Laundro-Matt

My boyfriend's name is William. Matthew is his middle name, but since he is a "the third," he's chosen to go by Matt for most of his life.
I already had 14 Matts in my phone when I met him, so when he suggested I enter his number, I asked him if he'd rather be the 15th Matt or the first Will. I reminded him I'd already dated two Matts to disastrous results.

He asked me, "on a scale of one to Ryan Gosling, how sexy do you find the name 'Will?'"
"Baby Gooses!" was my earnest and eager reply.
He chose WISELY, and has been my Will ever since.
But I'm not one to let a name stand in the way of a Titular Pun, so here it is:

The Laundro-Matt blog...

When I first got married to my ex, way back in 2004, I'd moved straight from my very sheltered life at Mom and Dad's to living with my (at the time) husband. I was super new at adulting, and in one of my many, many classic newlywed mistakes, managed to dye most of my husband's underwear and socks a delightfully cheery shade of pink when I washed them with a rogue red sock.

My ex took it in stride, but he was quick to suggest that we separate our laundry from that point on. He took care of his stuff, I took care of my stuff. And I profoundly regret agreeing to that, because it set a precedent for Not Figuring Shit Out Together.

Six years later when he suggested we separate our marriage, so he could take care of his stuff and I could take care of my stuff, I took the bait. And that was the beginning of the end of things.

A year later, when my whirlwind disaster-journey landed me safely living with my then-boyfriend Paul, I wanted to do everything I could to express my gratitude for the multitude of kindnesses Paul had shown me. And so I very bravely did a load of his laundry.
*author's note: Laundry = Love. Kudos to any man who does his ladies' laundry. And ladies, if you're doing laundry for a man you're not living with, you are a chump.

For those of you following this blog, you may recall how profoundly struck I was while feeling the heft and weight of his jeans as I'd folded them. These were his working pants, in which he installed theatrical lighting. They were rugged and coarse and very different from my "girl jeans." The density of these pants caught me off guard, and I realized: I'd never folded "guy clothes" before. I instantly felt a bittersweetness strike my heart. I wish I'd folded my ex's jeans for him. I wish we'd tried to try. I wish he hadn't given up so easily.
But it was just easier to separate.

Cut to 4 years later. Present day. 2015.
I wind up working away from home more frequently than my boyfriend, and often I'll come home to find he's done our laundry. This is miraculous in and of itself, but my favorite part is the elaborate thong-chandeliers he makes while drying my delicates from our ceiling fixtures.

This, but like, hanging artistically from our kitchen light. It's good stuff.

Keenly aware that I was slacking on my end, I insisted on helping with the next load.

Our heaving hamper finally let us know that today was the day. My boyfriend loaded the first load of our clothes in the washing machine and dryer downstairs in our building's tiny laundry room. I took over after that, and throughout the day, I made trips up and down the stairs, to the clothesline and back, and performing the sheet-folding dance in our tiny living room.
Later, true to form, I overloaded the washing machine and caused it to break.

This much, times, like, five. Oops. I always assume if the lid closes, it's good to go.

In sheer denial and ignorance, I loaded our sopping wet clothes into the dryer and broke that too.
I made a guilty run to the LaundroMat down the street with the last of the whites as my boyfriend attempted to repair the machines I'd murdered.

Finally, with a view of a California sunset kissing the drought-yellowed hills, I'm folding our clothes.
His clothes. My clothes. Our clothes. There's the batman shirt that he always wears. There's the grey H&M shirt he wore out to our friend's birthday party. A replay of the days we've lived the past month flashes as I fold. We've had a lot of fun in these clothes. And also out of them. My mind wanders...

And then I get to his pants.

Shorts, actually. Cargo shorts because he knows how much I love their pockets. He purchased them in duplicate so he'd have a place for my phone when we walk. A special pocket for chapstick because he always has chapstick and I fucking love that about him.
I feel the weight and the heft of this fabric, feel their rugged velcro and zippers in my fingers as I flip them neatly in half, then half again.
I remember my guilty confession to him about how I ruined the laundry, how I was sorry, how I'd fix it.
And I remember him telling me not to worry, smirking and saying that he'd give me plenty of opportunity to perfect my technique over time. Lots and lots of practice, he says. And I am grateful, because his first instinct wasn't to bail.

2004 Me is punching the lavender-scented laundromat air.

It's OK that I made a mistake. It's OK to keep trying.
Clothes are going to keep getting dirty and machines are going to break. Laundry gets ruined occasionally.
(In my case, twice every 10 years.)
But he doesn't mind.

I finish my folding and place the stacks of fresh clothes in my bag, ready to come home to someone who makes me feel shiny and clean.

LA Stories: Mix Tape

"And now you're like, 'Devil, get thee behind me,' I'm gonna see the world," she said as she slipped my passport to me through the glass partition. I smiled at the kindness displayed by this Government Agent- she'd guessed the abridged version of the story behind walking into the Los Angeles passport agency requesting an expedited passport, and toting all the necessary legal documents to expunge my ex's last name from my travel papers.

I came home and shredded my old passport- the last existing record of a last name I'm no longer part of, and spent the rest of the day packing and having fun with my boyfriend and his wonderful family. I've discovered that the simple act of letting go often leaves one in the position to accept new gifts, and mine came on my flight's short layover between Denver and England: a text from a friend asking if I'd heard the good news. I was then forwarded a formal announcement my ex had sent out- he and his new wife are leaving Los Angeles and moving to Florida, which means the West Coast is mine. If I'd ever regretted not receiving spousal support, winning California in the settlement is even better. They leave the week of my birthday, which is pretty damn considerate for a guy who never could remember exactly when my birthday was. The city is free, purged of my ghosts. I floated at 600 miles per hour all the way to London.

Though wonderful, moments like these have not been rare. I've been Ghostbusting for a while now, in seeking out things I'd associated negative memories and creating new, positive moments. A massive catharsis surfaced at the Hollywood Bowl, when Will and I went to the One Republic concert. "Stop and Stare" had been my anthem for leaving Orlando- I'd identified so strongly with the lyrics, feeling like I was atrophying by standing, treading water. Hearing that song under the twinkling stars of the very town I'd fought so hard for meant the world to me- but the best part came even earlier, as the sun was setting all purple and gold in the Hollywood Hills...

The Script (and as a writer how can I not love a band called The Script) opened, and they were amazing- then they played the song I'd simultaneously longed for and dreaded: "Breakeven." Everyone has certain songs which chronicle points in their lives, but for this gutwrenching break-up song to come out at the same time my marriage collapsed was musical overkill. The song was hardwired to my heart, and haunted me through the airwaves. Like a mournfully insistent banshee, it followed me. I'd turn it off when it came on my radio only to hear it blasting from the car next to me. Elevators, hold music. Every time I heard it, I'd be transported right back to my hurt.

And yet...

Hearing that song that night in the magical snowglobe of the Hollywood Bowl, with Will by my side, I realized I'd finally flipped the script. (So to speak.) All the pain and uncertainty I'd felt was now completely inverted, and I was free from all that. If you know the song, sufficed to say I went from the role of the singer to the role of the subject. It felt amazing. I pride myself on having already shed my lifetime quota of tears. I'm not a crier. I am NOT a crier.
(but I cried.)
(a little.)

Later, we'd go to the Counting Crows concert at the Greek. More spells were broken as any songs I'd associated with the tattered sepia footage of the Past came blasting though in HD scintillating Present. The best part, though, was when the songs mentioned "California" and everyone in the audience went nuts. I looked around- most of us here (in LA) are transplants, so this fierce pride we feel is for a good reason. If you're proud of being from Iowa, or Texas or wherever, it's probably because that's where you're from. It's simply where your stuff is, where your family lives. But California Pride is something different- it's the roar of independence. We're all alone together out here, and we each gave up so much- we gave up everything- to come out and chase our dreams. We're all pioneers, blazing trails in the darkness trying to figure out how to do what no one we know has done. And it's hard to live out here, so far away from the comforts of the familiar- so despite all our differences, we are united in our elation at simply living in the place which inspires so many songs. When they're singing, they're singing about HERE. I had a beer and a hot dog. I sang along. (I NEVER sing along.) (but I sang along.)

All the spells have been broken. My favorite songs now have new favorite memories to go along with them.

The passport agent was right. Since I've been free, I've been to Spain, France, Italy, Malta, Greece, and Turkey, all by virtue of the wonderful friends I've made along this adventure. And now I'm on my way to London to be part of a photoshoot. The tray table was locked and my seatback was in the full upright position. The wheels left the ground and I popped my earbuds in and closed my eyes as John Mayer sang.

"Goodbye cold, goodbye rain. Goodbye sorrow, goodbye shame.
Just found out a ghost left town, the queen of California is stepping down."

That'll do nicely.

L.A. Stories- LAir Quality

I visited LA as a teenager, and even then, I could sense that there was a distinct and palpable energy in the air out here. It's an electric quality unlike any other, and I wanted to be a part of it. It felt like a massive collective consciousness- the living, breathing pulse of a city populated by Creatives. I breathed it in, and I knew it was powerful- and I wanted to harness it.

From that instant on, I knew my destiny: to live in LA and be a writer. I'd decided I wanted to write long ago, and, at the age of 14, fixated on the medium of Television. I think it's important to make the world a better place, and my way of contributing would be to make people happy by making them laugh, or distracting them from their troubles with something amusing. I firmly believe in a Ripple Effect- make one person happy, and they'll spread some joy to others, and they'll create more happiness, etc. I thought that writing comedy for TV would magnify my Ripple Effect and I could contribute to the happiness of lots and lots of people. I wrote an essay along those lines and was awarded a college scholarship, so, reinforced, I continued on my path.

I took my free ride to college, and, with another clever essay, was one of 30 applicants (out of thousands) to be accepted into the Film School. I thrived in the writing classes, and believed that this was further evidence that I was on the right path.
CUT TO:
INT. JAIME'S HOLLYWOOD APARTMENT
SUBTITLE: TEN YEARS LATER
Jaime, horribly depressed and beyond broke, stares at her cats.
JAIME
What the hell was I thinking?!?

The cats don't answer. They don't have to. Fact is, I know exactly what I was thinking. I remember tearfully proclaiming to my husband that I'd die if we didn't move to LA, because, "I wasn't fulfilling my creative potential, and I'm an artist, and I'll die artistically and my body would surely follow suit." I swore up and down that I could never be at the right place at the right time in Orlando, and to meet with opportunity, I needed to be in LA.
"I just need a chance," I promised. "Just you wait- the air out there is magic- it's charged with energy- once I'm there I'll meet the right people, and... and..."
I must've made a good argument, because after 8 years of living a secure, stable, post-collegiate life, we finally made the leap to LA.

It wasn't a horrible decision- my parent's divorce, the drastic reductions in hours at our jobs as performers, and the general economy guaranteed us that 2009 was going to be a tough year. "Why the hell not," we figured. "If we're going to struggle, let's make it count."

There's that Sheryll Crow line, "No one said it would be easy. But no one said it'd be this hard." Yeah. That about sums it up. We arrived in the city during the worst economic crisis in 35 years. We extra'd. I did three months at three unpaid internships. I worked as a Pornceptionist, and answered phones for the porn industry for 6 months. I did Personal Assistant work. I cleaned spiderwebs out of someone's boots. I scooped mosquito larvae out of a fountain. I mopped up sex fluids. Yes, I'm not kidding. I mopped up jism on a porn set. Why? Because I needed the money. Sorry, Mom.

My husband, The Actor, has attended two auditions since our arrival last year, both for student films. He hasn't had a chance to try beyond that, because he's so busy trying to score paying work instead. He's done Grip work, PA work, Electrical work- more physical labor than any year-long contract at a Theme Park could've prepared him for. He's taking it in stride- and his new muscles are gorgeous. But he's not exactly fulfilling his dream, either. He didn't write an essay for college, but if he had, it wouldn'tve included "I want to wrap cables for 16 hours so my wife can quit her porn job and quit crying every morning when her alarm clock goes off."

I discovered, recently, that I'd been right about the air being special out here- but it's not a positive charge. Scientists have proven that a negatively charged ion produces more of an effect on the human body than a positively charged one. It's what we "feel" during a thunderstorm, or a prison gang-bang. Never seen a prison gang-bang? Call me, I'm sure my porn company has a whole series dedicated to them. My generous employers and co-workers gifted me with so many porn DVD's, they are literally propping up our furniture.

But back to Science:

In a laboratory experiment, Scientists pumped positive ions into a test group set up as a party. Nothing happened. Then they pumped in negative ions, and the party started to liven up. One can assume that LA, though all smiles and soap on the surface, is incredibly negative.
All those broken hearts and shattered dreams produce energy. Human Chemical Energy. And it has to go somewhere, so it floats around the atmosphere, creating the electric charge I felt even all those years ago.

Geographically, LA is surrounded by mountains, which only exist to make the weather stupid. The thick layer of smog which hangs like a death shroud over the city prevents any energy from dissipating naturally, and so, like a malevolent ghost, the negative energy lingers, then malingers, bonding to your lungs, entering your bloodstream, and becoming part of you. Possession. The lies and disappointments of 3 million souls is molecularly bonded with yours. Mazel!

The air is bad out here. What I sensed before was the Energy, and like a kid with a fork poking at a tempting socket, I wanted to be part of something, and I had no idea how painfully destructive it would be. The chemical ghosts of every unsold script, every failed audition, every unfulfilled longing- I breathe it in every second of every day. Now that I'm intimately familiar with LA's unique brand of pain and loneliness, I can taste it all too well.

Ready for more science?

Sharks have special sensors along their bodies that allow them to detect electrical impulses given out by living things. Sharks can also "smell," or sense, blood from 2 miles away.

This LA air is comprised of blood. There's blood in this water. And it scares me.

LA is happy town for Sharks, but I am not a Shark, and I don't ever want to be one. So I spend my days in this bloody, murderous electric air hungry and afraid. I could come out from my hiding place, but the Predators smell weakness 2 miles away. I wear a year of failure like a mouldering open wound on my face.

2 nights ago, I was typing my screenplay, which meant no TV or music was on to muffle the noises of Hollywood. The moon was full and I sat at my desk and listened to the 2nd arrest of the evening outside my barred window. I counted three bottles hurled at the brick walls of my apartment building. Shattered glass mingled with the dog shit and bum urine on the sidewalk I use every day. Several fights broke out along my street, and I heard two drunk women arguing until one cried. And cried. And sat outside my window in the broken glass and shit and urine and cried. One layer of brick away, just on the other side of the wall, I cried with her, for her, for myself. I knew that our anguish would rise up beyond us and join with the growing tempest of negativity, then settle back to earth to re-enter and poison our bodies.

I need a cleansing. I need a cure. I need an acid-proof rain coat. I need a plane ticket. I need to get out of my own head. I need to write the last 10 pages. I need a job.

I don't know what I need. But I know with every breath I take, it's gonna get harder to find it.

L.A. Stories- Common Whores Sense

In the world of Porn, paychecks come out on Wednesdays. Usually. Unless the company can't pay the perfomers, in which case the "talent" (a dubious distinction) drives all the way out to Chatsworth, only to be turned away empty handed and pissed off. Or pissed on, depending on the genre they participate in.

Our performers engage in a variety of "skill sets." When they come in to be photographed for a "go-see," they fill out a form stating what they're willing to do on camera and the types of scenes they're interested in performing. Here is the information we ask:

Legal Name

Stage Name

Date of Birth

Agent's Contact Info

How Many Scenes Performed

Weight/Height/Shoe Size

Breasts- enhanced or natural?

Ethnic Background

Measurements

Tattoos/Scars/Piercings? Where?

Please circle what you will do on camera- Boy/Girl, Girl/Girl, Toys, Boy/Girl/Boy, Anal, ATM, Anal Toys, Double Anal, Double Vaginal, Double Penetration, Cum Swallow, Internal Cum Shot, Facials, Bukkake, Gang Bang, Squirting, Rough Sex, Interracial Scenes, or "Everything."

Please circle any other talents you have- Dancing, Singing, Play Musical Instrument

(Then they sign a contract stating that we can use their go-see photos for any reason, at any time, for any purpose, and never pay them anything. We're awesome like that.)

Each girl has this on her "permanent file," so we know what she'll do and what she won't do.

Often, an agent will bring in a herd of "ladies" and have them fill out paperwork. Many of these girls are from Eastern Europe, or South America, and don't speak English. I remember one Latin beauty asking her sleazeball agent, "What... bukkake?"
He answered with a jerk off motion close to her had. "Many guys. Come. Your face."
"Ohhh," she answered, eyes wide with confusion.

When they ask me what "ATM" stands for, I tell them that if they have to ask they probably shouldn't circle it.

A lot of girls circle that they'll perform Interracial Scenes, but only if they're paid a significant extra amount of money. Like they don't want to disappoint their parents or something. This happens frequently with our Asian performers, and I have to point out that a scene involving any actors who aren't also Asian is technically "Interracial."
"No," they explain, "White dudes ain't interracial."
"Ohhh," I say.
"I just don't wanna do no Black dudes."
"Ohhh," I say, checking my facebook.

...Last Wednesday was a great day- we could actually pay people for the jobs they did- hand, rim, blow- all kinds of jobs! Around 3PM, a pair of breasts walked in, followed by a giant pair of lips and a girl.

She told me her stage name and asked me if she had a check available, and sure enough, she did! Usually, the girls just smile, wave thanks and bounce out the door, but this girl frowned as she signed for her check.

"The amount's not right," she said.

Uh-oh.

I called our payroll lady, and was told to tell the girl to take it up with Jose Vega, the director. Apparently, Vega handles all the contracts and vouchers. Since each girl's daily rate is determined by the amount of skills she displays on the video, there is no one "standard" rate. Oral sex pays $150. Just intercourse nets the girl another $50. If she performs a "solo," (a masturbation scene,) that's another $50. Same with a verbal interview or peeing on camera. If a girl engages in anal sex, the price goes up a lot more. She can get $300 total if she does Anal. Special talents like "DP," (double penetration) or gang bangs earn a girl an additional $100 on top of that. Each performer negotiates ahead of time with the director, and signs a contract stating what she will and will not do on camera that day.

I encouraged the girl to take it up with Vega, who, sadly, is a notorious spaz and kind of flakey. Cocaine's a hell of a thing.

"Make sure you stay on him- I know you worked hard for that money," I said.
"You don't know the half of it!" she said. "Do you know what he did to me???"
Um, nooo?

She explained. These are her exact words:

"It was my first Anal scene, right? ANAL. No crazy shit, right? Ok, so I'm riding Manny Gaspacho, and Vega tells the other guy to DP me! Without even warning me first! Anal's anal, but DP? Oh HELL no- he's gonna pay me extra for that. You don't just DP someone without asking first!"

"God damn right you don't," I agree. "Get your money honey!"

We high five in girl-power solidarity. You do NOT DP someone without asking first. Everyone knows this.

She leaves and I bathe in hand sanitizer.

It's a Wednesday in Chatsworth.

L.A. Stories- The President's Man

I met him at a nightclub. He was standing against a wall, dancing oddly, and alone. He caught my eye because it's not every night you can go to a hip-hop club and see a middle-aged Asian man in a 3-piece suit and tie, complete with tacky rhinestone American flag lapel pin. To ice his Stereotype cake, he was also sporting a bulky Nikon camera dangling from a thick neckstrap.

He'd been checking out my group of friends, and I was highly entertained when Tiffany, an amazing dancer in short-shorts and heels, decided to go dance with the curious Chinaman.
They made a really odd couple- she's a girl who exudes style and energy and sex appeal and spunk. Him, well... not so much. He jerked around awkwardly while she glided around him like silky smooth nutella on a dumpling. Not a good combination, but hilarious to watch.

After a moment, when she'd had enough fun and he was about to lose his audience, he turned his camera on. I thought he wanted to photograph Tiffany, and I walked over to provide her an out, but instead, he flips the camera around and shows us both photos of him... standing next to Obama.
Okay... this just went from really amusing to bizarre.

Desperate to prove his credentials, he shows us frame after frame of him standing next to or near both Barack and Michelle Obama, wearing the same awful suit and awful lapel pin.
We then asked the question you don't often hear at a nightclub:
"So how do you know the President?"

It wasn't a good environment for a conversation- the music was too loud to discern his answer, but we were burning with curiosity- we'd discovered something truly rare and strange- we just didn't know what to do with it!

I couldn't understand his explanation- his English wasn't fluent and the music was deafening- but I did hear him clearly ask "what do we do?"
Tiff's a dancer, I'm a writer. We told him as much.
"Oh," he says. "I need a writer! What kind of writing?"
Blogs. Sketch Comedy. Stand-up. How do I begin to explain...
"Funny stuff," I say. "Comedy."
His eyes light up. "I need comedy writer! Here!"
He hands me an embossed business card with a gold seal on it, identifying him as "Dr. Hong Feom Lee,"* and he's the President of a College-I've-Never-Heard-O

f.

He indicates over the Jay-Z song that I should write my email down on the back of an extra card of his.
Tiffany jabs me with an elbow and arches an eyebrow, which is the International signal for:
"Do it- he knows the President!"
So I do- I want to know how this strange middle-aged Chinese club guy got to hang with Barack, and I wondered what possible use he could have for me.

We part ways and lose him in the crowd. It's not hard because he's 4 feet tall. At the end of the night, Tiffany makes me promise to email him and find out what his story is.
It turns out I didn't have to- at 9AM the next morning, there's an email from the good Doctor.
"Hello, it was a pleasure to meet you last night. I would like your help inserting comedy into my speeches. I would like to meet with you. You are cordially invited to my office to discuss this. Sincerely, Dr. Hong Feom Lee, President, College-You've-Never-Heard-Of."

Hmm. I sent him an email back, responding that it was nice to meet him too, and that I'd be happy to send him some samples to see if he liked my particular style.

A few hours later, I received an email from him, with slightly worse English:
"Hello, yes, please bring your samples to my office. I will like to read them. You can take ESL and Acting at my college. Sincerely, Dr. Hong Feom Lee, President, College-You've-Never-Heard-of."

Hmm. I sent him some samples- a few blogs, a couple of sketches, a portion from a live show I wrote, and part of a screenplay. It was a lot of material, but I wanted to give him a good idea of what I can offer. I sent out the email and then googled the College-I've-Never-Heard-Of. It is a dingy, cracked office building which caters to literally fresh-off-the-boat Asian immigrants looking to learn English. It offers "assimilation" courses, and yes, even acting. In English. Dr. Lee is indeed the President, and is shown in several photographs pointing to things as a crowd of bored Chinese people look on.
The website boasts that the "College" offers a 'snack room for eating,' and vending machines. Two are shown in the photographs, as proof.

By the time I was done looking at the website, (I'd spent maybe three minutes) I already had a response from Dr. Hong Feom Lee, President, College-With-Snack-Machines:
"I like your wringting very much! Please meet with me! Sincerely, Dr. Hong Feom Lee, President, Huge Rip-Off-Scam-For-People-Trying-To-Learn-English."

Frankly, I was a little surprised that he'd read all my wringting so quickly... The samples I'd sent him should've taken longer than 3 minutes, but, when a man makes up his mind about something...

"Dear Dr. Lee," I sent:
"I'm so glad you enjoyed the samples I sent. Feel free to email me a portion of a sample speech and I will add to it and send it back to you. If you're happy with the results, we can discuss rates for a complete re-write of a speech. I look forward to working with you- however, I travel often and will be unable to meet with you in person. I'll be happy to work with you any time online."

And I never heard from him again.

Gasp.

To this day, no one knows when or where The President's Man will appear. He's gone, now- he's in the wind. But beware, ladies- one day, when you least expect it, some Asian dude in a bad suit may scam on you at a nightclub- he may show you confusing, vaguely impressive photos- but don't be fooled... This man is not interested in your wringting. He's The President's Man- and he's only interested in one thing: giving you ESL and acting classes.

L.A. Stories- My Morning Oysters

When your friends move out to L.A., they'll all brag to you about the weather. "Oh, sure, it's hot," they'll say, condescendingly, "But it's a dry heat!" Smug bastards.
In Florida, we're well aware of the evils of humidity. We've all sweated through our clothes, and melted off a facefull of makeup while waiting to sign in for an audition. Slogging to work through a parking lot paved in what feels like molten butter has it's drawbacks, for sure. However, I would much prefer this easily remedied and anticipated yearly challenge than the side effects of this "dry heat:"
1) You hair loses its shine and falls out.
2) Your pets shed like there's no tomorrow.
3) Your skin is constantly dry. AAAAANNNND, (drum roll please)
4) MORNING OYSTERS.

When we first moved out, we thought that it might be a residual effect from our long journey through the desert. Then, we blamed in on slow acclimation. Now, we just accept it as part of Life in Los Angeles: Morning Oysters.
Allow me to explain.
Every morning, when I wake up, the first thing I have to do is pluck a "thing" from my nose.
It's a large, thin flake- about the size of a nickle and the consistency of a fish scale, and usually gold or green in color. Often, it's got crystalized dried blood mixed in, forming an effect not unlike Tiffany Glass.
This pliable flake is found adhered to my septum each morning, and it's always on the nostril that isn't smooshed against a pillow. It can appear in either nostril, but this phenomenon prefers the delicate ecosystem of the nostril with the highest altitude. It's always there in the mornings. Always. Like the sun. Or the homeless maniac in our parking garage.
Since our apartment has bars on the windows, and deadbolts on the doors, I can't blame any magic mucous fairy for placing this in my body. I have to be making it myself.
Because I must unwittingly spend my subconscious hours crafting something so special, I am reminded of how oysters make pearls. I think if somehow, I forgot for a series of mornings, to remove this little gem, one day I would sneeze and something the equivalent of amber would pop out and land on the hardwood floor with a rattle and thud. There'd even be DNA inside!
It's gross, for sure. The flake makes a clicking, suction noise when I dislodge it from my septum, and it's large enough that I have to DO something about it. It's not like a benign sneeze one can politely ignore- this, I have to place in a kleenex and throw away. (I don't collect them.)

In the early days, when I still had a sense of wonder about morning oysters, I'd wake up, sense the flake's presence, and go to the bathroom to try and see it. It's so substantial in size and mass that when I'd throw it away, I could hear it hitting the trash can liner bag.
There's a line about Hollywood in the song "Long December," by The Counting Crows...
'It's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls.'
Until my little A.M. creations become precious gemstones, I can only agree.
So enjoy your hot wet summer, Florida. You don't know how good your nose has it.

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- a Downtown Psuedomugging

The subway systems here are confusing- and if you miss a switch, you're screwed. Especially around 12:30 AM. Jay had to take a taxi from one dead-end back to a downtown L.A. train station where he could catch a rail back to Long Beach, where we were staying.

As he got out of the cab, he tipped the driver and the cab vanished down the empty streets. Jay took off walking down a deserted sidewalk towards the metro. Well, almost deserted...

A large imposing-looking man approached Jay as he was putting his wallet away in his pocket.
"Hey, man, do you have any spare change or some money I can have?"
"No, sorry" said Jay. "I need my cash for the train."
"Aw, that's too bad, see," says the scary man. "I'm just trying to not have to rob nobody tonight."
"Ok, well, good luck with that!"

Jay was lucky to make it home alive that night.

L.A. Stories- the Lakers Game and Subway Shennanigans

Jay and I had attended our very first game at the Staples Center! Magic vs. Lakers! As two out of the total of seven Magic fans in attendance, we did our best to help the Magic out. Jack Nicholson was there, with his famed court-side seats, and sitting next to him was Adam Sandler, who looked really pissed off for some reason. The Lakers Girls came out and danced in sexy outfits sponsored by Carl's Jr. Weird. Oh, look! Hot girls! ...Let's get fast food!

There's an option to send text messages to the jumbotron, and we tried consistently to send messages like "Pau Gassol, your headlights are on, please leave the Staples Center and tend to your car," but no success. We should have known the man can't read. (Although Jay managed to sneak in some "I love you Jaime, Go Magic" messages, so I can cross "Jumbotron Romance" off my bucket list.)

Although we were up by 10 points in the third quarter, eventually the Lakers caught up and forced their way into the lead. They won, but, at the Staples Center, if the Lakers score over 100 points and they win the game, the WHOLE CROWD (even the Magic fans) get 2 free tacos from our good friends at Carl's Jr.- remember them from the Laker Girls' titties? Yeah! Tacoooooos!!!! It was the only thing that made the loss bearable.

Throughout the game, and at the final Lakers victory, the Staples Center's loudspeakers wold blast the chorus from Randy Newman's 80's classic "I Love L.A." The fans were in a pretty good mood after the game, and, surged triumphantly out of the Staples Center, spilling into the night with Randy Newman echoing throughout the arena: "I Loooooove L.A.!" "We Love it!"

By now, everyone should know how much I despise the Metro system. (See my previous blog "L.A. Stories-The Korea-Town Spaceman for my truly excellent reasons why.) However, tonight was a perfect Metro situation. There were trains which went right next to the Staples center, so, minimal walking, and only one train switch. It cost us $10 to take the train, whereas parking and gas would've been $30 or more.

So after the game Jay and I headed over to the train platform with around 50 Lakers fans. Bastards. We're waiting for the train, and feeling pretty sure of ourselves when some out-of-towners asked US if they were waiting for the right train. We confidently assured them that they were. Seconds later, a muffled announcement blasts through the Metro's speaker- the teacher from Charlie Brown now works for Transit Authority, and has proclaimed an indecipherable edict. Suddenly the crowd panics and rushes towards the train approaching on the side of the tracks.

"Is this going to Union?" No one is sure. As a confused mob, some people were certain enough that a train switch had been made- we followed the pack and stuffed into the train en masse. At some point, another mumbled announcement was made and enough people understood it to spread reassurance around, and the cacophony of disoriented public transportaion died to its status quo dull roar- except for the wailing...

Somewhere outside the train, and then inside the train, and then sort of floating from car to car was a very distressed person. It was the typical kind of schizophrenia-induced anguished cry of rage one hears occasionally from LA's homeless, but this was really bad. It was a wounded animal sort of howl- at once piteous, gut-wrenching and terrifying. The gnashing and raging continued, and then the raving began. I'm going to be perfectly honest here- at this point I thought, "Is that Adam Sandler?" It totally sounded like him for a fleeting instant.

As whoever was making this noise moved like a banshee from car to car, everyone became totally silent- you could see a wave of people clearing a path, but the Wailer was either small, hunched over or crawling, so I could only see where the sound was coming from but not the person making it.

Everyone on the train was silent and tense. We'd just left a frivolous sporting event and were headed back to our homes- here was someone who had nothing, and hence, nothing to lose. I always envision shattered glass and slashing to follow, and in a crowded subway car... I could tell by the widened eyes and white knuckles around me that I wasn't the only one who was frightened.

After one of those long moments which feels like forever, the crazed Phantom left us, and the doors closed. A tacit yet palpable collective sigh of relief went up in the sill silent subway car, and then,
"I LOVVVVVVE L.A.!" sings out my husband.

Too soon? Maybe so. Judging from the 60 or so dirty looks we got from the still-rattled riders, L.A. don't Love You. No wonder they make t-shirts that say as much. Later on, someone was courteous enough to reach out to us by shouting "The Magic SUCK!"

L.A. Stories- Advice From A Drunken Life-Coach

I'm at Cinespace in Hollywood- it's a great little nightclub down the street from my apartment, and my amazing friend Carlos is a bouncer. Carlos hooks us up in a beautiful way- I stroll past the line which wraps around the block, Carlos smiles at me and the rope drops. Then I'm all up in that club.
In the most superficial way possible, it's a good feeling. It's also nice because it's coooold out here!
Last night, my friend Tiffany came as well, and brought her small entourage along. She's friends with a promoter, so they strolled right in as well. This is especially nice when cover at Cinespace can run anywhere from $20-$40. It's insane.
The club was packed and at the end of the night, 5 separate fights broke out. It became like the wild west- one fight in one corner, then suddenly everybody starts swinging. Some guy got so excited about a fight breaking out he threw up on the wall, and a girl jumped away from it which started a hair pulling wrestling match with another girl. I expected a piano player to break out the rag-time music as bottles break and someone gets shot and falls through the railing. Fortunately, though, no one smuggled in any guns or pianos.
Early in the night, a couple of guys instantly attached themselves to our group, but they were pretty fun and good-looking enough for the girls to be pleased that they were around. They danced with us and we had a good time. As the night wore on, though, they drank more and more. Tiffany, on a mission, took a girlfriend and one of the guys outside for a second leaving me sort of stranded waiting with his friend on the stairs. I noticed he was wearing dogtags, and like the sexy club bunny I clearly am, asked him if he know that the smaller loop of chain was meant to go around the toes of a soldier as a toe tag if the soldier was wounded. He looked confused, and then explained that his dog tags were GUCCI. "Ohhh." I say. "Well, that explains that." (???)
I joked around with him about starting his own fashionable military unit, until this little exchange occurred:
Him: So what'd you do today?
Me: Hunh? (It's a nightclub, after all)
Him: Like, how'd you spend your day?
Me: Oh- well, today was kind of a sucky day.
Him: Why?
Me: I don't wanna go into detail- let's go dance!
Him- No no no- What did you PHYSICALLY DO today?
Me- laid around in bed...
Him: Why?
Me: I don't wanna talk about it, dude.
Him: No! It's Okay! I'm a part-time lifecoach!
At this point I decided to indulge him, because I had a suspicion it would be awesome. It was.
Me: Okayyy, I laid around because I was really sad.
Him: (exploding) That's bullshit! Do you know how beautiful it was outside today?!?
Me: Yeah.
Him: It was 84 degrees on the beach- it was sunny- there were lots and lots of people.
At this point he begins touching me with his index and middle finger, in my chest, every time he says the word "you."
Him: You (touch) need to be around people- you (touch) need to be in sunshine! There's vitamin D and shit out there, and you (touch) absorb that shit, right, because you're (touch) a human being and you (touch) need (touch) to (touch) be (touch) in (touch) the (touch) sun! (touch!)
His touches are getting sloppy and several of them find their way to my actual breast and nipple. Then he gets deep on me.
Him: Why were you laying in bed when it was so sunny outside?
Me: Because I was in a bad mood- people self-sabotage when they're in a bad mood.
Him: No no no no no! Self-sabotage? You know what the worst kind of sabotage is?
Me: What.
Him: (triumphant) SELF-Sabotage!
Me: Ahhh.
Him: The good things in life go to whoever's working for them. So if I lie in bed for one day, someone else is gonna get what I want, because I'm not working for it.
Me: So it doesn't matter what kind of person you are- you can be a complete douchebag but because you're working for something you'll get it? Like a job as a part-time lifecoach?
Him: (oblivious) Exactly! Think about it! Just think for a second and answer honestly- why are you so lazy?
He's now touching my temple and forehead, for some reason, and oblivious to my open smirk.
Me: I dunno, I guess I thought I could take one day off.
Him: No no no no no! You can't! Because if you lie in bed all day and don't get out of bed, you're lazy and you deserve the bad things.
Me: So what about people who can't get out of bed? What about quadriplegics?
Him: (pause) Quadraplegics? Well that's just bad luck!
At this point I'm openly laughing at him. He sees this as encouragement and presses his forehead against mine. It's gross but sooo worth it for what he says next:
Him: It's their bad luck, man. Quadri-pah-legics. If they don't have any arms or limbs or whatever, you know, they just gotta get out there- they just gotta work harder than the other quadri-legics. ...They can still have roles in the movies.

Thank youuuuuu, Hollywood!!!

L.A. Stories- Duck and Coverage (Reading a Known Killer's Screenplay)

This is the true story of the time I was asked to give my opinion about a screenplay written by a very scary person, who would then have access to my full name and where I worked. Awesome.

"Coverage" is when a Reader- intern (usually an unpaid volunteer blindly groping in the dark at a falsely whispered promise of paying work) reads a script, then writes a small 2-page book report about the script. These interns can be highly qualified, or, not.
In addition to the 2-page synopsis of the script, a Reader is also expected to write 1 or2 pages of professional opinion about the commercial potential of the script.
Finally, the Reader is asked to either "pass" on a script or recommend it. A Reader can pass or recommend just the script itself, just the writer, or the entire package. For example, you can love the concept of a screenplay but hate the way it was written. Or, you can love the writing of a really stupid concept. Or, it can rock or suck out loud all the way through. Either way, you have to form a strong opinion, back it up intellectually, then stand by it as your name and opinion travel up the ladder and eventually get back to the screenwriter's literary agent, who submitted this project in the first place.
On the second day of my Culver City internship, my mentor-intern, the girl who'd trained me the previous day, approached me with a script in her hand. She lowered her voice.
"Hey, you like horror, right?"
I nodded enthusiastically, eager to prove my expertise in my favorite genre.
She weighed the heavy screenplay in her palm.
"Listen- I'm leaving in two days, so I can't take on any additional scripts- I've been hanging on to this one for a while, because I really wanted to do it, but I won't have time now because they put me on another project- I like you. Do you want it?"
"What's so special about it," I asked.
"This guy- the writer- he was an established horror writer- I know you've seen his stuff. Anyway, a few years back he had a really horrific personal tragedy, and this is his first screenplay since that. I just know it's gonna be good, and if you're the one to identify a good screenplay, then, you know."
"It's good for me."
"Right."
She handed me the screenplay gently, almost reluctantly.
"I know it's gonna be so twisted and great," she said, a twinge of jealousy in her voice.
"Thank you for this," I said.
A few hours later, I was relieved of my front desk shift and allowed to go read. Reverently, I peeled back the title page, and delved into what I thought, at first, was a joke.
This can't be right, I thought.
The characters were so one-dimensional, I thought for sure I was reading the next Scary Movie VI- I kept waiting for the Wayans brothers to appear.
There was some gore, sure, but it was unimaginative and nothing I hadn't already seen in "Ghost Ship" and "The Exorcist."
Really? REALLY?
Thinking my trainer was playing some sort of hazing prank, I googled the writer. "Horrific Personal Tragedy," I thought. Sheyah, right.
...Holy Shit- here is the TRUE STORY of what the writer did:
In 2001, shortly following the massive success from a huge blockbuster remake he wrote, writer X was driving his Cadillac Escalade. At an intersection in Santa Monica, X approached a red light and caused a tiny fender-bender with the smaller car in front of it. The driver of the smaller car and his girlfriend were OK, but the driver got out of his car to see if X was OK.
The driver approached X's Cadillac, and saw X slumped over the steering wheel, with bright red eyes. When the driver asked if X was OK, X responded by pressing his foot down on the accelerator pedal. The driver yelled at X to stop, but X continued to accelerate, pushing the tiny car (with the screaming girlfriend inside it) into oncoming traffic.
A few other cars slammed into the tiny car, killing the girlfriend instantly, and forming a massive pile-up of twisted metal at the intersection. X continued to accelerate, and eventually the plastic bumpers of the wreckage gave way and his Cadillac shot from 0mph to 55mph, rocketing through a crowded glass bus-stop where pedestrians were gathered to gawk at the accident scene.
X drove through the crowd, maiming a few more people, before driving across the sidewalk and through the plate glass window of a crowded bar. His joyride came to a stop at a marble countertop with two dead people pinned against it, crushed from the chest down.
But wait, there's more!
X calmly gets out of his car, completely unscathed, and takes a survey of all the destruction he's caused. He then approaches the shattered glass window, picks up a large shard of broken glass and SLASHES HIS OWN THROAT.
Paramedics arrived shortly afterward, and were able to get writer X to the hospital in time to save his life. However, he refused to tell the doctors his real name, insisting instead that he be registered as "Akin Roam."
X had never used a pseudonym before, but people were later chilled to discover that "Akin Roam" is an anagram for the phrase, "I ran amok."
Wowwwww...
So I finished this piece of crap screenplay, and found myself between a rock and a hard place, which, granted, is better than a Cadillac and a countertop. X never went to jail. X went to rehab and got a slap on the wrist. X was still out there...
This was his first screenplay since this "accident," and I was sad to see that none of the real-life horror found its way into the script. It was awful, awful, awful. And stupid, predictable, ridiculous and boring to boot.
However, he is a known "name" writer. So if I trash it, I run the risk of looking like a fool. If I recommend it, thought, and they read what utter garbage it is, I also look like a fool.
Bottom line is, I had to be honest. So I tactfully, carefully, delicately passed on it, citing reasonably stated concerns with the material.
When I passed on it, my company notified X's agent, who then told X that it had been rejected.
To this day I expect a Cadillac Escalade to come crashing through my windows, with a demon-eyed coked-up X behind the wheel.
He may hate me. But his screenplay totally sucked.

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: How the Known "Zombieland" Rules Apply to L.A. Internships

1) Cardio
Everyone here works out. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the copier, to the Starbucks, out for the boss' lunch. If you're not running for it, you're slacking.
2) Beware of Bathrooms
As an unpaid intern, generally, bathroom breaks are frowned upon. But, if you absolutely can't hold it for 11 hours, go ahead- use the fancy shmancy bathroom- but beware: if ANYTHING goes wrong with the plumbing, you have to be the one to deal with it... or slink off and let the next guy deal.
3) Seatbelts
Uh-duh...
4) Double-Tap
Most of the time an intern is at the computer "doing coverage" is actually spent looking for jobs online. Didn't get the job you applied for? Surprise Surprise- but hit 'em up again later. Make sure that the guy that DID get the job stuck around.
8) Get a kick-ass partner
Then make sure they don't take a contract in Syracuse. Also, trust your fellow interns- they'll get your back and expect you to get theirs. On the other hand, there's the famous Gore Vidal quote: "Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little."
15) Know your way out
Keep that GPS handy. Everything you've ever heard about South Central is true.
17) Don't Be a Hero
When your boss at your unpaid internship is furious because "someone" (read: you) forgot to move his cereal bowls from the upstairs dishwasher back to the downstairs pantry and he demands to know who was in charge of dishes, plead ignorance. He may suspect you're covering for someone, but chances are he might not think it's you.
18) Limber Up
It's easy to lapse into a vegetative state while doing coverage in a dark cold basement for hours on end, or sitting like an Automaton at the reception desk, but you need to be ready to run at a moment's notice. If the downstairs copier magically springs to life, collate and book it upstairs, brads in place- or else. Also, 30 seconds on hold is years in Hollywood time. Run, run, RUN. See Rule #1.
21) Avoid Strip Clubs
They're really a last resort for employment.
23) God Bless Rednecks
Not a lot of these out here, but odds are if you're lucky enough to meet one, they won't treat you as bad as the LA douchebags do.
31) Check the backseat
Especially if your errands take you to any bad parts of LA. (read: any part not in Beverly Hills.)
32) Enjoy the Little Things
Free Cup 'o Noodles and pilfered snacks = free lunch and dinner.
Any errands = time to phone loved ones.
Reception Duty = face time with clients.
Boss in a Meeting = basement party

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.