each other outside our ground-story window.
"Just let it go, it's fine," Jay said, rolling over to go back to sleep.
"I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!" screamed the Guy Outside.
"COME FIND ME MOTHER FUCKER!" screamed the Other Guy Outside.
"Jayyyy," I said.
"I'LL FUCKING GO ROOM-TO-ROOM AND KILL EVERYONE IN YOUR FUCKING BUILDING" yelled Guy Outside as he tried to kick in our gate. The gate is only a few feet from our window.
"FUCK YOU. COME GET ME" replied Other Guy Outside.
"Jay," I say, "We're in 1B. If he goes room-to-room, we're like SECOND."
"Fine," Jay said. "Call the cops."

When Jay left me alone over Christmas to travel home to Florida and visit his family, I pointed out that I didn't want to be in the apartment by myself at night. Between our fairly violent street and my penchant for Doing Stupid Stuff on Ambien, I felt it wasn't good for me to be alone. Jay agreed, and we decided that my friend Paul, another stiltwalker from Horror Nights, and now a Grinch working Grinchmas with me, would crash on our couch during Jay's absense.

It may seem odd that Jay didn't mind/care that another guy was sleeping so close to his highly-medicated wife over the 10 days surrounding Christmas, but Jay had long since stopped giving a shit about me. Hence him leaving me alone over the holidays. ...I should've let the buffalo get him.

At any rate, Paul was a wonderful friend and did not attempt to seduce me as I slept. In fact, he was pretty sound asleep himself when the noises from a party across the courtyard kept waking me up. I could see the lights twinkling through their open windows as they drank and danced and shouted over one another- it was a loud party. And it was 4:30AM.

I really wanted to just get some rest- Paul and I both had 7AM calls that morning, and a full day of prosthetic makeup, stilts and Holiday Cheer is a tall order on 3 hours of sleep. I decided to go politely ask them to shut their goddamn windows. Since I had a substantial swath of bright blue hair at the time, I figured I'd put a hat on to cover my obvious indentifier- I wasn't sure how my request was going to go over, and I didn't want to be "that blue haired bitch" for the rest of my tenure in the building. I pulled a cap out of the closet, and shambled past Paul as he snoozed in the living room.

I made it out the door, down the hall, across the courtyard, down the other hall, and knocked on the door. Several times. Then, since I wasn't getting the attention I felt I deserved, I pounded on the door. No response. Finally, I summoned my courage and turned the knob, walking into a complete stranger's house, in my pajamas, at 4:30AM.

He met me in the hallway. He was about 6 feet tall, and bathed in absolute God Light. He was so ethereal. So beautiful- the holiest of Holy Angels stood before me in Apartment 1N. The Archangel Michael. Wings, robe, halo. The whole schmorgassboard.

"Hi," I stammered. "I tried to knock, but..."

"No, no, I'm sorry- were we being too loud?" the Angel asked.

"Well, I've just gotta be at work in 3 hours, and your windows are wide open-"

"Ohhh," he says, nodding his head. "Dude, I am SO sorry- here, lemme get you a beer- you wanna beer?"

"Nah, man, I'm cool."

"Well I'll shut those windows right away- we're winding up anyway- so sorry."

"No worries man- goodnight!"

We may or may not have hugged, the Angel and I.

I went back to 1B, let myself in, strode past Paul and got back into bed.
When the alarm clock sounded a few hours later, I was convinced it was a wacky dream- but no: there, at the foot of my bed, was my hat, ready to greet me.

I walked out into the living room and shook the hat at the boy asleep on my couch.

"Paul. You're fired."

But I gave him a second chance, it being Christmas and whatnot. After work that day, we came back to 1B and strung bells across the door, just in case. Paul was not about to let me down a second time. Sure enough, a few days later, another fight broke out in the courtyard. Motherfucker this, I'll kill you that. You know the script. I snapped awake and instinctively felt for my husband in the dark- he wasn't there. He was in Florida. I remembered now. I listened to see how bad things would get, and they rapidly got progressively worse. The 'Ceremonial Kicking Down Of The Gate' began, and I was freaked out.

Our bedroom is connected to our living room by a small narrow hallway- the exact center of our apartment. I threw open the bedroom door and headed towards Paul, but instead ran smack into him- he had been heading to find me.

The first words out of his mouth: "Are you OK?"
I suddenly found myself confused by the question... yes, I was. I was. I felt safe.
Paul started zipping up the jacket he'd been carrying, and put both his hands on my shoulders.
He looks me in the eyes. "What would you like me to do?"
"Hunh?"
"Do you want me to go break it up, would you like me to call the cops? What do you need?"
I was absolutely stunned. This was not the lasseiz-fare reaction I was used to.
"Um, I'll call the cops," I said. "Please don't go out there."
"OK. I'm not gonna leave you," Paul says, taking off his jacket and placing it around my shoulders.
It's at this point I realized I was shaking. I guess I do that when I'm scared- it's a new thing I'm trying.
We call 911, and sit side by side on the couch, listening as the fight breaks down and relocates.

By now the chemical haze in my brain wins out over the adrenaline rush of the panic from before. I lay my head on my friend's shoulder as the Ambien kicks back in. I tell Paul about all the pretty lights I can see floating around the room. I can't sleep... too much happening.

"Shhh shh- it's okay," he says, rubbing a flat palm up and down my back. It is soothing. I feel calmer.
I fall asleep that night on his lap, listening to him as he softly sings Christmas carols.

A few hours later, the alarm clock goes off. It's 7AM and Paul is still sitting straight up with me asnoozed on his lap. He has stayed in that position for four hours, so I could get some rest.

Ladies and Gentlemen: meet Paul.

Nothing else too crazy happened over those nights. No more fights, no more angels. No naked wolf hat pictures. But thanks to the modern medicinal miracle of Zolpidem Tartrate, I discovered what I TRULY need to sleep at night: Someone Who Cares.

LA Stories- The Creeper, Part 2: And The Darkness

After all the drama with Uche, I had plenty of sympathy for Andrew- he had been played for a fool and now we were all paying the price. I tried to give him some extra care and show him some love by inviting him out when I'd be with friends, and he began tagging along frequently- even guilt tripping me when I didn't include him in my plans.

He had no car, so since I was working nights, I'd let him drive my car to run errands or do whatever it was he did- he definitley wasn't an audio engineer like he'd told me, and he wasn't in real estate, like he'd told Taz. In fact, to this day, I'm still not quite sure what his job was- but it always provided him plenty of money for weed. (Another thing he'd lied about when I first moved in.) When he wound up blowing my car's speaker, I decided not to say anything. Poor guy was going through a breakup, he probably just wanted to rock out and cranked the volume up a little too loud. No big deal.

Taz and I even went to go support Andrew on the night of a big stand-up comic competition. This was the one job we were both fairly certain he hadn't lied about, but when it was his turn to go on and he started to choke, we got worried. Hadn't he been telling us all along that he was a comic? He delivered his opening line, got lost, tried to read his notes, then spontaneously gave up. We were stunned- we wanted to support our roommate, but we weren't really sure who he was any more...

Andrew and I had jokingly said that "as soon as Paul left for the cruise ship job, we'd make some caramel babies." I'd started the joking, so I'm to blame for that, but after Paul left, Andrew ratcheted it up to flirting pretty hardcore and I became uneasy about it. Also, I caught him in a bizarre lie- he told me and Taz that he'd hurt his ankle stepping down off a curb, but then I overheard him on the phone telling a friend about how he'd gotten into a fight on Halloween night, then come home to find the same guy he fought with lives on our block. I was sad that he'd lied to us, but I didn't say anything to Taz at that point. Point is, I started getting serious weird vibes from someone I trusted.

Over the next few days, Andrew became almost possessive and jealous if I went out, and would question who I was going out with or when or if I'd be back. For a while, I felt sorry for him and continued inviting him along to group activities, but then this happened:

Andrew was stretched out on the couch (our only furniture) when I came down to wait for my friend Mark. I sat down on the floor with my back to the couch, and Andrew said "come sit on the couch." I told him I was fine, but he insisted, so he slid down and I sat down, then he slid back up and put his head on my lap... okayyyy... I pet his hair and was talking about baby sheep when he asked how long it would be until Mark got there. "5 Minutes," I said. "Perfect," he says. "Just enough time for a blowjob."
Then he takes my hand, and even though I'm pulling away from him, puts it on his crotch. Like, wow.
Gross.
I said "Wow, no, that's really not going to happen," and at that exact moment Mark showed up thank god and we went to go get wings.

Over a dozen hotwings, I told my friends how weird Andrew had acted, and how I'd sensed that he'd been watching me sleep.
They told me to be careful, so that night I asked Mark to stay over and sleep between me and the door.
The way my room was laid out, the door was right next to the bed, so Mark would act as a buffer between me and any creepiness.
I had to keep my door open just a crack for my cats to come in and out, but it would take a solid effort to physically SEE into my bedroom from the hallway.
The next morning, Andrew definitely was looking in my room because I heard him (at 6AM) pause by the crack in my door and comment "Hm! One head, two heads!)
The door was only open just a sliver- not even enough for a cat- but enough for a Creeper, apparently.

I decided to tell Tazzie, and she told me that Andrew had told her that he was falling in love with me, but that probably it was just a reaction to me leaving. She also told me that he'd confessed to her about the Hollywood fight, but told her it had started because some guy on the train had accused him of being gay. Go figure.
She and I began noticing different inconsistencies with things he'd told us, and the more we spoke, the more uncomfortable we both got. She also told me that he'd told her his brother was in jail for life because his brother had murdered 5 people. Andrew told me he didn't talk much with his brother because of an age difference. Hrm.

A few days later, my friend Aaron and I were watching TV when Andrew came in and scooted Aaron over to sit next to me. Between us. He then pressed his body against mine and made some weird groaning noise, ao Aaron and I made an excuse to go upstairs.
"So, you ready to watch this?" I said, holding up a random DVD.
"Let's do it," says Aaron, catching on.
"Where are you going?" Andrew asks.
"Upstairs," I say.
"What are you gonna do," Andrew asks.
Ummm. Yeah. Tazzie came home a few minutes later, and after she, Aaron and I corroborated stories, we all became seriously creeped out.
"You guys wanna get out of here for a while?" Aaron asks.
Yes, yes we did. So we wound up at a Valley party for a model on her 21st birthday. But that is a tale for another time.

The next day, tired from getting my ass kicked at flipcup, I decided to take a nap. Big mistake. I woke up and found Andrew in my room, WITH HIS HEAD ON MY PILLOW, stroking my arm to wake me.
"Honeeeey, wake up," he whispered.
"Dear God what are you doing?!?"
"I just wanted to make sure you didn't oversleep."

After waking up the following morning to him legitimately staring at me through the crack in my door, ("just to see if I was home or not,") I decided that I wouldn't stay another night there by myself. My wonderful LA friends Kyle, Mark, Chelsea, and another HHN pal, David, all either put me up at their place or crashed with me the remaining nights. In a way, it was fun because it created some epic sleepover fun. I have zero regrets about that. There was nail painting and eyeliner application- and that was on a Kyle night!

Aaron gave me some very sweet advice regarding the matter:
"Jaime, do me a favor?"
Anything.
"When you move back,"
"Yeah?"
"Stay the fuck out of North Hollywood."

Tazzie had had enough by this point, and decided to relocate as well. The two of us quicly realized that it was no coincidence that Andrew's prior two roommates had both bolted at the same time.

The day of the big move approached, and on my final night there, James (my brother) spent the night in bed with me- at my insistance.
At 3:30AM, Andrew opened my door- a last, looming black shadow in the darkness.
James awoke feeling Andrew's eyes on him.
For a moment, they just watched each other. Then:
James said "Hi."
Andrew said, "is she asleep?"
James said, "yeah."
Andrew said, "Oh. OK," and went away.
The very next morning, we were out- never again to worry about The Creeper of North Hollywood.
Until he stiffed me out of $100 of my return deposit.

Goddamn you CraigsList LA.

LA Stories- The Creeper, Part 1: The Ghost

After escaping The Wizzard and crashing with Paul, the good people at CraigsList LA revealed to me a potenial new place to live! In NoHo, cats OK purr, rent reasonable, blah blah. There were even smiley faces on the ad! How could I resist? The ad said they were looking for roomies with interesting jobs, so I called up and introduced myself as a Stiltwalker. I was in.
Andrew, the guy renting the rooms, explained over the phone that both of his roomies were moving out at the same time and he was looking for more of a "family" atmosphere, where we could hang out and be comfortable around one another. After living in a domestic violence situation, I was all for this. We set up a time to meet and I headed over.
Judging from his voice over the phone, I expected a small gay dude. What I got instead was a large, muscley black gay dude! Surprise! He seemed really laid back when we met in person... like, TOO laid back... I asked him if he was into partying, and he told me that he didn't do drugs. Another point in his favor. I asked him if he was dating anyone, if I should be expecting a lot of fellas over late at night and he got confused.
"I'm not gay," he explained.
"Oh," I said, still unsure.
Even though he seemed really out of it, Andrew let me fill out an application as if it was a done deal. The room was TINY- but it was a room in a safe place- and the other roommate moving in was to be a girl named Taz! Taz (short for "Tanaaz") is from Australia, and works as a nanny while auditioning for films and commercials. Andrew explained that he was an Audio Engineer and a stand-up comic.
"I walk on stilts, so... with our powers combined..."
Done and done.
Tazzie and I moved in the same day.
My friends Paul and Todd helped me move in, but as soon as the bed was loaded into my room we noticed a problem: nothing else would fit in there.
I held back the hot tears of an impending panic attack while the boys figured it out- if they stacked my remaining furniture on top of itself, completely blocking the window, we could fit my clothes in the room. Maybe.
There was no overhead light fixture, so as the pile of furniture eclisped the last escaping light of the sun, I held my breath and suppressed my screaming internal OCD... "It's OK. It's fine. I'm safe here..."
And thus I was moved into my tiny dark hole.
Due to a scheduling mishap with his cruise ship job, I was able to return the favor Paul did me by letting him live with me- Andrew and Taz, after meeting Paul, very graciously invited him to crash with us since he was in-between homes and had been so kind to me.
Everyone got along famously- until Uche happened...
The very first week Taz, Paul, and I moved in, Andrew spontaneously invited his brand new girlfriend Uche to live with us. Uche seemed quirky and high-maintenance, but since Andrew had been so kind with Paul's situation, I wasn't about to complain.
Uche (pronounced "Ooo-chay") had just been mysteriously fired from her job as a cold-caller finding financial backers for a film project, but she was planning to rebound quickly and got a part-time job as a hairstylist. Andrew, with a huge kind heart, was allowing her to live with us rent-free and chip in when she could. Uche wound up working an entire 2 days at the salon before she realized it was easier to stay home and do nothing.
In her spare time, she enjoyed talking loudly to the TV and eating my food.
Not just some of my food- ALL my food.
Paul and I went grocery shopping our first week in, and came home from work to find most of it gone by the end of the night. She and Andrew would drink an entire container of juice, leaving only a thimble's-worth at the bottom. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be the end of the world, but I was so poor at that point an empty container of food made me want to cry.
Then the night terrors happened... Not theirs- ours.
Paul and I shared a wall with Uche and Andrew, and it was at night that Uche's (legitimate) Bipolar Disorder came out. Born without the skill of an "inside voice," Uche would lecture Andrew for hours- HOURS- about how awesome she was, to the point of mania. Here is a direct (and my favorite) quote:

Uche: "I gave you my pussy- that's right- I GAVE you my power- and that was MY mistake- that was MY fuckup- and now I've gotta sit here with YOU? Do you even KNOW how many people are DYING to be my friend? There are hundreds of people on my phone right now who would DIE to be with me, and I'm with YOU."
Andrew: "Please go fuck yourself."

Uche was born in Africa, and has had a tough life. She claims that her dad tried to kill her. She's a people person, and very skilled at getting people to give her things for free (like living rent-free with Andrew, for example) but her gift comes with the hefty price of being bat-shit crazy. Since she is a Scientologist, she doesn't believe in medicine, and would berate Andrew for being "weak" and depending on Paxil for his Anxiety and Depression.

After a few weeks of sleep deprivation, Andrew caved and broke up with her, but he did it by placing all of her belongings outside in our building's shared garage space. It was behind the gate for our cars, but still, he pretty much dumped her out on the street.
This drama happened while I was working Halloween Horror Nights, so I was pretty much out of the loop- Paul had gone to train for his cruise ship job in Vegas, so for a few days, the house was quiet during the day.
Then Uche hopped the gate and bum-rushed Taz when the garage door opened, just long enough to run upstairs and STEAL ANDREW'S PAXIL.
Cops were called, the usual drama ensued. Thanks LA.
Then, I came home after my Horror Nights shift (at 4AM) to find Uche, who again hopped the gate, sleeping, blocking the doorway to our house. Rising like a zombie, she lurched towards me in the darkness and scared the shit out of me- which was fair, because really, that's what I'd been doing to other people for the previous 8 hours. Uche claimed that she and Andrew had made up, and that I should let her in to sleep on our couch. I wasn't buying it.
Taz was awake, Skyping with some Aussie friends, and she and I woke Andrew up to deal with the situation.
Andrew let us down, big time- he finally answered his door after we knocked and knocked, then told us he was too "over it" to deal with Uche. This left me and Tazzie with a crazy woman on the other side of our door. Neither one of us wanted to let her in, but we couldn't let her sleep out in the cold either, so BOTH of us got in my car and drove Uche back to her Hollywood apartment. During the car ride, no one brought up the fact that it was fucking insane. We did, however, as a group, enjoy spotting hookers on the way to and from Uche's place. We even saw one get arrested. Oh, the places you'll go! Dr. Seuss has nothing on me.
The next day Andrew didn't want to deal with it either, and the subject got dropped. Naturally, we assumed they'd broken up for good.
Until about 2 weeks later when she came over at his invitation, spent the night, and STOLE A HOUSEKEY.
Goddammit, Andrew. Bitch played you for a fool.
So she came and went at odd hours, like a Bipolar ghost. Taz and I began to sleep less easy, but little did we know: Uche was not the problem...

LA Stories- The Flood

The entire city of LA is flooded today, and I am no exception. However, unlike the torrents of piss, needles and bottle shards frothing merrily along Hollywood Boulevard, I am flooded with love.
I guess a blue moon accompanied these rains, because for the first time in what feels like a year, I slept trough the entire night without jerking awake with my heart racing.

I have a friend with a very calming influence crashing on our futon, and I guess the additional presence allowed my subconscious to relax a little with Jay being gone again. Paul's a good guy- the kind you feel safe around while the Outside Monsters lurk beyond the barred windows.
I slept the whole night through with Jack sleeping above my head and Johnny at my feet. Sure, they're syphoning my body heat, but I syphoned theirs right back in some sort of bizarre circuit of fur and dreams.
My friend had left early, but I slept until 11 (!!!) and got up and made a cup of tea. This simple act already meant that this morning ranked up amongst the best I've had in LA.

I then checked FaceBook, and got a really sweet message from another writer, complimenting my blogs. Matt Martins- an unbelievably prolific guy with a genuine gift. If I wrote a fraction of the amount Matt does... well. Anyway, I admire him tremendously, and sipping tea while having my ego stroked felt fantastic.

I also had messages from Erika and Bryan, who let me know that they missed me and were thinking about me. I always feel loved when I hear from my friends, but usually the sensation is accompanied by a pang of loss. I did not ache this time- probably because I know I'll see them soon.
It was then time to head to the post office. Ordinarily, this doesn't fill me with joy, but today, it filled my arms, my backseat, and my living room. With Joy: the sendable kind- if it fits, it ships, and apparently quite a lot fits.

Jay's Mom and Dad sent us box after box of goodies, and I happily hauled them to my car in the pouring rain. I think some of them have food inside! I also had a package from Jackie and Lizzie, which I was eagerly looking forward to opening when I got home.

After that, a friend I'd done a job for called to tell me he could pay me, so I drove to North Hollywood, where he was disassembling furniture. Since my cup was brimming with good karma, part of me wanted to go home and nap, but all the good vibes from the day had given me enough energy to not make a selfish choice. I helped with the furniture, then gave him a much-needed ride to run an errand. Then I took him out to lunch. Then I severely undercharged him for my portion of the paycheck. He deserves all this and more, because he's a wonderful friend and I'd been hoping for a chance to do something nice for him. As we chewed on chicken during a rainy lunch, it tasted really good. Because doing the right thing always does.

Eventually, Los Angeles traffic ferried me back to Hollywood, where I ran errands of my own and went to Target. I tried on clothes and everything fit. I liked the way my body looked in the yellowing lights of the gum-encrusted dressing rooms. I didn't buy anything I tried on, but being happy with my body for a change is still a novelty, and for a narcissistic moment I let it happen and didn't berate my thighs or my veins. I looked at myself in the mirror in observation instead of criticism. And it was nice.
Plus I found really cute socks.

I navigated the streets home and found a rock-star parking spot, naturally. And why shouldn't I? It's an awesome kind of day! Waiting for me on my doorstep was a box of Harry and David's gourmet snacks- another gift from Jay's parents, who have by now completely spoiled me rotten. They feel slightly guilty for flying Jay home for the week, and as a sort of hostage-negotiation, have sent me food. Consider me appeased. I ate a designer pear and some truffles and stretched out on the couch before making a second trip out to the car.
The rain had let up, but the Street Monsters weren't out yet, so I made it there and back without encountering a single crackhead. Success!
This trip meant I'd scored Jackie and Lizzie's package, which was a belated birthday gift. Inside the box, I found toys, bracelets, an obscene picture book, a card, FOOD (!!!) and several brightly colored tinsel balls on a string, tied to a stick. The card explained that this was meant for the cats, and not me.

I called Jackie to thank her and her sweet fiance, and played with Johnny Danger, who had instantly gone into a frenzy of ecstasy when he discovered the toy.

I chatted with her on her drive home, and then lazed on the couch while writing this.
The song goes, "it never rains in sunny California, but it pours, man, it pours."
Totally accurate- but today I was showered with the most wonderful of everything, and I am so grateful.

Today gets a 10 out of 10.

LA Stories- One Night With Paris

I got the phone call from my friend Todd, asking if I was available to work a stilt gig at a club in Hollywood that night. It paid $150, 9 to 2AM, was I interested, etc. Even though I'm nursing a sprained foot, he'd technically had me at "paid," so I flew home to begin assembling costume pieces for the night. They wanted sexy and slutty, which happens to be the exact description of the only stock costume I have...
Todd gave me directions to look for "Donny" when I got to the club, but my phone kept cutting out during our conversation.
"Donny's a little (static,) Todd kept trying to say. "A little (statttttiiccccc!)"
"A little WHAT," I asked, wondering what Donny could be. A little neurotic? A little flirty? A little bit of a stickler for rules?
"Donny's a LITTLE PERSON!" Todd finally manages to shout into my earpeice.
Ohhhh...
Cue the Black Eyed Peas song: Tonight's gonna be a good good ni-i-ight!
After parking in the garage on Hollywood Blvd., I arrived at the historic, posh Roosevelt Hotel carrying my stilts in my arms. They immediately point me to the club downstairs. I walked inside, expecting to find Donny, and instead I am greeted by not one, not two, but FIVE Little People!
I introduced myself, hands were shaken all around, and then one of them volunteered to take me backstage to meet Donny.
My heart did a flip- there's MORE LITTLE PEOPLE!!!
I don't know why seeing them made me so happy, but let me share this visual with you: a group of Little People chilling in an empty nightclub is good. A LARGE group of Little People chilling in an empty nightclub is better!
I met Donny, who was as sweet as can be, and helped me find the tiny (no pun intended) dressing room, where I put on my wig, knee pads, stilt covers, and the rest of my costume.
"Oh, don't set anything down on that bag," Donny warned me. "It's full of birds."
Ohkayyyyy sure...
The floor was filled with balloons at this point, and it was getting really cramped backstage as all the little people were getting dressed in Oompa Loompa costumes. There was even a tiny Oompa-Loompa version of "The Situation" practicing his fistpump in the mirror- it was great. I'm pretty sure at some point he hit on me, which made me smile for all the right reasons.
I was ready to strap up and put on my stilts at that point, so I stretched them out from 3-feet to 5-feet, and then realized with horror: I WAS MISSING A WINGNUT.
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap!

You really, really need all four wingnuts for stilts- they literally keep the bottom from falling out while you're walking, so your stilts don't trip you up or collapse under you. A small heart attack began ramping up in my heart- here I'd just met this wonderful family of midget entertainers, and they were about to hate me. Or think I was stupid. Or possibly both.
After explaining to Donny that I had to retrace my steps and search for the nut, (which, to his everlasting credit, did not freak out about) I ran out on Hollywood Blvd. to see if it had fallen out between the hotel and my car while I was carrying my stilts. I usually keep them in a bag, but I was in such a rush I'd just toted them straight from my trunk.

I was, at this point, wearing:
Ugg-style brown floppy house slipper-boots, fishnet stockings, a garter, a garter belt, a leopard print bathrobe, a lumpy unbrushed wig, kneepads, and big plushy white velour stilt covers which I had to hold up with my hands to keep them from dragging on the ground as I lurched down the sidewalk, scanning the pavement for my missing nut.
It's Hollywood on a Saturday night, and people were still staring at me- I will never again judge the whackos and their outfits I see on the streets- I have run a mile in their shoes and it's stressful.

To make matters worse, I couldn't find my wingnut on the street, or in my trunk. I went back, about to disappoint everyone and let down my friend who recommended me and burn bridges, when I gave my suitcase a random search. Magically, it appeared- it had fallen off in an open flap. Hallelujah praise the midget baby Jesus!
Scrambling, I threw on the rest of my costume and strapped up, and my friend Luckey ushered me out to the club, which had opened its doors moments before. She lead me through a pitch black stage and opened some red velvet curtains. As my eyes adjusted to the dim club light, from the stage, I see:
A hot chick in a sexy referee costume dancing.
A hot chick in a sexy maid outfit dancing.
A hot chick in a sexy nurse outfit dancing.
A person in a giant Panda Bear mascot costume dancing next to the nurse.
A guy in a hot-pink ape costume dancing his ass off.
A man in a chicken suit, dancing.
A man in a tuxedo with fingerless gloves and a ventriloquism dummy, sitting and chatting with a big guy in a tux.
...As I'm taking all this in, the man with the dummy stands up from where he's sitting and approaches me.
"Hi," I'm David, he says, shaking my hand.
"I'm Jaime- nice to meet you!" I say, still adjusting to the bizarre new environment.
Meanwhile, the DJ is blaring "Jesse's Girl," and "Hungry Like The Wolf," while we dance and dance in an otherwise empty club. Sur-fucking-real.
On both sides of the room, birthday parties are set up- one in a giant velvet booth and the other in a massive wrought-iron birdcage. I can see a harness of some sort... At this point I just sort of zone out and keep dancing, trying to ignore the searing pain flaring up in my sprained foot. Soon enough, the patrons began to trickle in.
I kept noticing the Stage Manager as she ran around, socializing and preparing everything on the stage for the variety acts which were to follow. She was very friendly and smiled at me several times. I guess I was staring at her a little because she was KELLY OSBOURNE. Random night job, I suppose, but she was very nice.
Slowly at first, then with a surge of importance, really expensively dressed people filled the club. And then it happened:
Somebody ordered a bottle.
The lights flickered and flashed- spotlights focused on the corner of the room, where a neon sign proudly displayed the words "World's Only Midget Bar."
The DJ stopped the music, played a brief intro, then announced it: "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, GIVE IT UP FOR THE WORLD'S ONLY... FLYING MIDGET BARRRRTENDERRRR!!!!"
To the song "Thus Spake Zarathustra," Steve, a Little Person dressed as an Oompa Loompa with a battery operated light-up harness and pants suit, was hoisted aloft and flown on a motorized track over the throng of partiers, until he arrived at the table which ordered a bottle. He is lowered to ground level, at which point he proudly delivers the vodka, or whatever they ordered, then once again raise back to the ceiling to swim gracefully through the air back to his spot at the bar. Steve repeated this process about a dozen times that night. It is his actual job, he is adorable, and he probably makes more money than I'll ever see in my lifetime.
At this point, it's time to start the burlesque shows which run every half hour, and are filled with variety acts. My new friend David begins to emcee the show, but first he is introduced:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MR. DAVID ARQUETTE!"
Ohhhh. So THAT's why he looked familiar...
David emcees throughout the night, as the burlesque shows come and go. There is a burlesque magician, some amazing pop singers, some "Beacher's Babies" who dance up a storm, and a girl who performed a lapdance for the birthday boy, then did something juuust off stage in a bathtub which involved squirting a large quantity of what I can only pray was water. If you've been reading these blogs, you know why I was afraid.
A magician from Australia took the stage and began to produce pigeon after pigeon from a deck of cards. (These were the ones I'd been warned about.) He then tied a gray scarf to a black scarf, balled it up and produced a fat grey cat. My jaw dropped a little on that one.
The next act was also Australian- a handsome fellow I'd seen wandering around backstage in a towel earlier.
"So what's your act," I ask. "You just wear a towel provocatively?"
He laughed and answered in an adorable accent, "No, I'm the Shaving Cream Guy."
...The what?
The Shaving Cream Guy was onstage next- he proceeded to pour out an entire can of shaving cream into his palms, which he then used to coat his entire head and chest in white foam. Using no mirror and just his hands, he sculpted and contorted his face into the images of an old man, a monkey, a laughing skeleton, and a Faustian Devil, complete with horns. He was also jaw-droppingly amazing.
At one point, my friend Luckey came out in street clothes and a Bart Simpson rubber head. She's a professional dancer, and tore it up. We were also joined by a second panda (a smaller one) and an extremely overweight girl in jungle-print lingerie.
By this point, I'd seen so many titties with tassels, I didn't think the night could get any more provocative. Until the onstage pillowfight began, complete with feather cannon.
Luckey changed from her Bart costume to some sort of Pokemon character, complete with a tail and 8 hands flopping around as she whirled across the crowd.
Later, the girls came out wearing pretty much only the balloons I'd been tripping over backstage, and ran through the audience popping them one by one.
I was overstimulated, under-hydrated and beyond exhausted at this point- I'd had one 5-minute break, during which I stayed up on my stilts, but I didn't want to leave the club for a moment in case I missed something awesome.
That's when Paris Hilton stopped by to hang out and watch another round of burlesque variety acts. She stood right next to me, and I stared at her earrings and wondered how much steak I could buy with just one...
Just as suddenly as it began, the night ended- people started to filter out, and the club was sparse. The hot chicks were gone, the pandas were gone, it was just me and that weird thing with 8 hands and a tail, which brought me some Vos water.
If you don't know what Vos water is, it's because you're in a normal tax bracket- sadly, I couldn't even enjoy it because I was so busy gulping it down. I staggered backstage, where, as I unstrapped myself from my stilts, I noticed one of the Little People was wearing an ankle bracelet. Not the fun kind, but the Lindsay Lohan kind. Just speculating about how that got there filled my mind with tiny criminal possibilities...
All too soon, the night was over and I drove home, deliriously tired.
My cats greeted me at the door, and, avoiding tripping over them in the darkness, I stepped in a pile of cat barf.
In the shower at 4 in the morning, I contemplated my life.
As the barf, glitter and sweat washed down the drain, I thought:
Not too shabby.

L.A. Stories- Look, Don't Touch (and other facts of LAife)

Today, on the road, someone drove over a branch of kumquats and sent them exploding across the 1-70 in a burst of projectile fruit. It was colorful and citrusy- the kind of fruit-splosion a vitamin-C-deficient Michael Bay would arrange.
However, this is not the most amazing debris I've seen on an L.A. commute:
Last week, I was on the 101 when I noticed that the road was... shimmering. Not just a sheen, or even a Charlie Sheen- there were distinct dazzling points of vibrant red and silver light, appearing with more and more frequency.
Since only the night before, I'd been writing commercials for an eye disease clinic, I panicked and ran through my list of cataract and glaucoma symptoms. I did the cartoon-patented double-fisted eye rub. I blinked really hard- no change. In fact, the sparkles had increased in number- I was driving through a maelstrom of radiance.
Time stopped for a moment- "this is what it's like to live in a glitter snow-globe..."
Gradually, over the next 1/2 mile, the sparkles dissipated, leaving stunned drivers to wonder and marvel at the miracle on the 101. I still don't know what it was- although I think it must've had something to do with Universal Studios Hollywood- I've worked enough parades to recognize Mylar confetti when I see it, but the sheer amount was breathtaking.
The reason this is important (other than the fact that it's awesome,) is that it's pretty much the only free thing I've received since moving to Los Angeles. Anything else that's sparkly or fun about this city has cost me- dearly.
Parking my car on the street cost me a keyying.
Jay's job in NY cost me my hair.
Horror Nights cost me my jeans.
Grinchmas cost me the skin on my face.
My health insurance was taken away.
Hell, we'd been stolen from before we unpacked what was left of our mangled furniture.

Most of the LA experience reminds me of the time my parents took me to England, and we went to see the famous Crown Jewels. There they were, an arm's length away, behind Lucite cases, laser security and tasseled, velvet-clad guards: crowns, scepters, little important-looking sphere-thingees- amazing treasures to behold. These glimmering royal accessories were so physically close to me, and yet a universe away. Look, Don't Touch- these are tools of a trade I'll never be part of. This is for a life I'll never have access to. I can look, but I can never be part of what these shining trophies represent.

And that's exactly how LA is.

Drive down Sunset Boulevard, and gaze into the windows at the Cavalli store. Take a peek down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills at the shoppers in their Prada heels with their billion-dollar bags. Look into the ivy-shrouded windows at the mansions in the hills, and you'll feel it: a profound sense of disconnection. Here is a life you'll never be part of. Look, Don't Touch.

The most singular example that stands out in my mind is the vista from Mulholland Drive. Peering down at the twinkling lights of the city below should serve as some source of inspiration- but instead, it is a condensed view of everything I can't be part of. Downtown LA might as well be covered in a giant Lucite case with laser alarms- it's a life you have to be born into, and at times it seems like I've got a better chance at becoming English Royalty than Hollywood Royalty.

This ache is felt most intensely when the glitter-life is swirling around me, but it sneaks up at other times, too. I miss not worrying about money so much- dinner and a movie used to be no problem. Now, the price is just too high. I find myself getting angry over nickle-and-dime stuff that never would've bothered me before. I get feral about food, especially...

I once paid a friend in groceries to take me to the airport- he took all my perishable food from my fridge before dropping me off at LAX. I adore this friend, and yet, as he loaded MY milk and MY chicken into his trunk, some caveman part of me longed to lunge at him- I wanted to pounce on him like a wildcat and take my food back. It's MINE! MY FOOD!

There was a point over the holidays when I walked past two guys grilling a steak in the courtyard of my apartment building. I strode past, tall and uncaring, unlocked my door, walked inside, turned around, locked my door, then broke down and wept like a baby in my hallway.
I wanted a steak too.

It wasn't fair- They get steak and shoes and mansions and jobs in the industry. Why is there a Lucite barrier between me and everything my heart has ever beat for?
Welcome to LA.
Look, Don't Touch.

That is why free roadside sparkles are so special- everyone can enjoy them.

L.A. Stories- New Edition, with more missing limbs!

It used to be, when I'd see or hear a helicopter, I thought, "tourists sightseeing." When I first moved to Hollywood, I assumed their presence indicated some celebrity sighting.
'Lindsay is flashing her vag again, activate AirBeaver Alpha Squad.'

When I was working Halloween Horror Nights, several choppers kept making passes over our maze, and I thought they were filming the celebs at the nearby Igor Awards ceremony- instead, I learned that there was a gang-related shooting at ShittyWalk.

The locals taught me that instead of something positive, Hollywood Helicopters are usually an ill omen. Someone is bleeding, someone is dying, someone is dead, someone is running from the police. It reminds me of a line in a Meatloaf song:
"A killer's on the blood-shot streets."
A Hollywood helicopter always means something is wrong.

Last night, there were helicopters, which is not unusual. There were also cop cars and ambulances surrounding our building, which, sadly, is also not unusual. When they blocked off our street, though, I figured there might be a little somethin' extra going on, and as it turns out, there was!

Someone O.D.'d in our building, (standard practice) which accounted for the first battalion of cops and paramedics, aaaaaaand, a bus tried to make it up the steep hill our street is on, its brakes failed, and it slid out of control down half the length of our street, taking out 5 parked cars and obliterating a scooter before crashing through a cinderblock wall and gate, and finally came to a stop, pinning a motorcycle against what's left of a Ford F-150. Awesome!!!
The debris and carnage is still there this morning- it's pretty exciting if you're into debris and carnage!

My neighbor told me the story as we walked to the Farmer's Market this morning. She and her girlfriend had heard the crashes and gone out to investigate, and the cops told them the whole story.
They also told her that earlier in the week, a three-car accident on our block had caused a car to go up on the sidewalk, pinning a woman to a building. The police said that the woman lived, but they had to amputate her legs.

For those of you playing the Home Version of our game, that makes a total of FOUR SEVERED LEGS since I moved to Cherokee Street.

With a bag loaded with tangelos and kale, I walked from the Market up our street with Courtney to see the mangled bus and the destruction. It was a bright sunny day. Most of the vehicles had been towed, but the bus, motorcycle, F-150 and chunks of wall and gate remained. At some point, someone had parked their car (perfectly legally) along the curb, but it was blocking part of the crash site so no more towing could be done.

Someone had placed a note on the driver's windshield:
"Move your F*cking car you idiot, can't you see you're in the F*cking way?"

Ahhh, Hollywood.

L.A. Stories- "You have to arrest me, there's blood everywhere!"

Near the corner of Hollywood and Highland, there's a large billboard featuring a stylized graphic of a cop car with lights blazing, an intense-looking cop, and bright swatches of crime scene tape. At first, I thought it was advertising a TV show, but it is, in actuality, an ad for the CRIME SECTION in the Los Angeles Times. At first I was slightly disgusted with the sensationalism, but hey, it's Hollywood. Then, I got to call the LAPD myself, and now that I know how truly awesome it is, I'm totally sold! Go cops go!

Here's what happened:
Shortly after Jay and I moved into our apartment on Cherokee Street, I went for a walk and saw some police hanging out on my corner. I told them I was new in town and asked if they could give me an idea about how safe the neighborhood was. They both burst out laughing, then stopped abruptly.
"Like, safe in terms of how," one asked.
"Like, 'can I go for a walk by myself at night' safe?"
They exchanged a 'look.'
"Naahhhh. I wouldn't do that." He answered.
"Stick right on Hollywood Blvd. and you'll be OK but don't go anywhere else," said the other cop.
"Stay away from the side streets."
"Or take someone else with you."
Yikes.
Due to the city noise, I'm now in the habit of sleeping with earplugs in. A couple of nights later, at 4:30AM, I awoke because I heard a woman screaming. I took out my earplugs- yup- definitely a woman screaming. Not just "yelling," full-on terrorized "NO! STOP!!! NOOOOOOO!!! GET AWAY FROM ME!!! NOOOOO!!!!" I immediately reached over to grab Jay, but he wasn't in bed.
Next I reached for the phone and dialed 911. The screaming had mutated into a howling at this point. Someone was dying.
"911 what is your emergency?"
"I'm at the X Building on Cherokee St. and a woman is screaming bloody murder."
"What is she screaming, ma'am?"
"Nooo, stop, get away from me- can you please come rescue her???"
"Is she being attacked?"
"I dunno- it sounds like it."
"Can you see her?"
At this point I hear a slamming sound and glass exploding. It sprinkles onto the concrete sidewalk in our courtyard like demonic rain.
"Can you please just come? Glass is shattering everywhere and I think she's dying."
"The police are on their way- is there a gate to your building?"
"Yes."
"If it's locked when the police get there can you make sure it's open?"
I hear more slamming popping sounds- gunshots?
"Ohhhhhkay..."
I hang up and go out to the living room where I find Jay looking out a window. I'm a totaly wreck.
"What is happening to her?"
"I dunno," he answers. "Cops are here."
From outside someone shouts "Gimmie the key, gimmie the key" and our gate flies open and at least seven huge LAPD shadows race across our darkened courtyard. Broken glass crunches under solid boots.
Several tense moments go by- more yelling and screaming, punctuated by staccato barkings from the officers. A few cops come out and stand in the courtyard.
Jay decides to go out and learn what's going on. Terrified, I stay put on the couch. I'm convinced bullets will fly at any moment. Paramedics arrived and trooped a medical parade through the courtyard.
Jay later told me that he saw one of our neighbors in handcuffs, saying, "you have to arrest me, there's blood everywhere."
From my window, I saw an older man being marched out through our courtyard by the cops. They had him in some ninja-grip, but he was doubled over and sobbing. Shortly after him followed the paramedics, who had folded a gurney into a wheel-chair position, and the person in the chair was handcuffed to its armrails- the person was wrapped from the neck down in white sheets stained with bright red blood, and from my vantage point, I swear to god, IT LOOKED LIKE HER LEGS HAD BEEN CHOPPED OFF. Dark red stains seeped down the front of the sheets. The woman in the chair lolled her head around and stared vacantly, moaning softly.
Jay finally came back and relayed what he'd seen- he said the cops were laughing and joking around after the arrests. Another night in Hollywood.

After not getting back to sleep and a long day at my internship, I came home, saw the broken glass in the courtyard still and saw a shattered window on the thrid floor. I wondered if he'd tried to push her legs-first out the window and that's what caused the gashes...
I went to the apartment complex's office in the basement of my building. I wanted to know what had happened. The people down there are perpetually rude, but I was freaked out. I didn't feel safe.
When I got down to the office, I was met with the typical blank stares of the Morlocks who work there. "Hey, I just wanted to know if there was any resolution to what happened this morning."
Blink blink. "What do you mean what happened this morning?" asks an irritated woman.
"You know, the screaming, possible gunshots, the police?"
"Ma'am nothing happened here at this building."
I'm amazed- is she denying this? "There was a woman screaming bloody murder- we all heard it."
They look around at each other, sheepishly.
The woman finally rolls her eyes and says, "There was a domestic disturbance, that's all. No big deal."
"Ah, so something DID happen."
She doesn't like being called out. "It's really none of your business."
"None of my business? No big deal?!? There's broken glass all over the courtyard,and I had to call 911 at 4 in the morning. I think that qualifies it as 'my business.'"
"Well, it doesn't concern you, it won't happen again, so you can go back upstairs." Wow she was a bitch.
"OK, well, it concerns me if there's some psycho in our building- I think I have a right to know whether or not I'm safe in my own building."
"It's a domestic disturbance, which means it's not random- and it happened on the third floor- you're on, what..." she pauses.
"The first floor," I answered.
"See," she said, throwing her hands up. "They're not even on your floor."
I'm more than a little sarcastic at this point. "So if they're firing gunshots at each other, it wouldn't even hit me?"
"Exactly."
"OK, well, I feel better. Thanks so much!"

Two weeks after that, I awoke to news vans literally lining our street. A reporter was just wrapping up her spot, and as her cameraman wrapped cables, I asked her what happened. "One of your neighbors was found dead this morning. He was naked and tied to a chair, stabbed over thirty times. Care to comment?" The camera man flips his camera to his shoulder and starts recording, and suddenly a microphone is in my face.
"Uh, no. No thank you."

I'm not worried at all- it didn't happen on my floor.

L.A. Stories- Jaime vs. Konica

I was peacefully settled at my favorite Intern desk at my CulverCity Internship. It's a large wooden desk, with lots of drawers and a super-comfortable over-upholstered armchair which squeaks like a Kraken. Whenever a portion of a script is awful, I like to swivel the chair in a violent circle and inflict the pain on every intern within earshot. Once I have their attention, I'll read the offending passage and we'll all groan together.
It goes something like this:
In the script, a grizzled lawyer skis down a slope, whooshing though the icy night air, then walks into his ramshackle office and discovers a message from his secretary, who quit because he wouldn't pay her. He takes a swig of alcohol, stares at his dissheveled, grizzled (yet somehow also ruggedly handsome) face in a broken mirror and utters the worst phrase I've ever read as an intern: "The defense rests."
-swivelSKREEEEEEEE!!!!!
And we all fall down.
I was enjoying some reading, and had just about found my groove when I was called into the other room.
Mark, my boss, looks at me and says,
"I'm trying to print out these color graphic novel pages but they won't come out of the coper."
I look at the copier. It has some crypic "error 55-11" message on it. I relay that to Mark and he tells me, "I know. It's done this before and we have to have the guy come out. I need you to fix it."
Crap. Stupid me, I have a degree in screenwriting, not copier repair.
After trying all the usual copier-jostling and finnegling, nothing is working. I call Konica's help line and they tell me that since it's Friday at 3PM, they can't get anyone out to fix the machine until Monday morning. I explain that it's copying things for very important people. They are not impressed and stand their ground. Crap.
I relay this information to Mark, and offer to run to Kinko's if he can put his images on a zip drive. I can have them printed and on his desk in 20 minutes.
"No!" Mark turns cherry red and blows up. "I called you in here because I want you to fix it. I want YOU to dix it. I want to see how you handle this- this is a challenge. So fix it!!!"
Totally taken aback, I retreat to the Konica and stare it down... Did I just get yelled at?
This Konica is massive- it's the kind of copier which has twin turbine engines and a coach and first class sections. It collates. It hole punches. It has Hadron Collider applications. It's epic and scary. Which is why it takes trained technicians to fix it.

Not easily daunted, I start prying open drawers and eventually find SEVEN instruction manuals. They're all for different portions of the machine. I go online to a Konica site and I'm looking for a support chat room or something where I can troubleshoot it with a Konica representative, and I have the office assistant calling to set up the monday appointment.
A few minutes go by as I frantically leaf through the self-help books. Finally, I see a section on error codes.
As I'm flipping to the right page, Mark rounds the corner and says, "It's taking too long. This is ridiculous."
I'm literally on my knees on the floor leafing through these books.
"Do you want me to-"
"No!" He cuts me off. "20 minutes is too long. That's failure. This was a challenge and you failed!"
He walked away as I begin to work my eyelids like a fiend, blinking back hot stupid girl tears.
Don't cry don't cry don't cry.
He asked me to tilt at a windmill then yelled at me when I couldn't do it fast enough. And it sucked.
So I went back to the desk and sulked for a few hours.
Later, Mark found me and appologized, explaining that he was sorry he blew up at me- that he was mad about something else.
Gee-ya think?
Still- his words are so deliciously over-the-top punitive, I will cherish them always.
"This was a challenge, and you failed."
swivel-SKREEEEEE!!!!
You win this round, Konica.

L.A. Stories- Treachery and the UTA Joblist

By now, any one following these notes should understand that the UTA Joblist is a cruel hoax perpetrated against newcomers and people who can read. However, in my early days as a Los Angelean, I fell prey to it time and time again, because it never occurred to me that people outside of themeparks would advertise for a job that was already filled.
So, once again, the joke was on me when I received a response to my cover letter and resume. I'd applied for the PAYING job of "Executive Assistant" at a "Boutique Talent Agency" in "Beverly Hills." The job required a college degree, some experience within the industry, and a working car. Perfect!
A man named X called me back, and told me that he'd like to interview me for the Executive Assistant position, but first I needed to submit some samples of my writing to his agency. Not a problem. He also emailed me a 12-page long criminal background check form, and asked me to fill it out. He explained that he was the "executive," and that boutique agency" in this case meant working out of his house. Which was not exactly in Beverly Hills, but, whatever, right? A job's a job. And a PAYING job in this town, when everyone else wants me to intern for free? Well! I will gladly submit to a criminal background check...
Hey. Wait a minute- why does he need my mom's maiden name, every school I ever went to, my SSN, my DL#, every job I've ever worked EVER... My employer's addresses? What the Eff???
I smelled a rat, and asked him why he needed such personal information- I felt that a professional criminal background check would see if I had a jail record, not analyze my DNA.
I called him and said that I was uncomfortable faxing over such personal information, and he said, "hey, d'ya want the job or don't you?" Hmm. Now I'm not so sure. A red flag went up when I googled this guy and couldn't find a THING. Jay tried to find him online and also met with no sucess- all we found was a vague business listing- even I leave a bigger web trail than this- it's weird and spooky.
I asked Jay's Aunt and Uncle and they got a friend who works for Sony to do a little digging, and she emailed me a list of X's clients, and vetting him as "legit."
I IMDB'd each and every client, and found the most successful of them to be one of the 15 writers who worked on "Kung Fu Panda." Hmm.
Well, I did indeed need a job, and I had no other options, so I (per his request) faxed him the 17 pages of criminal background check and samples. It cost me $24 I really didn't have, but I did it anyway.
A couple of days after the fax, he called me on a Saturday night and asked to set up a meeting on Monday for the interview in his basement. Ugh. Another red flag- I pictured the interview being him lowering a questionaire down to me in a basket while I threaten to hurt his dog if he doesn't hire me. Off to a great start already. He reminded me not to be late; that his time was important. Yeah. Got it. This ain't my first rodeo- remember, I'd already been burned by Celebrity X.
The next day was Sunday, and I was surprised when he called me again. I was anticipating that he wanted to change the time, but instead he asked if we could set the interview u at 10AM.
"Um, sure- didn't we already set it up for 10AM?"
"Hunh?"
"I thought you'd called me yesterday and asked for a 10AM interview..."
There's this long pause- then he says:
"My stupid assistant forgot to take it off the call sheet! Fine 10AM. Don't be late."
Click.
Awesome. This guy blames his own mistakes on his assistants. Yikes.
So, fully anticipating some sort of weirdness, I asked Jay to come with me. We both get up earrrrly and fight horrific traffic from Long Beach to Hollywood, (read: NOT BEVERLY HILLS) where I ring the man's doorbell and a woman answers carrying I SHIT YOU NOT the dog from "The Silence of the Lambs."
I am so ready for this interview.
She's confused; why am I there? Oh! X! JXxxxx!!! Would I go down and wait in the basement?
I certainly would.
A good 25 minutes later, (LATE,) X finds his way to the basement and seems utterly surprised that we have an interview set up. His basement is full of dusty art his children drew years ago. There is a cold metal desk which looks somewhat functional, and on the other side of a wall is an "Executive Assistant" desk. It is really crappy and possibly assembled by the same children who created the macaroni art.
X starts out the interview by going into great detail about what a loser he is- a surprising gambit!
He talked AT me for a good 10 minutes, making no efforts to conceal the constant lowering of his gaze to my cleavage.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, I am a B-cup. There's nothing special here. Yet somehow, he could not keep his eyes away from them- it was weird- I've never encountered this before in my life- not at Mardi Gras, not at liquor promos, not at Halloween Horror Nights- this guy has to be some sort of world-class boob-obsessor if he can't match my gaze for a full 20 seconds. I was pretty uncomfortable at this point, but I was bewildered and fascinated as to why he kept talking about himself during my interview. In fact, he didn't ask me one thing. And he hadn't bothered to look at either my resume or the criminal background form. $24 well spent. Sigh.
He talked for 10 minutes, explaining why he got "let go" from William Morris and why the office he'd been renting asked him to leave. He explained that he needed me to fill in for his current assistant who was beginning to need to take days off. I would work 3 days a week, 9-7 in his basement. And any other days he needed. And a few weekends.
When I asked what kind of compensation I could expect, he explained that since I'd never worked for an office before I wasn't qualified to be paid, but if I worked well for him, in three months he would write me a nice letter of recommendation.
I was a little surprised, since the position was advertised as paid, and since I'd worked for EFFING SESAME STREET. I asked if he'd "had the opportunity" to look at my resume, and he said no. I showed him that I'd worked at numerous offices. He said, "yes, but he's used to having 150 assistants at his beck and call, trained to cater to him specifically." And maybe he was, at William Morris. But I couldn't afford to work for free. So I asked him if I could instead serve as a reader, and in my spare time do coverage on his scripts for him. This way I could get more experience as a reader and it would free up his assistant. He said yes, that would be fine. But he said it while staring at my boobs. Weird!
On my way out, I asked him if he was interested in reimbursing me for the $24 I'd spent faxing him paperwork. He seemed genuinely panicked and said, "No! NO! I can't do that! Do you know how expensive that would be?"
I told him, "Yes. Twenty-five dollars."
I requested that he relinquish the faxes to me since I wouldn't be working in his home, and I left, expecting to never hear from him again.
Two weeks later he randomly called to tell me that he wanted to keep his precious script submissions "in house," (meaning, in this case, his basement) and that he couldn't have me read unless I was there physically reading them. I said no thank you and hung up. Surely that was the last of him, right?
No!
At my fully legitimate unpaid internship in the legitimate basement of a legitimate company later, I would hear stories of multiple interns who get suckered in by this guy- they always fax, and then he'll eventually tell them that they're not qualified to be his PAID intern, but they could assist and get a letter.
Bastard.
I wonder how may cumulative hours of jobhunting he's usurped from Los Angeles' unemployed.
I still get the UTA Joblist sent to me. Friends with good intentions will send it my way once a week. And every week, there it is: PAID EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT AT BOUTIQUE AGENCY IN BEVERLY HILLS. CONTACT X
Don't do it. Or if you do, be prepared to grab his dog and hold on tight while he stares at your boobs.

L.A. Stories- A Slap in the Face, L.A.-style

One day I worked on Iron Man II: "Iron Boogaloo." This is not the actual subtitle to Iron Man II, but it should be. Anyway, we filmed all night at the Sepulveda Dam. I ran around from 3PM to 6AM the following day, in 45-degree weather, dodging imaginary fireballs that will presumably become CG fireballs in the future. I ran and accidentally shoulder-checked Mickey Rourke. Oops! (He is terrifying in person.)
It was a long, cold grueling night. Security did sweeps of the thorny brambles surrounding the tent which housed all 500 of us extras, shooing out frozen paparazzi crouched like Savannah Lions with telescopic lenses. John Favereau, the director, politely addressed us a "Background Artists" through a massive PA system which made him sound like a blue whale.
Gwynneth Paltrow was there. From far away, she looks like a stick figure with a wig.
After a night and morning of fleeing in terror, we were exhausted- then they dropped the bad news on us: this was supposed to be a 5-day job. Instead, it's only one. Sorry to all those that didn't have work lined up- oops.
I drove the long drive home to our temporary camp in Long Beach. Out of sheer masochism (and desperation for a job) I called the Central Casting Line, thinking that maybe I would meet the requirements for something they were shooting that day.
I was shocked to find that I did!
"Thank you for calling Central Casting- this is an emergency message, repeat: an emergency message. This message was left at 7:20 AM. We need an attractive, blonde caucasian woman in her late 20's to early 30's who can be in the Hollywood area by 8:00. Please call the emergency line immediately if you match this description."
I looked at my watch- it was 7:30. I could be in Hollywood by 8AM if I made a U-turn. Sure I hadn't slept and I was tired and numb, but who cares? The odds that enough attractive blonde caucasians in their late 20's early 30's had called in the last 10 minutes was slim to NONE- I had the golden ticket!
I called the line, and they answered- I gave them the first four digits of my social security number and told them my last name- that's how they pull up your picture.
I asked if the job was still available.
"Yes, yes!" Central Casting said. "Can you be there by 8?"
"Yes!" I answered.
"Great! Let's just pull your photo up here, and... oh..."
..."What? What is it?"
"We can't use you for this job. Sorry. Have a great day!"
Click.
Hm. Well, I know I'm blonde. I'm caucasian for sure, and I'm definitely that age range, so that can only lead to one conclusion.
Feeling really, really unattractive and suddenly even more tired, I went to bed.
Eff you, Central Casting. My mom says I'm pretty.

L.A. Stories- Heartbreak, L.A.-style

My friend Todd has made "Them's The Breaks!" his mantra when things don't go the way he'd planned. He bases this off of a cartoon he read as a young boy. The character in the cartoon threw up his hands and absolved himself of responsibility, and instantly felt better about the hand he'd been dealt. This mentality works exceptionally well for Todd. I wish it worked for me, too, because it would make bullshit like this a little more bearable...
Here is the story of my very first heartbreak in LA:
My first month here, I spent a large portion of time and energy emailing out personalized, individually-tailored cover letters and resumes to jobs advertising on the UTA Joblist. For those of you who don't know, the United Talent Agency's Joblist is an "insider" email which has all of the available positions within each agency advertised. If an Executive Assistant moves up a ladder rung, his desk becomes open. Any open Mail Room slots are advertised. Also, actual Executive jobs and Agency Training positions are posted as well.
Here is what is looks like:

Executive Assistant Needed at Boutique Talent Agency!
Wanted: fast-learning college grad with Mac skills, capable of dealing with "personalities," must have own car and knowledge of players. Reply to asstjob9@yahoo.whatever

If you're new in town, you don't realize that the entire list is a hoax. And you have no idea which agency is placing the ad because they keep it anonymous. So you write a cover letter like this:
To Whom it May Concern,
I'm an amazing fast-learning grad from College X, and I dealt with this (name drop) and I know the game, because I learned from driving my car which I own to all the player's houses to fix their Macs! Please hire me!

Then you sit and wait, and NOTHING HAPPENS, because what no one tells you is that this list is only put out because it's required by law to advertise for open positions. The position of Executive Assistant went to the Junior Executive Assistant. His position was filled by some producer's cousin's little league pal's dad's bartender's dealer's roommate, and the guy in the mail room gets shafted. No mailroom position is open. They are lying.

So you can imagine my surprise when one day, while on the set of Iron Man II, "Iron Boogaloo," I was called by a receptionist at Odenkirk-Provissiero, who told me that "Naomi liked your resume and wants to meet you." None of that meant anything to me, but I played along like it was the only job I'd ever applied for in my life, and agreed to come in for an interview the next day.

The receptionist emailed me directions, and I used her email address' domain name to figure out where I was going. And then I crapped myself a little:
Odenkirk-Provissiero is a new talent AND literary agency which caters specifically to comedic network writers and actors. They do pretty much everyone from SNL. The "Naomi" of which she spoke is Naomi Odenkirk- Bob Odenkirk's wife. Bob Odenkirk writes and stars in "Mr. Show," and Naomi writes and produced "Mr. Show." They have their hands in all that is funny and good on TV. They are the reason I came out here.
So I called in to Iron Man II that following day so I could interview, although I still wasn't sure what I was interviewing for.
I dressed up and drove from Long Beach to Hollywood, and was admitted into a small studios lot- my first time past a studio security gate where it wasn't a theme park!
I waited and watched as a chubby sweaty girl left the office I was headed towards- she looked upset. I knew she was the girl slotted ahead of me. I began to panic.
I said, "how'd it go?" She shook her head at me.
"Good luck," she lied.
I went in and met with Naomi and her Assistant, and we totally clicked- it was a flawless interview- the kind where everything I said was perfect and charming and encouraged them to ask more questions until we're all laughing together over something I said.
I was Charmed that day, and left the office feeling Snakes on A Plane. I got a hearty handshake and a "we'll call you." And I thought they would!
Lo and behold, they DID!
The next day, I was called by the Assistant and asked if I would consider being X's personal assistant. X is a fairly popular (High B-List) comedic actress on a #1 hit show. She's been in a few successful movies, and is known for being really cool and nice.
Naomi thought I'd be a good match for her, and told me she wanted to set up an interview at X's house so I could meet X and her fiance'. The assistant told me it'd be around 50K/yr and benefits. Needless to say, I was absolutely on cloud 9.
X was filming, so I had to wait 2 weeks. During that time, I served as a personal assistant to my Set Dresser, and cleaned spider webs out of her shoes, dreaming of the day I could help X pick out Manolos for the Red Carpet. The two weeks dragged by, and I lightly googled X so I could be conversant on things that were going on in her career, but I didn't go TOO into detail because I didn't want to be too much of a fan. I sweated. God, did I sweat. This job would be the answer to any and all of my problems at once!
The day before the interview, Naomi's assistant called and asked if they could change the time to the evening. No problem. She called again and asked if they could rearrange and bump it up one hour. Again, no problem. She called the third time to place the interview time at 5PM. For sure. Was that a problem? Hell no. The morning of the interview, she called again and asked if they could make it 11AM.
I threw on my clothes, raced through makeup and was in my car on the 101 when I got another phone call from Naomi's assistant. I answered, thinking it was going to be like the others, but sadly, it wasn't.
"X has changed her mind, and she really doesn't want a personal assistant at this time... Maybe in a couple of months, maybe in November?"
It was June. Fuck.
"Oh! Yeah! Sure, sure- no problem!"
But it was a problem. It was a big, devastating problem.
So I pulled over and cried, like any responsible heartbroken girl would do.
Then I called Central Casting to see if they had any work for that day. They didn't.
"Them's the breaks!" But these breaks hurt like a motherfucker.

LA Stories: So Glad I Went to College

Here are a few of the random tasks I've been assigned:
1) Remove spiders and cobwebs from the insides of boots
2) Bail mosquito-infested larvae-water out a landscaping fountain
3) Dig through someone's "Sex Drawer" to find an item...
4) sew fur onto a bicycle
5) My boss handed me part of a weird-looking plant and said "find out what this is and if I can eat it."
6) Bring keys and rescue a girlfriend who locked herself out of her car
7) Retrieve Brian De Palma's daughter's diploma from the frame shop
8) Go get "one of everything" from a sushi restaurant
9) Relocate 247 reels of film in large canisters from Melbourne, Australia to Sydney, Australia over the phone.
10) Condense a 1,400 pg. novel down to 7 pages in 3 days.

For the record, I enjoyed the hell out of most of these jobs, and have been lucky to have some amazingly kind mad geniuses to work with.
On #8, my boss shared the sushi with me and we ate ourselves into a sashimi coma. It was delightful!

LA Stories: The Security Guard

We have a homeless gentleman who lives in the parking garage adjacent to our apartment building. Because he is typically found at his "post," where he likes to pee in his clothes and sing to the recyclable materials he harvests, I like to call him "The Security Guard."
It makes him less scary when I can focus on his dependable nature rather than his bat-shit craziness.

Case in point: at one point in his life, this man was involved in criminal enterprise with a border collie. I know this, because he followed me down the sidewalk recently, exclaiming, "I told that God-Damned Border Collie, I told him, I said, 'one of us is getting the needle- the other, IT'S JAIL FOR LIFE!!!'"

Another time, he was quietly humming to himself while I was waiting for the elevator. Then he spontaneously burst out laughing so violently, I jumped about a foot in the air and dropped everything I was carrying. My microwavable lunch rolled into a puddle of what I can only assume was dog pee. Perhaps from that very same Border Collie...

LA Stories: Sliders and Screenwriters

OK, if there's two things I hate in this world, it's sliders and screenwriters. Actually, three things: sliders, screenwriters, and Ricky Martin.
Since the reasons for hating Ricky Martin are all too obvious, I'll elaborate on my first two Objects D'SevereAnger...

1) Sliders
They're just tiny burgers, Los Angeles! That's all they are! Seriously! We moved out here, and all of a sudden, Slider-Mania starts and every single restaurant is flaunting them like they've re-invented the Jesus. TACO STANDS sell sliders. WTF. They're cool and all, but buffalo sliders? Elk sliders? Chicken and veggie sliders? These are crimes against God, and I won't stand for it anymore. I told Jay- the next person who says "slider" to me gets punched in the face...
Then I saw my friend Clay at HHN. He is a Slider. GAHHHHHH.

2) Screenwriters
I've never felt so un-fucking special in all my life. Since birth, I was raised to believe that I had a precious gift. That I was talented. That I was unique, and different. Talented. A singular dazzling Unicorn amongst the Reindeer and their games.
Now I've come out here to the Land of Unicorns, and lo-
...I'm not so special anymore.
In fact, EVERYONE is a screenwriter out here. The wardrobe ladies at HHN? Screenwriters. The guy working at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf? F-ing screenwriter. The CameraGuy? Also a screenwriter. Oh, and every single actor out here is ALSO a screenwriter. My friend Rob is a Production Assistant. And a screenwriter. All of the interns at all three (unpaid) internships are all screenwriters.
With actors, you can kind of get a sense if they're going to be sucky actors or not. With bat-shit crazy introverted writers, it's anyone's guess.
Here's an example of a typical exchange:
(The following takes place between me and a fat girl at a party.)
GIRL AT PARTY- Hi! I'm so-and-so's wife!
ME- Oh, hey. Jaime. Nice to meet you.
GIRL AT PARTY- Are you an actress?
ME- (laughs) No, no- I moved out here so I could write.
GIRL AT PARTY- I have a book deal!
ME- That's great! Congratulations!
GIRL AT PARTY- I get 8% of profit- my agents get 20%.
ME- (clearly bored by now) Wow, that's really awesome.
GIRL AT PARTY- It's the sequel to Phantom of the Opera.
ME- (edging away)- That's great... I'm sure Gaston Leroux (the author of the original novel) will be happy to see that.
GIRL AT PARTY- (not getting it) He's dead!
ME- I'm gonna go get a drink now...

Later, she approached me and demanded to try some of my drink. I told her I was a germaphobe, so, sorry.
LATER Later, she took ahold of my hair while I was dancing and told me what I pretty pony I was. She then went around with an invisible knife and mimed stabbing everyone.

Here's another example:
(This took place in the line for wardrobe at HHN)
GUY IN LINE: Why are you so smiley?
ME: Oh- I just got to meet Rob Zombie, like, an hour ago. I'm a huge horror fan, so-
GUY IN LINE: (inturrupts) Yeah, I see him all the time. I got to chat with him a little back a while ago.
ME: (one-upped) Wow! That's cool- did you notice he was short?
GUY IN LINE: Of course, that was the second time I met him. The first time I met him, he was hanging out with Quentin Tarantino.
ME: (now two-upped.) Oh, that's cool.
GUY IN LINE: I was talking to them about how when I met Ely Roth, he was blahblahblahblahblah
ME- (now 3-upped, tuning out) uh-hunh...
GUY IN LINE: blah blah So I pitched them my screenplay because I think they'd be the only two directors I'd want, and I blah blah blah, and it's about this twist on horror, like blah blah...
ME- (lying) I think I forgot something in my lockers.

So if douchebag three-upping screenwriters are constantly pitching their shitty ideas, it automatically discredits anyone with legitimately good ideas. You can only spit on soup so many times before all you taste is spit.
Also, did you notice how in both scenarios, the only reason these people asked me anything was so they could tell me about their writing?
What's weirder is that they're pitching to ME, like I'm someone who can help them. And if these guys who've been out here eating sliders and experiencing a modicum of success (they're still out here so they must be doing something right) then what chance do I have?
I'm floating in a sea of writers- it's like all those images of Hell, where you see the River Styx and all those Damned crowded, drowning eternally, drifting in the eternal endless void of bodies.
Even so, at least these guys are writing. The majority of "writers" out here are just people with ideas they've never committed to paper. Or they've given a suggestion to a writer, so now that they've "collaborated," they're in the club. I suppose even the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf guy is a writer, because he wrote my name on my to-go order. At least he didn't try to pitch me.
The worst of all this (aside from my own clearly visible raging insecurity) is that all of these jerkoffs think that they're beautiful Unicorns too- and it's made me paranoid as hell...
If these guys moved out here thinking they're talented and gifted and precious and magic, then am I just like them?
What separates their confidence in their ability from mine? How do I know if my faith in myself is justified?
Surely these guys have a support network, and friends and parents who encourage them too...
Am I just kidding myself?
Part of me knows I can't give up at this stage in the game. I owe it to myself, to Jay (who I dragged out here against his will) and to everyone who's been encouraging and supportive along the way. If I puss out now, what was the point?
I could go take my cats and my husband back to Orlando, live with my Mom, make Jay miserable, make our cats miserable, make my Mom's cats miserable, and try to reconcile with the death of a dream.
It'll be easier- I can blame the economy. It'll be true. I can blame my health, which is getting worse with every breath I can't take in this smog-infused cesspool. I can blame my nerves. I can blame my cardiac condition. I can point my fingers every which way, including within. I AM SCARED. But that's nothing to be ashamed of. People fail. I tried- that's more than most people do. I took a risk and I bombed. There's honor in there. Somewhere.
I'll beg for more work at Universal and Sea World. I'll buy stilts and be the girl who's a little too old to wear those costumes. Eventually, our finances will start to recover and we'll have some beautiful babies.
And I'll get horrible postpartum depression, drown them in my mom's pool and slash my wrists.
Easy Cheesy!
Or...
What is the "or?"
Stay out here- face my fear for a little longer. Hold in there and watch any sort of financial security crumble. We've run out of savings- our credit cards will eventually all max out, and we'll file for bankruptcy. We will move to a smaller, scarier apartment in a worse part of town than we are in now. Jay will be forced to get a "real" job, and he'll resent me for it.
Stress will eat us both alive, from the inside out. It will show on our faces, little by little closing any windows we'd have to our lives back Home.
I'll work at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
But it'll be OK- because I'm really a ScreenWriter.

LA Stories: The Guy With The Knife

I was helping my pseudo-boss from my (unpaid) internship pack his life into a UHAUL Truck so he and his girlfriend could make a short cross-town move. I volunteered for this job, because I am an idiot. I thought I'd be able to spend some time with him and ask all sorts of pertinent industry-related questions, but instead, I got to wait outside with the truck.
Specifically, wait in the BACK of the metal-lined truck, in 97-degree weather, while a mountain range burned nearby. It was fairly uncomfortable.

My pseudoboss and his girlfriend and their roommates and his friend and one other intern were loading stuff into the truck from the 12th story of a building with the World's Slowest Elevators, and nobody wanted to wait outside with the truck in this brutal weather. I was staring at the sidewalk, fantasizing that my pseudoboss would buy us lunch (never happened) and gazing jealously at the happy people eating at a taco stand adjacent to my pseudoboss' building. I was alone.
Which is why no one else saw what I saw:

A short south-American-looking man with dark skin and a moustache walked down the sidewalk near where our truck was parked. I noticed him because he had a straw Panama Jack hat, a flowered shirt and khaki shorts and sandals- he looked like a guy in a costume. Kind of like a tour guide through a tropical jungle. He walked, right-to-left, past the truck.

Then he walked left-to-right past the truck, and this time, he stopped to pick up some litter off the sidewalk and throw it away. Now he REALLY had my attention- a costumed do-gooder? Could this guy be some sort of Los Angeles Superhero? Who else picks up random trash off the sidewalk? Nobody, that's who. This guy was awesome.

Then he walked by the truck again, right to left, CARRYING A KNIFE. Not just any knife, either- a wickedly thin curved knife with a slight hook-shape at the tip- a knife meant for gutting... I was a little freaked out at this point. He carried the blade against his inner arm, to conceal it, and walked with a deliberate stride past the truck. "Oh God," I thought- "He's going to go kill whoever threw that trash on the sidewalk!"

I must've been distracted by the arrival of the other moving-people, because there was a flurry of activity in the truck and then I was by myself again. Sure enough, there he was again- walking right-to-left, carrying duct tape. "Jesus Tapdancing Christ," I thought- "He's found the perpetrator, he's gutted him, and now he's gonna tape his pieces up into plastic bags and throw them into different dumpsters around town for sure!"

I was continuously asked for money by the city's shambling homeless, and watched some giant line-backer-sized man literally ricochet from side to side down the street picking fights and hugging people. Another man insisted that I purchase a bottle of marinade from him, so he could spend the night in a shelter. All this while I'm in the back of a U-Haul truck.

We finished the move, unloading the truck in Korea Town while an Independence Day-Style mushroom cloud of smoke and ash loomed over the city. Epic, and scary. My psuedoboss' girlfriend brought me back to his old place to pick up my car, but I was starving at this point and decided to suck it up and spend a little money to eat at the taco stand. (I had my eye on a handmade sign advertising the 99-cent Jr. taco allll day.) Upon entering the taco stand, I was immediately greeted by THE PANAMA HACK!!! HE STILL HAD HIS KNIFE!!! OMIGOD I WAS A GONER!!! ...But instead, he offered to make me a taco as he used the knife and the tape to create another handmade sign.

It was his restaurant, which explains why he cared about the taco trash on the sidewalk outside. Whew. That was a close one- I bought a taco from the pleasant little man, and went on about my day.