Moving to Los Angeles was one of the biggest decisions I've made in my entire life. I was a kid fresh out of college with big dreams and a decent chunk of ambition. I always wanted to be a writer, producer, and even perform what I created. Looking back, I never thought I'd end up in the reality where I currently reside.
I'd been working as a freelance production assistant in TV, films, and commercials since I moved almost two years ago. Quickly, I was growing tired of the disrespect, illegal hours, lack of drug use I'd been warned about, and lack of personal satisfaction this was getting me. A thorough love of unemployment crept up, but other than that I preferred commercial work over anything else. The reason? Less time, more money. My life was coming together so nicely.
I was working a commercial for a brand of cheese awhile ago. (Yes, cheese. Didn't you read the title?) I was standing on set, in the baking heat of the south bay, when the shot they were setting up was ready. Bored, I looked around at all my coworkers faces that were genuinely interested, actually serious about what was happening.
I always understood yet never empathized with the brotherhood, gang mentality of people in this industry. Although other professionals have a hard time understanding what we do and go through, I never formed that "I'm better than you, do you know what I do? I work in the movies, bitch!" mentality. Because who gives a shit? I'm not a doctor, I don't save lives. I'm not the president, I can't change laws to better people's well-being. I'm not Pamela Anderson, I can't make the world smile with the flash of just one boob. Those are things to brag about. Just as I thought that, the director yelled "action!"
I would like to preface this by saying I never read scripts of anything I work on before hand. I don't care what it's about because with what I personally do, it kind of doesn't matter. (A blessing and a curse.) The director prompted the scene. As I watched on, in horror, four grown men lifted pieces of huge, fake cheese in front of their faces and started dancing around, jumping up and down. And then it hit me - my life has no meaning. This is what I must partake in to pay my bills. By my choice (I use the that term loosely), I put myself in the presence of people who would rather critique the jumping and wiggling of said grown men than to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or the fact that someone was paying good money to have these men do this. No bragging rights belong to me, sirs and madams.
It made me think back about all the ridiculous material that has been shot in my presence. Let alone the ridiculous things I've had to do for it behind the scenes. I've had to follow around/ document an orangutan's every action (including pooping on a conveyer belt), help collect a DP's dirty underwear to be cleaned because he didn't feel like it, have a stand off with a bobcat (a real, unplanned bobcat) while being a stand in, track down the correct concealer for a male television host, and drive a 15 pass van in circles for twelve hours straight. I love coming home at Christmas, fresh off a commercial about a new milkshake (who was treated with more respect that I) and have people bubble about how "glamorous" my life must be. I realize people don't know, but it makes you feel like a shit head for wanting to shake them and let them know that their jobs are a slice of George Clooney's ass next to yours. So I tell them my stories about when I see famous people (like a drunk Kate Walsh, Tiger Woods making fun of me, or that one time my friends assaulted Lance Bass from N*Sync) because that's all they really want to know about anyway.
Was it worth it to live through this crap to get where I wanted to be? I supposed it was but continued my pity party internally while everywhere else in the world there was hunger, war, and poverty.
Later at a party I retold my day with disgust fueling my enthusiasm. Someone said "You know? You should be a writer. You should write this down. All these crazy stories might be real inspirations."
No shit.
Showing posts with label Los Angeles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Los Angeles. Show all posts
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Am I Too Old For This...?
Do you ever wake up after an especially (and unnecessarily) long weekend and think - am I getting too old to be doing stuff like this?
Last weekend, Dev and I started out Friday night going to an 80s cover band concert. Of course we can't just go and enjoy the sweet melodies of her favorite era, oh no. Firstly, we MUST dress up as obnoxious as possible... we don't want anyone looking at us like we're losers. Next step, we meet up at a friend's apt who is pregaming before the party bus arrives (thats right, party bus). Bring on the jungle juice and jello shots! Dancing around a large, moving vehicle while screamsinging and chewing my way through a rainbow assortment of evil (jello shots) got me a wee bit nauseous, so i spent a solid 15 min on the floor of the bathroom texting everyone about how I was "gonna barf FACT". This was not a fact, however, and Dev yanked me up and elbowed our way to the stage Will Ferrell-dart scene-Old School style. The band was surprisingly good (and young!) and we enjoyed them very much. We hit the party bus again to get back to the friend's apt where an afterparty bops on. The neon was blinding and the spandex was rampant. It was glorious. Then the hottest cops you've ever seen broke up the party (and my liver silently rejoiced). Dev decided to steal someone's bed, but not me. No, I am too classy. I decided to sleep in the car... the backseat you ask? Why, that would be too logical! I recline the passenger seat past where it probably was meant to recline, turn on the butt warmer and some music, gnaw on a LUNA bar and pass out face down. (For the record, I was wearing stretchy black pleather pants, a neon yellow shirt, a side ponytail, the sweetest leather fanny pack ever, and orange hightop Converse [I know how badass those shoes are, thank you for saying so.] so I can only imagine how I looked to the neighbors walking their dogs and playing with their children in the morning.)
After she comes and taps on the window at about 9:30 am, we head back down to our apt where I continue to sleep until 12:30 pm. Then, that trick makes me go to her damn football game. After the game we return to our apt and admit to each other the mutual overwhelming urge to rent "Twighlight" and watch it before the sisters McFreaky come down that night. (Side note: we're obsessed. I'm a gay, 13-year-old boy in drag.)
We don't make it to the bar until about 1 am but pound the drinks accordingly. The sisters meet us out to basically walk us home where we stand in my kitchen girl talking and taking shots of tequila (patron, a thank you) until about 5 am. Necessary? Hell no, but it friggin' happened. I digress...
Next morning, these bitches wake my ass up at 10 am so that we can go have brunch with our gays in Weho. (In gay talk "brunch" means "get wasted during the day and watch hot men dance around in their underwear".) We drive up and begin at about noon-ish. Golden Girls is playing in the background, the mimosas keep coming, and the conversation is abundant (just like David's laughter - one of my new faves!) and before we know it we're staging a photo shoot at the bar/restaurant. Sexually harassing our adorable bar tender Ivan is on the itinerary and of course dancing like robots (sexy robots). It's about 3 pm ish... we should really start heading back.... but everyone is going to another bar! I just hate feeling left out...
After the next bar (where lil Momo showed us how to do a sweet floor slide under my legs) Dev and I head back down home. We arrive to our sweet bachelorette pad and decide we're bored. It's only 8 pm!
We walk to Patrick Malloys and guess what - half off all bombs! A dance party with just the two of us on the floor and three bombs in, we decide maybe we've had enough. We run into her friend and his buddy, I decide I hate his buddy (he was a douche) and bitch the guy out. We come up to our apt, realize I have locked us out, accidentally break our neighbors doorbell and Dev has to break into our window. Good night.
Next morning (Monday), I wake up at like 1 pm and I feel like SHIT. Dev is at work and she must feel 10 times worse I can imagine. I am filled with a sense of embarrassment, nausea and a little bit of dread (it's a small town out here). I can barely speak b/c when I party too hard I lose my voice. Am I getting to old for this?
After a call from the bank about "fraudulent charges on my card" (which I assume is just all the bars I hit up over the weekend) I have to go in and talk to someone. Naturally, the hottest teller to ever grace Bank of America is the guy I have to deal with. How are we supposed to fall in love and skip on the beach if he sees my account, realizes my spending habits and asks why I am not at work on a Monday? On top of that, I didn't bother to put on make-up, I sound like a 60-year-old smoker and am sweating out the weekend through my pores. He helps me out (turns out there really was fraudulent stuff) but I get the sneaking suspicion he thinks I'm a terrorist or a spy from the way he grills me about old addresses and what I do for a living. I need some green tea...
I go to a coffee shop and need to leave because I start getting that weird mouth watering sensation and I think I'm gonna barf on the weird hippie guy next to me who smells like a pot factory.
I come back into the apt, leaving the front door open to get fresh air circulating inside and go into the bathroom. False alarm. I come out into the hallway and hear a strange noise in the kitchen. What the hell... there's a damn bird in my kitchen trying to escape out the window! I start yelling at it to get out (I heard birds speak German so I know he couldn't understand me) but it refuses. I don't want to deal with this!
The bird gets more and more hysterical, as do I, so I get a broom. I think I saw them do this on an episode of "Whose the Boss?" so I'm sure it will work. After ten minutes of trying to sweep it back into the hallway and screeching everytime it gets near me, I realize I'm going to have to get the kitchen window open. I shoo the bird over to the fridge, unlatch the screen and beat it toward the window. That little fucker hesitates on the window sill, looking out at the freedom it took me 20 min to give the little idiot. Another bop with the broom and it's out. I shut the screen and put the broom down, my arm brushing my chest as I do. What is that...? It's BIRD SHIT! On my FUCKING boob! Which has now been transferred to my bracelets. A bird shit on me in my own house. Is this some bizarre warning from God?
Dev gets home a few hours later and we're talking about our days and upcoming events.
Dev: "By the way, don't forget, we're going to Vegas this weekend!"
I mull this over a moment... can I handle yet another crazy weekend full of assorted animals, colorful drinks, and dance parties?
Me: "Oh, man we're gonna get wasted!"
What the hell, I'm only 24.
Last weekend, Dev and I started out Friday night going to an 80s cover band concert. Of course we can't just go and enjoy the sweet melodies of her favorite era, oh no. Firstly, we MUST dress up as obnoxious as possible... we don't want anyone looking at us like we're losers. Next step, we meet up at a friend's apt who is pregaming before the party bus arrives (thats right, party bus). Bring on the jungle juice and jello shots! Dancing around a large, moving vehicle while screamsinging and chewing my way through a rainbow assortment of evil (jello shots) got me a wee bit nauseous, so i spent a solid 15 min on the floor of the bathroom texting everyone about how I was "gonna barf FACT". This was not a fact, however, and Dev yanked me up and elbowed our way to the stage Will Ferrell-dart scene-Old School style. The band was surprisingly good (and young!) and we enjoyed them very much. We hit the party bus again to get back to the friend's apt where an afterparty bops on. The neon was blinding and the spandex was rampant. It was glorious. Then the hottest cops you've ever seen broke up the party (and my liver silently rejoiced). Dev decided to steal someone's bed, but not me. No, I am too classy. I decided to sleep in the car... the backseat you ask? Why, that would be too logical! I recline the passenger seat past where it probably was meant to recline, turn on the butt warmer and some music, gnaw on a LUNA bar and pass out face down. (For the record, I was wearing stretchy black pleather pants, a neon yellow shirt, a side ponytail, the sweetest leather fanny pack ever, and orange hightop Converse [I know how badass those shoes are, thank you for saying so.] so I can only imagine how I looked to the neighbors walking their dogs and playing with their children in the morning.)
After she comes and taps on the window at about 9:30 am, we head back down to our apt where I continue to sleep until 12:30 pm. Then, that trick makes me go to her damn football game. After the game we return to our apt and admit to each other the mutual overwhelming urge to rent "Twighlight" and watch it before the sisters McFreaky come down that night. (Side note: we're obsessed. I'm a gay, 13-year-old boy in drag.)
We don't make it to the bar until about 1 am but pound the drinks accordingly. The sisters meet us out to basically walk us home where we stand in my kitchen girl talking and taking shots of tequila (patron, a thank you) until about 5 am. Necessary? Hell no, but it friggin' happened. I digress...
Next morning, these bitches wake my ass up at 10 am so that we can go have brunch with our gays in Weho. (In gay talk "brunch" means "get wasted during the day and watch hot men dance around in their underwear".) We drive up and begin at about noon-ish. Golden Girls is playing in the background, the mimosas keep coming, and the conversation is abundant (just like David's laughter - one of my new faves!) and before we know it we're staging a photo shoot at the bar/restaurant. Sexually harassing our adorable bar tender Ivan is on the itinerary and of course dancing like robots (sexy robots). It's about 3 pm ish... we should really start heading back.... but everyone is going to another bar! I just hate feeling left out...
After the next bar (where lil Momo showed us how to do a sweet floor slide under my legs) Dev and I head back down home. We arrive to our sweet bachelorette pad and decide we're bored. It's only 8 pm!
We walk to Patrick Malloys and guess what - half off all bombs! A dance party with just the two of us on the floor and three bombs in, we decide maybe we've had enough. We run into her friend and his buddy, I decide I hate his buddy (he was a douche) and bitch the guy out. We come up to our apt, realize I have locked us out, accidentally break our neighbors doorbell and Dev has to break into our window. Good night.
Next morning (Monday), I wake up at like 1 pm and I feel like SHIT. Dev is at work and she must feel 10 times worse I can imagine. I am filled with a sense of embarrassment, nausea and a little bit of dread (it's a small town out here). I can barely speak b/c when I party too hard I lose my voice. Am I getting to old for this?
After a call from the bank about "fraudulent charges on my card" (which I assume is just all the bars I hit up over the weekend) I have to go in and talk to someone. Naturally, the hottest teller to ever grace Bank of America is the guy I have to deal with. How are we supposed to fall in love and skip on the beach if he sees my account, realizes my spending habits and asks why I am not at work on a Monday? On top of that, I didn't bother to put on make-up, I sound like a 60-year-old smoker and am sweating out the weekend through my pores. He helps me out (turns out there really was fraudulent stuff) but I get the sneaking suspicion he thinks I'm a terrorist or a spy from the way he grills me about old addresses and what I do for a living. I need some green tea...
I go to a coffee shop and need to leave because I start getting that weird mouth watering sensation and I think I'm gonna barf on the weird hippie guy next to me who smells like a pot factory.
I come back into the apt, leaving the front door open to get fresh air circulating inside and go into the bathroom. False alarm. I come out into the hallway and hear a strange noise in the kitchen. What the hell... there's a damn bird in my kitchen trying to escape out the window! I start yelling at it to get out (I heard birds speak German so I know he couldn't understand me) but it refuses. I don't want to deal with this!
The bird gets more and more hysterical, as do I, so I get a broom. I think I saw them do this on an episode of "Whose the Boss?" so I'm sure it will work. After ten minutes of trying to sweep it back into the hallway and screeching everytime it gets near me, I realize I'm going to have to get the kitchen window open. I shoo the bird over to the fridge, unlatch the screen and beat it toward the window. That little fucker hesitates on the window sill, looking out at the freedom it took me 20 min to give the little idiot. Another bop with the broom and it's out. I shut the screen and put the broom down, my arm brushing my chest as I do. What is that...? It's BIRD SHIT! On my FUCKING boob! Which has now been transferred to my bracelets. A bird shit on me in my own house. Is this some bizarre warning from God?
Dev gets home a few hours later and we're talking about our days and upcoming events.
Dev: "By the way, don't forget, we're going to Vegas this weekend!"
I mull this over a moment... can I handle yet another crazy weekend full of assorted animals, colorful drinks, and dance parties?
Me: "Oh, man we're gonna get wasted!"
What the hell, I'm only 24.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)