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.

In Case of Suffering Break Glass

Tonight, we drove along the sunset-halo'd mountains headed home, and the twinkling lights below beckoned us into the twilight of the valley where we live. I held my hand out the passenger window, collecting the cool dusk in my palms, spreading my fingers, letting the night free, then trailing lazy digital contrails in the waning light. My hand. My bracelets, knuckles, long fingers, long strong healthy nails and sparkly glossy polish on manicured fingertips.

I flashed back on the time I'd pass the commute home by watching crimson blood trickle down my arms as I "fixed" my hands. Made sure every stroke I'd type hurt, putting tiny cuts in fingers and pulling, tearing my nails and cuticles to expose the raw white tissue beneath.

I remember swearing tearfully to my ex that I was broken, that I'd never write again. I'd never love again. I'd NEVER love myself.
I remember the hot sticky wetness of the blood as it beaded and ran. If the trails reached to my elbows I'd consider it "enough" and stash my toolkit until another time and place I allowed myself to spiral my thoughts that low. And by then, lightheaded and high from the scent of copper, my adrenaline had spiked and drained my energy enough that I no longer felt, no longer thought, and for the moment, no longer hurt. It felt like the only thing I could control. Maybe at that point, it was. But that was then.

Looking at my hands now in the sweet dying of the light, an L.A. sunset which has consistently kissed me goodnight for almost a year now, I can see how wrong I was. How everything has changed. I came to peace with my shortcomings, learned from them, forgave myself, and eventually learned to love the strong healthy person I became. Then I found love with someone else, and began to experience what a healthy, happy relationship feels like. Ah, Whisper-In-My-Ear 2010, THIS is what you meant...

It took a WHILE. It took time, a lot of work, 10 days of Buddhism, a night in a treehouse, lots of therapy, some fire, crying on many a shoulder, a little more fire, nachos, 7,000 miles and a long-distance nuptual bitch-slap, but EVERYTHING GOT BETTER. There and back again, but literally and figuratively in a different vehicle.

It took rebuilding, reframing, relearning, relabeling and relaxing. But it happened. And it totally got better.
So if you're reading this, and you're In It, allow me to be that whisper by your shoulder:
Trust me. I have been In It too. I have felt these feels, hurt this hurt. Hurt just as dark and deep as it gets- and gotten out.
I know you feel alone, like you have to hide whatever horrible thing you do to keep your hurt your own. I kept my razors in the center console and covered the rest up with a smile for as long as I could, until I broke. Stuck, stuck, stuck- in traffic and otherwise.

And somehow, same road, same hands- but there's no glass. There's night air. There's no suffocating heat. There's Santa Anna winds.
I dismissed any friend who ever promised me It Would Get Better, because I hid the extent of my hurt. They had no idea- they'd never hurt like I hurt. Like I hurt myself. So that should get me a little street cred. Listen up:

Whatever you're doing, decide to finish it. Wrap it up. Bandage that shit and start being gentle to yourself, because whether or not you're ready to accept it, you are so loved. And you may hate your skin or your job or the way your husband doesn't love you and not see a way out without blood. But if you give yourself a chance, you'll be on that same road later (it's always the same road) and dangling your fancy hands out the window while you let someone who loves you right drive for a while. And you will be so glad you hung in there- you're worth it. Get up. Fight. Every day. Whether or not you feel like it, you deserve the love you'll feel one day.

LA Stories: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Los Angeles

My mom nodded and cried when I told her I was moving back to Los Angeles. My father pursed his lips together in that disapproving manner, and my brother literally facepalmed. Hadn't LA completely kicked my ass 18 months ago? Hadn't I JUST settled down, gotten my bearings and begun to heal? The dust from my divorce had barely settled and the scar tissue was still fresh. I had a Florida job, I had built a Florida life... but I'm a California Girl with a California heart.




And the heart, having broken and regrown anew, needed to go back to California.

The comparisons were painful- my brother likened my situation to a desperate gambling addict at a slot machine, pumping quarter after quarter into a one-armed bandit. "Maybe THIS time... OK maybe THIS time..." Others compared it to a battered spouse going back to her abuser. "But they swore they were gonna change..."






The first time I went to LA, I was a starry-eyed dreamer full of hopes and expectations. This was wrong of me. Just like a 15-year old assumes they know how to drive because they've ridden in a car, it doesn't amount to jack shit when they're actually behind the wheel. This was the case with Los Angeles. I came in all excited with my learner's permit, got seriously distracted by my passenger, lost focus and inevitably crashed and burned.






Let me be clear: I do NOT blame my passenger. Let me be clearer: it is not Jay's fault that I got as bad as I got, sinking deeper and deeper into depression and self-abuse. It is not the city's fault, either. There are many factors in catastrophic disaster, and just as I cannot fully assign responsibility to my passenger or the road itself, as "the Driver" and captain of my destiny, I must assume responsibility for my collision with said destiny.






We'd left Florida under bad circumstances, in the wake of job layoffs, my parents' divorce, my best friend moving away and the birth of my brother's second child. I felt a severing of ties and knew that the relationships I'd cherished at home would be forever altered- and so I begged, and begged- I'd waited 8 years, after all, for HIS jobs to work out, for HIS stars to align... he was reluctant, but I eventually wore him down, and convinced him it was the right thing to do.




Husband by my side, (so I thought) he went kicking and screaming, but "we" went to LA.




(note: I was the one who waited. I chose to depend on his timeline. And I begged him until we finally left. Realizing my hand in sculpting the impending disaster has been good for me- he never even wanted to go.)






When we arrived, the inevitable fissures ruptured, and as our relationship crumbled, I crumbled too, blaming the environment the whole time. "LA Ate My husband," was the potential book title. The more he pulled away, the more resentful I became, and it surely showed in my demeanor and physical appearance.




Behind closed doors, my stress was consuming me. I'd complain to him that my gums were bleeding, my hair was falling out. He'd take a slant-ways glance at the clumps of hair in my hands and shrug it off, telling me it was normal. Then he'd go back to his video games. Yes, this was a dick move- but it was NOT the city's fault. And it was my fault for not recognizing his apathy for what it was. It's my fault for trusting him to be right.






No WONDER I wasn't getting jobs. No WONDER none of the opportunities I'd been expecting had opened up to me- I was sick, I was hurting. I didn't want to be around me, my own husband didn't want to be around me, so why would anyone else? At some point I must've decided to win my husband's attention by needing him, which drove him further away, but I was stuck with the cosmic kick-me sign I'd taped on my own back. And where Jay didn't notice, the city surely did.






As the months wore on, and he left, I was pumping nothing but bile and acid through my own veins. The self-sabotage and body abuse I'd indulged in became the only ritual I could count on- the only thing which seemed in my control. I was desperate, scared, hungry and angry- and the city could smell it on me. The more I made myself bleed, the more the sharks attacked.




You get what you give, so naturally, a string of horrible situations snowballed after Jay bailed. Out of subsequently hotter frying pans and into increasingly raging fires, I think I was probably trying to kill myself the same way someone commits Suicide By Cop. I was taunting Los Angeles, subconsciously begging it to end my pain before I had to take matters into my own hands. Los Angeles responded in force, by starving me out and frankly, just sucking Everything which could possibly go wrong went wrong- because I needed it to.






I was terrified of my surroundings, and everywhere I looked I found scary ranting homeless people, random strangers bleeding on sidewalks, murder scenes (hello neighbors!), and poop on the sidewalks. And off the sidewalks. Pretty much everywhere I looked I saw shit. Why? Because I was looking for shit.






When I was giving off all that bad energy, I attracted bad things. When I came with my hands outstretched and empty, expecting things to be placed in them, I was left wanting. When I was scared, I was scary, and scary things became my constant companions.






I crumbled and burst into flames and exploded and burned and shattered and ended. My brother came, scooped up my remains and brought them back home.






Then, I got better. I got lots better. It took about a year and a half. It meant lots of home cooking, sunshine, and exposure to unconditional love from my family, who held me while I cried. It took some wonderful friends who restored my trust in men by sleeping by my side until I learned to sleep alone again. It took a LOT of levity- mostly at work, with my comedy roles, and making others laugh until my own genuine laughter was resparked. In concentrating on others, even just for a little while at work or spending time with my pals, I finally got out of my own head. I was resting, I was eating. And I was healing.






I took an amazing get-your-shit-together seminar by Landmark Education, which helped a lot. I spent some time at a Buddhist Retreat. That helped a lot too. I spent a couple nights in a treehouse, and attended a ful moon sweatlodge ceremony in the forest. That helped a LOT. I dated some really beautiful boys and learned about what I like and what I don't like when it comes to relationships. Ohhhmigod that helped too.






I remember sitting on MY couch in MY home, laughing at a really awesome and completely inappropriate joke on a comedy show when I felt a familiar glow strike up in my heart, like a pilot light had suddenly been ignited. "Hello Ember. I know you."




I didn't know how, I didn't know when, but I knew I needed to go back to LA and fight for my new dream as my new self. I was finally brave enough to want something again.






California hadn't changed. Not one bit. But I certainly had. In dissolving to ash and Phoenixing my way out of the crematorium I'd constructed for myself, I'd become rebuilt of sterner stuff. And I was ready.






Like the chain event of bad stuff which had kicked my ass before, a completely unexpected chain event of good stuff happened as soon as I was ready and Babe Ruth'd my intentions. I suddenly had the means to go west.






And so I went back swinging- I was changed. I'd been behind the wheel, I know how to drive and I know how to crash. The absolute worst had already happened, and I was no longer afraid. When someone is fearless (for whatever reason) the Universe responds to that, too. I was full of fresh stories, fresh ideas- I came with my hands full to GIVE to the city, to contribute. I was the opposite of the negative me, and I have had the opposite of the experience I went through.






A HUGE part of What Helped was accepting responsibility for what was happening and how I was responding to it. I'd become highly reactive, pinging off at the slightest "boo." Making decisions based on pressure and fear lead to some horrible decisions. Blaming my ex for EVERYTHING (especially the horrors that happened to me AFTER he left) was a waste of energy. I realized my shared part in the demise of our relationship. I realized how much better off I was without someone who would treat me like that and abandon me in the condition in which I was left. I realized how toxic I'd been and stopped blaming Los Angeles for giving me exactly what I was begging for. I stopped hurting myself, and made a point of learning how to protect myself against ever making those mistakes again, or depending on anyone else for my happiness.






If I'm going to allow an absolute idiot to determine my mood, that idiot will be ME.






I became calmer. I became strong. I was over my grief- I'd mourned the miscarriage of my marriage and my dream, and all that remained of my disaster was anger. Harnessing my anger as a fuel was invaluable- and figuring out how to let it go was... well... priceless. But that's another story.






LA's my friend now. The city has opened up like a hand to hold, receiving me with the same embrace I felt when I collapsed, broken, into my mother's arms. But like my mother nurtures the broken, LA favors the bold. It is a city designed for the fearless, and living within her parameters means I'm now eligible to play the game.






Amazing stars aligned themselves to provide for me- everything I needed, from a roof to roommates to furniture to jobs to a new car- EVERYTHING has lined up to bring me where I am now- which is happy, on my own steam.






Naturally, this is the exact moment I met my soul mate, in the right place right time, like a welcome home gift.


...but that's another story too- one I can't wait to share with you.







I don't need to be famous- I don't need to be rich. I DO need to write, and I need to be in California.




The advice I'd offer to the starry-eyed dreamers of the world who want to chase their LA dreams is this: come out, by all means. Crash, burn, and LEARN. Take responsibility for what happens, and definitely don't take any bad luck personally.
You can change your stars, as soon as you accept that you ARE the stars.

Eyegasm

When I first caught Kyle's attention, I was sitting on the employee bus after a long Horror Nights shift, rubbing my eye and apparently so very into it, he thought I was experiencing orgasm.
"...You OK over there?" he asked, hesitantly.
"Shh! Keep still," I said. "Don't ruin this for me."

The nerves in my eye (not EVERYONE'S eye, but many people's and most definitely mine) are connected very close to a pleasure center in my brain. So, whereas I was not having any sort of sexual experience with myself on the bus (this time) I WAS having a moment. At the end of a long work day, no need to worry about mascara and eye liner.

I know I'll look like some bizarre crack whore / raccoon hybrid (crackoon) when I'm done, but in that moment there is bliss.

100% totaly eyegasm.

The eye is the Window To The Soul, and made of squishy goo housing millions of photoreceptor cells. These cells transmit light and images (upside down) to the brain, which flips it and makes up a story about what it is we think we're seeing. There's an iris, which expands and contracts, and a pupil, which is sort of a gaping black hole. It's a Lincoln Tunnel of information to our brain. I like to think cells have some sort of individual capacity for memory- they have to, because they replicate.

I'm telling you this because: Three days ago I was rubbing my eye, and really getting into it. Again, it's not sexual, but instead a "shh shh shh-just let me have this- open mouthed moaning ahhhhhhhh" kind of pleasure. And there's no need to immediately pee afterwards.
Anyway, I rubbed for a good moment, again inspiring the curiosity of my nearby friend.

"Are you...?"
"Unh..." I respond, holding up an index finger with my other hand as my head tipped back in exctasy.

Usually, while this is happening, I see lights and colors and shapeless bursts of firework-looking things behind the lids of my tightly-closed eyes. (OK, so maybe it IS like orgasm.

Shh- stay still. Don't ruin this for me.

This time, though, something very different happened: Instead of many, I clearly saw one color- the hazy golden orange of a Los Angeles sky in the evening. There is no other color like this in the world- the smog and disspated shattered hearts collect in the atmosphere and refract the dying light in one last-gasp burst of beauty before the darkness sets in and the monsters emerge from the shadows.

One and only color like this, and I was seeing it now. I also had the intense sensation I was looking up- up from beneath the ground at this sky. I could feel earthen walls around me. I knew I was in a hole, in the ground, looking up. There, sillouetted by the amber light of broken dreams in the sky, was a palm tree, and a tall, thin man (kind of Rod-Serling-esque) in a suit leaning over to look down at me.

Holy shit I was in my own grave. I could "see" so clearly in this closed-eye vision- the tall man in the suit, leaning over, the palm tree bent against the fading light. I knew unequivacably that I was dead, in a grave, in Los Angeles, and here was a friend looking over at me. A strange calm set in as I realized what this meant: I can very clearly see myself dying in California. AND YET: there was no fear there. There was no sadness. If anything, in that moment everything felt right, like it made sense.

I could not tell who my friend was, or what period in time I was, my age or anything other than a profound and easy sense of Destiny. "This is the way it will be." "OK. I'm listening." The French, who are assholes, call orgasm "la petite mort," which means "a little death." They saw it much like Medieval people viewed a sneeze- an intense moment of danger where your heart stops and perhaps your soul leaves your body for an instant. (It's a wonder no one says "bless you" when people come.)
But the point is, in that moment, we are fragile, vulnerable, and closer to god, more attuned to our bodies- there's a whole lot going on in that one split-second. So why not a precognitive vision? My eye cells, which have seen that sky's light before, chose that opportunity to recreate it for me, and were kind enough to throw in a palm tree so I'd know exactly where the fuck my grave will be.

(Jokes on them- I want to be cremated.)

Anyway, whether it's a trick of the eye, a vision, or an unprompted burst backwards, against traffic, up the Lincoln Tunnel from my imagination, it was eerie and soothing at once. A moth to a flame, I know what waits between that golden light. And I'm not afraid. Eventually, the Tall Man in a black suit merged with the palm tree and left me with a residual "Sauron" image which I could see even with my eyes open. I fuzzed back into reality and rejoined my stunned friend, explaining what I'd seen. (For two completely sober people not on drugs, this may seem a little weird.)

I am not afraid of Los Angeles, and whereas I'm not ready to die, I do want to go back, even if it means facing my own mortality. I want to die fighting. Or perhaps, fight, WIN, kick all the ass, and leave this planet at a ripe old age, confident and at peace knowing I stood up for what I wanted- for what I believe in. I know my life will never be easy. I simply won't allow myself that luxury. But if I have to go, I want to go under a golden sky, with a tall slender friend staring at me wondering if I'm having an orgasm.

LA Stories- C S I Almost Killed Us All

Working in The Machine that is CSI: Miami is no easy task, but since I was determined to become part of the Writer's Dept., I had to start somewhere. I began by volunteering as a Production Assistant for one of David Caruso's pet projects- a short film named "Rehab," shot at LA's famed Linda Vista Hospital. I worked hard and was noticed by the crew, and invited to apply for the upcoming Season 9's Production Office. It was a roundabout way to get to the Writers, but it was a definite foot in the door so I jumped at the chance...

After a brief but nervewracking interview, I was offered the job, and officially became a Production Office P.A. This meant I had to get up at 5:40 each morning and commute from Hollywood to Manhattan Beach in the worst traffic our Nation has to offer. This is the stuff nightmares are made of.

Once at work, I would open the office. This was a 45-step process, involving unlocking certain doors, locking others, starting some machines, shutting others down, turning on massive A/C units, warming up copiers, brewing coffee, printing, copying, "distro," (distributing,) etc. etc. etc. A huge process. And if the copier jammed or the wrong paper goes in the wrong slot, there is a hot and unholy hell to pay. One such morning, I was frantically trying to unjam this beast. I had a customer service rep on speakerphone while I viewed schematics online. An exec came and explained that it really needed to be fixed about 15 minutes ago.
This was all at 6:50am.

It's the size of a jet engine and I frequently found myself elbow-deep in it. My roommates would ask me how I got ink on my ears. Sigh.

For the most part, my fellow co-workers were very nice. Most of my job later in the day consisted of rushing up and down stairs, delivering various envelopes to various people around Raleigh Studios. I'd also get sent out on a lot of errands, sometimes to get a particular DVD from a particular store for the Guest Director's reference material, other times to load $40,000 worth of film into my trunk and tote it back to the set.

Apparently, EVERYTHING I did needed to be done 15 minutes before I was asked to do it, and I often found myself exhausted at the end of the day. The stress was equivalent to having a gun held to my face for 13 hours every day. They fed me really well- but I was losing weight and my hair started to fall out from stress. I recall waking up to my alarm, bitchslapping the snooze button and crying into my pillow so I wouldn't disturb my ex.

(After all, he had a long day ahead of him, waiting for his calling service to not call and playing video games.)

I'd turn my alarm off and walk towards my closet like I was approaching the gallows. I'd start to shake, and I'd have to sit down to put my shoes on. In the chill of the morning, beneath a bare lightbulb, I began every day of work shuddering on my closet floor like a frightened chihuahua. Eventually, I'd work up the nerve to walk (past the scary homeless guy in our parking garage) to my car and battle traffic. I'd often call home on the way for a pep talk. "I'm OK," I kept lying. "I'm OK..."

"You have to get up - there's crimes to solve and all five of us need fat free soy lattes."
(REMOVES SUNGLASSES)
"With no whip."
YEAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW

One particularly stressful day was unique- the copier jammed and my boss was extremely frustrated that I wasn't a Minolta Repairperson. I eventually solved the problem and emerged from the copier looking like I'd lost a battle with a Giant Squid. I was then handed an envelope and told to run it down to (Soundstage) 22 and hand it to Manny.
"Who's Manny," I asked, on my way down the stairs.
"FIGURE IT OUT!"
Obviously something was stressing her - I hadn't yet learned to not take everything so deeply personally, so I felt an incredible sense of urgency to deliver this envelope. I wanted it to be the best envelope delivery ever.
And then they'd love me again.

I hadn't made it down to 22 very often, but I knew to watch for a red light above the door to make sure opening it wouldn't disturb any filming. No red light meant go go go, so I wrenched open the heavy sound-proof doors and forged ahead. It was dark in there. Dark, and very, very quiet.

I could hear vague murmurings from what sounded like a film crew, but my eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet. I just knew I had to get the envelope to Manny- fast- so I set off down what seemed to be a familiar path. It was, in fact, the right direction to go... except for the fact that shit gets moved around a lot on soundstages. A large portion of a room had been relocated, and the floor it sits on, (a slightly raised platform) had a corner just jutting out where my feet expected sea-level floor.

I tripped over this corner spectacularly, and in an effor to catch myself, stuck my arm out... into a glass shelf. These thin horizontal glass shelves make up the walls of the CSI: Miami Crime Lab set, and there are thousands of them- one carefully stacked on top of the other.

Much like dominoes.

It's a detective show - can you figure out what happened next?

The shelf I'd reached through slid a few inches forward, then out of its bracket and fell onto the one beneath it. Which cracked and began to shatter, crashing into the one beneath it. And so on and so forth.

My eyes chose that particular instant to adjust, so I was able to witness the utter decimation of the wall in 3-D Technicolor surround-sound glory. The domino effect was breathtaking, and the sound was phenomenal. It was the very sound of "expensive," as the glass continued to self-destruct pane by horrible pane. As if to mock me, the catastrophe SLOWED ITSELF DOWN, and continued the agonizing shattering for what seemed like a good two minutes.

Frozen in horror, I stood swimming in a sea of broken glass. Finally, the cacophany of destruction ceased, and I heard a voice ask "Are you cut?"

I looked to find THE ENTIRE CREW STARING AT ME.
"I'm...so...sorry..." I stammered out.

"ARE. YOU. CUT." Someone asks again, less patiently.

"I don't think so, no..." I'm not. It's practically a miracle. I'd had a bad accident as a child involving broken glass, and here it was, my worst phobia come to life, and I was unscathed!

"THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY."

A Pair Of Arms lifts me out of the glass and sets me down amidst a crowd of pissed-off-looking crew guys.
"Um- are you Manny?" I ask the Arms. They point me to a guy with headphones. I hand Manny the envelope.
Manny can tell I'm on the verge of tears.
"Don't feel bad," Manny says. "It happens all the time."
"R-really?"
"...No. Not really."

I get the hell out of there, avoiding the hairy eyeballs of the guys wielding push-brooms sweeping my carnage aside. I head to the stairwell, past my boss' desk and into the ladies room where I proceed to have a minor heart attack. I took a minute (which is a supreme luxury in the P.A. world) and then went back to my desk, certain that any moment the phone call would arrive recounting "the incident" and I'd be fired on the spot.

Miraculously, that call never came! Not a single person on that 40-man crew ratted me out- although they did re-name me "Trouble" and teased the crap out of me when I had to (cautiously) run errands on that set. Manny, Arms and the gang are OK in my book- they protected me to Live Another Day, and eventually survive the season, which lead to my internship with the Writer's Department. I owe a huge Karmic Debt to that crew- I'll never forget what it feels like to single-handedly destroy the Miami-Dade Police Department and be forgiven.

As an added bonus, I was cured of my phobia, and I now fear no glass, broken or otherwise. Once you take a bath in your nightmares, they're a little less intimidating.

LA Stories- Porn Again Virgin, Pt. 1

You don't work 6 months in the Porn Industry without making some friends. And, like any other office, I wound up chatting with my co-workers and learning from them exactly what it's like to do their jobs. I never had a chance to PA on an actual porn set because I was always riding a desk while others were riding bareback, but I was always very, very curious...

Not "Bi-Curious." Just regular curious.

And so the day came when I no longer worked as a Pornceptionist, and I was free to take the job when a friend of a friend recommended me as a PA for an upcoming shoot.

Here are the reasons I did it:
1) It was a movie for Adam & Eve, a very reputable and "safe" company to work for.
2) I knew the Director from my work, and I consider him to be the Garry Marshall of Porn. He's a gentleman, and very respectful and polite. I knew he'd treat everyone (including me) very well.
3) I wanted to write this blog.
4) There was a second more experienced PA on the set, and I was promised by the Director's Assistant that I would ONLY be dealing with "clean" stuff, like craft services and bringing people water.
5) It was just a straight-up intercourse movie- no nasty stuff, no anal, no fetish weirdness.
6) Sadly, I really, really needed the money. $100/day for 2 days equals, well, $200.

I'd rather regret doing something than wonder for the rest of my life "What If," so... here we go- the story of my first (and last) weekend of Porn!

I woke up early on the first day, and met the crew at a soundstage. Most of that day we'd be shooting a film comprised of "fantasy" sequences in which a person is interviewed about a harrowing experience during which they were saved (and F'd) by a sexy female. I set up the kitchen and met the rest of the crew:
The Director, who we'll call "Garry"
The Director's Assistant, who we'll call "Reese"
and The Other PA, who we'll call "Nick."

Reese had impressed upon me the paramount importance of "looking busy" that day, as Adam & Eve Corporate Executives were visiting the set, and they wanted to make sure Director Garry was using everything his budget had called for. Two PA's on a small shoot is potentially highly unnecessary, but Reese suspected that the Execs would be thrilled that a female was on the set doing something other than blowing people.

So, clad in a Triple-XL Adam & Eve t-shirt, I set up Reese's box of breakfast goodies for the cast of 4 and crew of 6 and 4 Execs. The spread was nicer than any student film I'd ever worked on, and I was already impressed.

The Talent started to arrive, and to my surprise, everyone was friendly, upbeat and made a point to say hello to me. I'd learned from experience not to speak until spoken to, and these people talked to me like I was a human being. This is a rare occurrence for a PA. Or maybe they were just confused because I was a girl.

Since the camera guy had everything ready, and the grip was all set, there wasn't a lot for me or Nick to do, so we mostly walked with purpose from one end of the soundstage to the other, looking busy as requested. I set up a bed to be "the bed," smoothing out wrinkles on a sheet I knew would be a biohazard within the hour.

After 4 hours in makeup, the Talent was ready, so I assumed the position behind the camera man and gathered the wires so they wouldn't tangle as his dolly moved along the track.
Yes, they set up a dolly track. I'm telling you- good stuff!
Garry grabbed a second camera, Nick took ahold of those cables, and here is how it worked:

The Talent got mostly undressed and posed in various positions for still photographs. These were set up with gorgeous lighting and are to be used for the images a consumer would see on the DVD box cover. The Talent, in accordance with the direction of the photographer and Garry's checklist, is photographed stripping each other, then performing oral sex, then penetration. Then, to simulate what it would look like if the male had ejaculated on the female, they plan out which position they Talent will be in during the "Pop," (climax scene) and the female Talent receives a hearty dousing of Cetaphil lotion on her chest, abdomen, buttocks, back, or face. Yes, Cetaphil. The same product I use to remove my makeup from Grinchmas.
Cetaphil: it's non-comedogenic, and it looks like jizz!
Adam & Eve doesn't cater to a raunchy crowd, so this time Reese poured fake jism on our Talent's breasts. Photos were taken, then she's wiped off with baby wipes and it's on to actual sex!

The Talent began to have sex, and the Camera Man shot angles of their genitals while Garry shot angles of their faces and torsos. That way, an editor can create two entirely different scenes- one Soft Core and one Hard Core.

Garry would talk every so often and tell the Talent "give me 30 more seconds of that then transition," or, "We're going for another 2 minutes of this then the pop, OK?"

The actors would speak the language of porn to one another, then, like total professionals, move gracefully into whatever Garry had asked.

I was unaware of this, but, in most porn, when you "see" a guy ejaculate while his penis is inside the woman, it is faked. It's called a "FIP," which stands for "Fake Internal Pop." He fakes an orgasm, then the Talent arranges themselves how they were for the photos, and it's up to the Male Talent to fulfill his contract.

Porn Actors arrange a fee ahead of time, and each actor agrees to a certain number of minutes in each position. It's pre-decided what they will and won't do on a per-scene basis. How many scenes they want to perform in a day is up to them, but when the Director expects an Actor to ejaculate, that's their job. These guys were pros, and even though they'd been ploughing away at their co-star for the better part of an hour, they pulled out, tugged on themselves until they were ready, then told Garry, "Gimmie 45 seconds and I'm there."
Total accuracy- I was amazed.

The first pair I watched were adorable- Garry had to cut for a moment to make an adjustment with the film equipment, and they actors (who had never worked together before) were having so much fun they just kept going at it! These were two people who'd been very friendly and cordial with me, and here they were, naked and having sex with 10 other people in the room. It was fun to watch them- they had a great chemistry (obviously) and were really enjoying each other. They liked positions that Adam & Eve didn't want in the movie, so in between takes they'd roll around like two wrestling puppies. Both were extremely athletic and sweating- nay, frothing- like crazy. Reese was great about toweling them off in between takes. He's all about the cuntinuity.

These two were animalistic, and giving off so much heat that the lights seemed cool by comparison. I'd taken vitamins that morning, and when the room heated up and all I could smell was sex and fluids, I suddenly became incredibly nauseous. I held onto those cables for dear life, but my vision irised in and I wondered if they'd keep going while I threw up. Miraculously, I held it in, but I couldn't look directly at them or I'd feel sick.

Reese kept his word, and I didn't have to do anything nasty- I had to bring a plastic bin containing lubricants and baby wipes towards the Talent, but the Girl said she never used lube, and Nick handed them the baby wipes on an as-needed basis. At the end, all I had to do was drag over a small trash can for the Talent to discard their wipes after they'd cleaned themselves off.

After that scene, Nick and I were asked to bundle up the sweaty, cum-covered bedclothes and put them in a bag. Wide-eyed and fearful, we rock-paper-scissored to decide who would bundle and who would hold the bag open. I lost, but I'd brought heavy-duty gloves and shoved the comforter and sheets in the bag with the tenderness with which one would plunge a toilet.

The next scene was about female soldiers in the gulf war. I debated pointing out that the green camouflage set may have been inaccurate, but decided to keep my mouth shut. In fact, I wanted as little from that set in my mouth as possible.

Two girls performed the next scene- one who'd been very cordial, and one who I could sense was a bit of a Diva. Let's call her "Angel," for irony. Angel had ignored me, which was fine, but she had an attitude for sure. I heard this story about her from another Porn PA:

"Angel came in and started the scene, but started complaining that her vagina was hurting. Turns out she had a full-blown yeast infection, but came in to work anyway. Well, the yeast started to show during the scene- the guy'd pull his dick out and you'd see this white gook on it, right, so Angel goes to douche and then uses some sort of numbing cream on her vagina.
She comes back and starts the scene again, but doesn't bother to tell the poor guy, right? So his dick goes completely numb and he can't do the Pop and he's thinking it's his fault until she finally tells him. The guy couldn't feel a thing so Reese had to go in and stunt-cock."

Yes, stunt-cock is a real thing. Reese lives to Stunt-cock. But back to the scene.

The girls do okay. It was supposed to be a hot girl-on-girl fantasy scene, but after the electric partnership if the first duo, it was fairly obvious these girls had no chemistry. I blame Angel. She'd stop in the middle of filming and complain about her neck positioning, or the cot was uncomfortable, or where's her water?
Where was her water?
Oh- that was my job.
Angel had "special" Fiji water just for her, labeled with her name on it and hidden away in the back of the refrigerator. I literally ran to go get it, and then realized that it might smear her make-up if she drinks it from the bottle. There were no straws on set, so I ran to my car and gor one of my personal, very special straws. It's from my favorite Boba Tea place in Orlando, and I keep it in my car because it reminds me of home. I ran this special straw and the special water back to set and held it out for Angel.
I hold it out for her. She ignores me, and I stand there with the drink in my hand, arm extended like an idiot.
"I brought you a straw, too" I say, as a prompt for her to take it.
She makes a "Ffffh" sound with her lips, and takes the drink and straw from my hand without looking at me.
The girls resume filming, and then it's on to a scene involving dialogue! Noooo!
I'd once pitched a script to Garry, who told me that whereas it was a great concept, it was a little too "cerebral" for his demographic.
After watching this poor girl stumble over line after line, they took a break. Garry, who'd spent the last hour feeding the girl four or five words at a time, leaned over and murmured to me:
"See what I meant about cerebral dialogue?"
I heart Garry.
While they toiled away on the paragraph, I was sent to pick up Director's Chairs for Garry, Angel, and one of the visiting Execs.
I returned while they were lunching, and set up the chairs in front of the monitor at the Video Village. Nick approached me and we talked about what time we might expect to leave that evening- he was really upset and wanted to leave early because his Aunt, who had practically raised him, was very sick. We were talking about that in the empty soundstage when Garry suddenly burst through the door with Angel.
"Oh, Jaime- would you mind moving to your left a little?"
Garry showed Angel her chair- the chair I'd been resting my hand on...
I knew Garry didn't care, but Angel had seen my touching her chair.
She hated me from that moment forward.
After lunch, it was time for Angel's scene with a Male Pornstar who proclaims himself a "Squirting Instructor," and could make any woman "Squirt." I was then informed that we'd wrapped the first movie and were now about to shoot a second, different movie. About squirting. Oh God.

After lunch, (which I'd fetched, set up and cleaned,) Angel posed for her photos.
I was standing near the set and noticed that she was getting really snippy with the photographer. Reese pulled me aside and said, "Angel's getting touchy, so can you give her some space?" I did, gladly- I looked busy, elsewhere.
We'd begun at 8AM, and I realized that since Jay wasn't home, there was no one to feed my cats. It was now 10PM. While Angel was being touched up in makeup, I asked Reese what time he thought we'd wrap.
"Oh, within 2 hours, easy."
That was impossible, and since I knew Nick was there and we were useless at the moment, I asked Reese if he'd mind if I drove the 6 miles to my house and fed my cats. He promised we'd be shooting any minute and out the door by midnight.
Reese wanted us to stay put. So we did, and, two and a half hours later, we resumed filming.

First, Angel was interviewed about what an awesome squirter she is. When Garry asked her what it felt like the first time it happened, she said, (and this is awesome) "I dunno. I mean, I know it's not urine, or whatever, but it just comes out and it smells like dog pee."
That was the end of the interview.

Nick had to go home at that point- he got a phone call which let him know that his Aunt had died- he was going to be gone the next day as well. I felt awful for him, and very, very sorry for myself- this meant that I would have to deal with gross stuff.

Angel and The Squirting Instructor (who is charming and funny and curved like a cartoon sausage) finally began their scene- he was impressive, and laid to rest any doubts I had about female pornstars faking orgasms during filming.
Angel might not have felt 100% of every "Oh God oh GOD!!!," but the Squirt Instructor was brilliant and for the final "money shot," Angel produced a small puddle in his hands.

I've never been so happy to see something so gross in my entire life. A few more photos needed to be taken, and Garry asked if I would mind grabbing a towel and drying off the couch they'd been porning on- panic-stricken, I looked at Reese, who heroically jumped in and said, "I'll do it." Whew, I thought- good. Reese had kept his word, and I was spared from the grossness. I was (and am) very grateful for him. There aren't a lot of men in this business who would remember or keep a promise to a PA... Yay for Reese.

Garry happily announced that we were wrapped, and then asked if I would please mop up the floor. Reese was nowhere to be seen... So, knowing that this blog lay in the future, and because Garry asked so nicely, right then and there, I performed the best swallowing scene of the day: I swallowed my pride. Gloved and nauseous, I mopped up the porn juice from the soundstage floor. I thought about my parents. I thought about my college degree. I thought about my MENSA membership, and my general goals in life. I tried to think about absolutely anything other than what I was actually doing...

Angel was right about one thing: Fiji water or not, it DID smell like dog pee.
We finally got everything packed in Reese's truck, and I headed home at 2:30AM.
At $100/day, I'd just spent the grossest work day of my life making $6/hour.
Funny- I'd seen three couples have sex, but I felt totally fucked.

To Be Continued...