Trains coming out of the pavement under my sneakers. Logos I don't recognize. Make Art Not War. I still love you.
LOVE ME TILL MY HEART STOPS.
I miss graffiti.
Why is it that the second I step a foot out of Los Angeles I fall in love with every other city? I'm like a teenage boy with an indiscriminate travel boner. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in San Francisco (with FREE internet!!!!) and all I can think about is how get out of LA and back to a Real City. I'm thinking about my old coffeeshop in Boston, my coffeeshop friends, my coffeeshop attitude. I walked here thinking about New York and Boston and Philly, haunted and dreaming.
Maybe I remember things with rose glasses, and I'm never happy where I am. I hated Boston by the time I left. Still, I doubt I will remember my time in LA with any great longing. I haven't made it mine, I doubt I could. It tricks people that way, this vast beast challenging you tame it. All this time it just tamed me, in traffic and artifice.
I have to move as soon as I can, I know it. I am not this jaded. I am not this depressed. I am not this creatively constipated. I recently told my boyfriend that I am over palm trees and I think they are stupid. He said I didn't really think that. He was right, probably more right than he knew when he said it, because when he said that I didn't think palm trees are stupid, he was really saying:
"Carol. You don't think any trees are stupid."
Everyone is coffeeshop looks familiar. Not from TV or movies, not from magazines, but from my life. I know all of these people. I've served them coffee and discussed music with them. I'm curious and they are curious. I have to get back here.
13 October 2006
27 September 2006
How to Build a Career in the Entertainment Industry
Are you fresh out of film school? Are you over the age of thirty with as many career attempts under your belt? Do you love movies and/or television? Perhaps a job in the entertainment world is your next endeavor! The following are five easy pointers on looking for an "industry" job in Hollywood (and you don't know anyone famous).
Let's begin.
1. True or False: I need a college degree to work in Hollywood.
FALSE. You do not need a college degree, but it is helpful. If you have proof of higher learning, you may be able to get a better job right off the bat, but not necessarily. You could work as an unpaid intern at a production company, or work in skilled labor via grip and electric work. Actually, there are variety of options available to you, depending on how much of your life you are willing to waste volunteering your soul. (Personally I suggest going to film school because a) it's a fun time, despite the life-long debt b) I hear a film BA is the new BS, pun sort of unintended and c) hopefully it will teach you many valuable skills, half of them social if I know my audience.)
2. "Working for free?! Why would anyone work for free? Did you say UNPAID INTERN back there???"
I did. This is why it might be helpful to get a degree, so you can justify an unpaid internship with college credit. Or, if you have never been on a set, and have never had physical contact with the world of production, then sure... PA on some student films if you can. After that, I do not believe anyone should work for free. Many people agree with me, concerning these "plain as day" matters of self-worth.
Can you imagine starting in the pharmaceutical industry and working for free, even as a beginner? I can't. As unbelievable as it is in the entertainment industry to begin this way, the result, hopefully, will be equally unbelievable. If you can work your way up, you will make an obscene amount of money doing what most people, especially pharmacists, would not call "work". They might call it "hanging out" or "abusing power" or even "surfing myspace while your assistant does the same". Don't be fooled by those "starving artists"!! There is a CRAP TON of money to be made in Hollywood. That's right-- producers and agents and editors all make a CRAP TON of money. But before you can make this income, some people require you to start BELOW the bottom rung.
3. Let's talk about those OPTIONS.
It is true that everyone has to start somewhere. These places can include: receptionist, runner, PA, assistant (be it 2nd assistant director, assistant editor, office assistant, or assisting in any on-set department like lighting, electric, wardrobe, or art). I mention these because it may seem overwhelming in your job search, looking at all the different postings and not knowing the real job description or what you're qualified to do. Now, I can not delve into every positions I just mentioned, but I can give blanket advice about each general arena so you do not waste any time!
a. Receptionist/Office Manager/Runner: Anything office related can be a passport into a company. You can learn everything about what goes into production. The key here: find a company you want to grow in. It's that simple! ...and yet so utterly difficult. Good luck!
b. Assistant Editor: If you want to be an editor, this is the only way in. Make sure you want to be an editor, otherwise you will waste 16 hours of every day deep inside Final Cut Pro, unprotected.
c. On-set Departments: Get in there, get on a great team, and get in a union. You will be on set for 20 hours a day, but you will be over-fed and over-paid.
4. "Hm. 20 hours? I don't know... That's a long day..."
I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you... you have to LOVE film/television. I mean LOVE it, like you want to DIE for it. (Cause you kind of will.) Not willing to die for this industry? Awesome! I hope the whole fucking city sinks into the ocean. Until then, this is what we have to work with here, now.
5. Now, actually looking for jobs.
A recent poll in Los Angeles estimates there are one million billion people looking for the same jobs you are seeking in LA. Because of this fact, there are systems in place online to assist your search. Entertainmentcareers.net and mandy.com are great resources. Another would be craigslist.org, in their "tv/film/radio" or "crew" or "writing" sections. You can use craigslist.org if you don't mind working for people who can't spell, or do not even pretend to understand syntax.
That's it, future co-workers!! This is just the beginning for you. Here you go, off into your new careeer in the entertainment industry!! Aren't you excited? It might take years and years and you still may never ever be satisfied with your work, and you might give up way before that, but here's hoping you get that lucky break!
What?
Your own projects? Cre-? Creative control? Hmmmm.
Saving your mind, body, and spirit in LA will be in my next blog. I haven't published it yet because I actually have no idea what to tell you. I just told you this crap cause no one told me.
Let's begin.
1. True or False: I need a college degree to work in Hollywood.
FALSE. You do not need a college degree, but it is helpful. If you have proof of higher learning, you may be able to get a better job right off the bat, but not necessarily. You could work as an unpaid intern at a production company, or work in skilled labor via grip and electric work. Actually, there are variety of options available to you, depending on how much of your life you are willing to waste volunteering your soul. (Personally I suggest going to film school because a) it's a fun time, despite the life-long debt b) I hear a film BA is the new BS, pun sort of unintended and c) hopefully it will teach you many valuable skills, half of them social if I know my audience.)
2. "Working for free?! Why would anyone work for free? Did you say UNPAID INTERN back there???"
I did. This is why it might be helpful to get a degree, so you can justify an unpaid internship with college credit. Or, if you have never been on a set, and have never had physical contact with the world of production, then sure... PA on some student films if you can. After that, I do not believe anyone should work for free. Many people agree with me, concerning these "plain as day" matters of self-worth.
Can you imagine starting in the pharmaceutical industry and working for free, even as a beginner? I can't. As unbelievable as it is in the entertainment industry to begin this way, the result, hopefully, will be equally unbelievable. If you can work your way up, you will make an obscene amount of money doing what most people, especially pharmacists, would not call "work". They might call it "hanging out" or "abusing power" or even "surfing myspace while your assistant does the same". Don't be fooled by those "starving artists"!! There is a CRAP TON of money to be made in Hollywood. That's right-- producers and agents and editors all make a CRAP TON of money. But before you can make this income, some people require you to start BELOW the bottom rung.
3. Let's talk about those OPTIONS.
It is true that everyone has to start somewhere. These places can include: receptionist, runner, PA, assistant (be it 2nd assistant director, assistant editor, office assistant, or assisting in any on-set department like lighting, electric, wardrobe, or art). I mention these because it may seem overwhelming in your job search, looking at all the different postings and not knowing the real job description or what you're qualified to do. Now, I can not delve into every positions I just mentioned, but I can give blanket advice about each general arena so you do not waste any time!
a. Receptionist/Office Manager/Runner: Anything office related can be a passport into a company. You can learn everything about what goes into production. The key here: find a company you want to grow in. It's that simple! ...and yet so utterly difficult. Good luck!
b. Assistant Editor: If you want to be an editor, this is the only way in. Make sure you want to be an editor, otherwise you will waste 16 hours of every day deep inside Final Cut Pro, unprotected.
c. On-set Departments: Get in there, get on a great team, and get in a union. You will be on set for 20 hours a day, but you will be over-fed and over-paid.
4. "Hm. 20 hours? I don't know... That's a long day..."
I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you... you have to LOVE film/television. I mean LOVE it, like you want to DIE for it. (Cause you kind of will.) Not willing to die for this industry? Awesome! I hope the whole fucking city sinks into the ocean. Until then, this is what we have to work with here, now.
5. Now, actually looking for jobs.
A recent poll in Los Angeles estimates there are one million billion people looking for the same jobs you are seeking in LA. Because of this fact, there are systems in place online to assist your search. Entertainmentcareers.net and mandy.com are great resources. Another would be craigslist.org, in their "tv/film/radio" or "crew" or "writing" sections. You can use craigslist.org if you don't mind working for people who can't spell, or do not even pretend to understand syntax.
That's it, future co-workers!! This is just the beginning for you. Here you go, off into your new careeer in the entertainment industry!! Aren't you excited? It might take years and years and you still may never ever be satisfied with your work, and you might give up way before that, but here's hoping you get that lucky break!
What?
Your own projects? Cre-? Creative control? Hmmmm.
Saving your mind, body, and spirit in LA will be in my next blog. I haven't published it yet because I actually have no idea what to tell you. I just told you this crap cause no one told me.
05 September 2006
To Hazard a Guess
This will be my "LA Mysteries" post. I will add to this as mysteries and theories emerge..
1. Bread Zone.
Somewhere between Washington and Venice Blvds, east of Fairfax and west of Hauser, there is an industrious bread making bakery. The Bread Zone, morning and night, smells of baking bread. I have never located the bakery emitting the powerful bread fragrance. I suspect I never will.
2. Cow Tails.
I suppose as a child I missed out on the semi-gross, fully-satisfying treat of a Cow Tail. I recently tried one of these cream filled caramel sticks while at home. I purchased this Cow Tail at a WaWa in Delaware. There are no WaWas in California, and after looking around at 7-Elevens and the like, I could not find Cow Tails here either. So when I went home again, I stocked up. Not long after returning to LA, my front headlight went out, forcing me into an "Auto Zone". While paying for the bulb, I discovered that although no convenience store carries Cow Tails... Auto Zone, in fact, has them for sale. ?????
3. La Brea and Wilshire-ish area, on the corner, a bakery. Lee's Croissants, from the north. Or is it Bee's Croissant's? A tiny sign viewed from the west dictates it so. Or it simply Ari's, as posted on the south side of the establishment? Yeah what the hell is called, I'm begging someone interpret the signage.
1. Bread Zone.
Somewhere between Washington and Venice Blvds, east of Fairfax and west of Hauser, there is an industrious bread making bakery. The Bread Zone, morning and night, smells of baking bread. I have never located the bakery emitting the powerful bread fragrance. I suspect I never will.
2. Cow Tails.
I suppose as a child I missed out on the semi-gross, fully-satisfying treat of a Cow Tail. I recently tried one of these cream filled caramel sticks while at home. I purchased this Cow Tail at a WaWa in Delaware. There are no WaWas in California, and after looking around at 7-Elevens and the like, I could not find Cow Tails here either. So when I went home again, I stocked up. Not long after returning to LA, my front headlight went out, forcing me into an "Auto Zone". While paying for the bulb, I discovered that although no convenience store carries Cow Tails... Auto Zone, in fact, has them for sale. ?????
3. La Brea and Wilshire-ish area, on the corner, a bakery. Lee's Croissants, from the north. Or is it Bee's Croissant's? A tiny sign viewed from the west dictates it so. Or it simply Ari's, as posted on the south side of the establishment? Yeah what the hell is called, I'm begging someone interpret the signage.
03 September 2006
I Blame Charles Shaw
This is mostly conjecture, but I can ALMOST guarantee that half of the people on the road in Los Angeles at night on the weekend are
in fact
drunk.
or intoxicated.
I can also, with the same assuredness, guarantee that one quarter of the people on the highways and surface streets of the City of Angels on the week nights are
drrrrrrrrrunk.
Those are drinking and driving angels. Oh yes. Los Angeles, with your sketchy public transit and your utter dependence on gasoline, you have made these people drive. drunk.
Let me say there are a LOT of accidents in LA. A ton. Almost everyone has major or minor body damage on their automobile. But, no matter what the rate of DUIs or DWIs, it will never come CLOSE to those individuals driving, always, under the influence of something.
What are they going to do, get a cab?
NOT drink?
NOT drive?
I do not condone driving while intoxicated. However. Everyone has done it. BE HONEST.
Los Angeles is breeding a unique race of humans who can drive under every influence! Not only can we drive during the day, influenced by complete RAGE, unabashed VIOLENCE towards humanity, stress, etc-- we can drive tipsy, high, drunk, and damned.
I just drove home from a friend's house. We made dinner. We had wine. We had more wine. I left feeling GREAT. I had a conversation with my dear friend in New York while driving home, we discussed current events and future endeavors. It was a delightful evening.
I returned home to find I could barely type an email without typos. It has taken me no less than five tries to write every sentence in this article! Yet, driving home... I was fine. I was fiiiiiiine. I was driving, stopping, going, turning, as normally as everyone else. (I can only presume they were drunk too.) I even passed a police car. No problem. Parked in my ungodly close spot in back, got home without a scratch.
Last night. I drank but two drinks at a party and at 1:30 I said, ok time to jet. I walked a few blocks to my car and drove across town. Not a care, or collision. Both tonight and last night, had I been pulled over, I would have been severely punished under law for my state while driving. I could have killed someone I guess. But Los Angeles. It's those Angels...! and...Practice!
I used to spend two hours, or more, every day, in my car driving from Burbank to Culver City. Do that for four months straight, your car is truly an extension of yourself. I was driving home tonight, talking on my phone, three glasses of wine the worse, and it was like breathing. Absolutely automatic.
I'm not saying it's right or good or definite. But Los Angeles, by nature of the landscape and transit system, not to mention the film and fashion and music and advertising industries,... we are breeding
monsters.
we are
quite
crafty.
in fact
drunk.
or intoxicated.
I can also, with the same assuredness, guarantee that one quarter of the people on the highways and surface streets of the City of Angels on the week nights are
drrrrrrrrrunk.
Those are drinking and driving angels. Oh yes. Los Angeles, with your sketchy public transit and your utter dependence on gasoline, you have made these people drive. drunk.
Let me say there are a LOT of accidents in LA. A ton. Almost everyone has major or minor body damage on their automobile. But, no matter what the rate of DUIs or DWIs, it will never come CLOSE to those individuals driving, always, under the influence of something.
What are they going to do, get a cab?
NOT drink?
NOT drive?
I do not condone driving while intoxicated. However. Everyone has done it. BE HONEST.
Los Angeles is breeding a unique race of humans who can drive under every influence! Not only can we drive during the day, influenced by complete RAGE, unabashed VIOLENCE towards humanity, stress, etc-- we can drive tipsy, high, drunk, and damned.
I just drove home from a friend's house. We made dinner. We had wine. We had more wine. I left feeling GREAT. I had a conversation with my dear friend in New York while driving home, we discussed current events and future endeavors. It was a delightful evening.
I returned home to find I could barely type an email without typos. It has taken me no less than five tries to write every sentence in this article! Yet, driving home... I was fine. I was fiiiiiiine. I was driving, stopping, going, turning, as normally as everyone else. (I can only presume they were drunk too.) I even passed a police car. No problem. Parked in my ungodly close spot in back, got home without a scratch.
Last night. I drank but two drinks at a party and at 1:30 I said, ok time to jet. I walked a few blocks to my car and drove across town. Not a care, or collision. Both tonight and last night, had I been pulled over, I would have been severely punished under law for my state while driving. I could have killed someone I guess. But Los Angeles. It's those Angels...! and...Practice!
I used to spend two hours, or more, every day, in my car driving from Burbank to Culver City. Do that for four months straight, your car is truly an extension of yourself. I was driving home tonight, talking on my phone, three glasses of wine the worse, and it was like breathing. Absolutely automatic.
I'm not saying it's right or good or definite. But Los Angeles, by nature of the landscape and transit system, not to mention the film and fashion and music and advertising industries,... we are breeding
monsters.
we are
quite
crafty.
Maybe You Should Cry About It
In January of 2005, I moved a car load of my crap across the country to finish college. It was my last semester, and I was living and learning at a satellite campus in Los Angeles. In the months prior, just about everything in my life changed, as everything is always completely changing your life somehow at that age. Things were so crazy, in fact, I did just enough research to get myself and my best friend across the country, camping alone for a week.
I did no research, somehow, on the place I was to live for the next however-long. I had already planned to continue living in LA after graduation. No research.
A lot of people love bands from Los Angeles, and they learn of the city that way. Lots of people know about Hollywood just from loving movie history. Even more people than both these groups combined have visited Los Angeles and therefore have first-hand knowledge of the town. Not me. I just moved here.
I like to watch movies without knowing anything about them. I love to read books this way too. I adore surprises. I have let blind shit luck guide big decisions I've made. Nothing bad has ever resulted from this way of living.
But, let me suggest here: RESEARCH A CITY BEFORE YOU MOVE THERE. Or, if you can, visit there, more than once, maybe even a few times and determine if you like it. I'm not saying I "regret" moving here. I learned so much in LA. I have had so many wonderful experiences. While I still live here, I plan to do great things...
Shortly after I moved here, I heard a news report that a young actress had exited her vehicle on the 101 freeway and died. She exited the car going 80 miles an hour, and was hit by no less than nine cars. Her body parts could barely be identified.
I was horrified when I heard this. What could possibly make anyone do this? What a brutal way to end it. I just never wrapped my head around the story.
So this is the city where I live. I have been unemployed for a week, and I guess that isn't that long for a freelancer, but to me it has been a long fucking week. With a lot of friends out of town, I have had a great deal of time alone to ponder, digest, delve. It's so amazing that you can feel a certain way for so so very long and it takes all that time for your brain to wake up to how you feel. And you get this THOUGHT! Your heart rejoices when your brain finally gets the fucking message! And I thought: I know why that woman jumped out of her car!!
BECAUSE THIS CITY IS A STEAMING SHIT HOLE AND LIVING HERE ANOTHER SECOND MAKES ME WANT TO END IT ALL.
This place is hell. I need to leave. I don't want to greet my maker on the freeway, but I have to get the fuck out. I have to leave. I'm going to leave as soon as I have enough money, a job set up wherever I move, and hopefully my boyfriend's company. I have to fucking leave.
Nothing is real here. I don't trust anyone. I can't walk anywhere. I pay too much for gas and a gym membership, when, if I could just fucking walk I wouldn't have to do either! And that's just the beginning of my gripes with Los Angeles...
I feel like this whole time I've been devil's advocate with this shit hole. Every time somebody insults the way of life here, I argue. I point out all the great things like the weather and the West Coast and the cutting edge and the youth, etc. I have finally faced that these things do not fucking matter to me.
If the seasons don't change I will lose my brain. I want to be cold, East Coast cold, it's in my blood. My hair is blonde. What the fuck happened to me.
In the meantime, I'm going write. I won't desert you, blog. The fish are fucking dead you stupid kid, what are you, retarded? Or just raised in Los Angeles?
Good luck to me, or it'll be biting the 101 for sure.
I did no research, somehow, on the place I was to live for the next however-long. I had already planned to continue living in LA after graduation. No research.
A lot of people love bands from Los Angeles, and they learn of the city that way. Lots of people know about Hollywood just from loving movie history. Even more people than both these groups combined have visited Los Angeles and therefore have first-hand knowledge of the town. Not me. I just moved here.
I like to watch movies without knowing anything about them. I love to read books this way too. I adore surprises. I have let blind shit luck guide big decisions I've made. Nothing bad has ever resulted from this way of living.
But, let me suggest here: RESEARCH A CITY BEFORE YOU MOVE THERE. Or, if you can, visit there, more than once, maybe even a few times and determine if you like it. I'm not saying I "regret" moving here. I learned so much in LA. I have had so many wonderful experiences. While I still live here, I plan to do great things...
Shortly after I moved here, I heard a news report that a young actress had exited her vehicle on the 101 freeway and died. She exited the car going 80 miles an hour, and was hit by no less than nine cars. Her body parts could barely be identified.
I was horrified when I heard this. What could possibly make anyone do this? What a brutal way to end it. I just never wrapped my head around the story.
So this is the city where I live. I have been unemployed for a week, and I guess that isn't that long for a freelancer, but to me it has been a long fucking week. With a lot of friends out of town, I have had a great deal of time alone to ponder, digest, delve. It's so amazing that you can feel a certain way for so so very long and it takes all that time for your brain to wake up to how you feel. And you get this THOUGHT! Your heart rejoices when your brain finally gets the fucking message! And I thought: I know why that woman jumped out of her car!!
BECAUSE THIS CITY IS A STEAMING SHIT HOLE AND LIVING HERE ANOTHER SECOND MAKES ME WANT TO END IT ALL.
This place is hell. I need to leave. I don't want to greet my maker on the freeway, but I have to get the fuck out. I have to leave. I'm going to leave as soon as I have enough money, a job set up wherever I move, and hopefully my boyfriend's company. I have to fucking leave.
Nothing is real here. I don't trust anyone. I can't walk anywhere. I pay too much for gas and a gym membership, when, if I could just fucking walk I wouldn't have to do either! And that's just the beginning of my gripes with Los Angeles...
I feel like this whole time I've been devil's advocate with this shit hole. Every time somebody insults the way of life here, I argue. I point out all the great things like the weather and the West Coast and the cutting edge and the youth, etc. I have finally faced that these things do not fucking matter to me.
If the seasons don't change I will lose my brain. I want to be cold, East Coast cold, it's in my blood. My hair is blonde. What the fuck happened to me.
In the meantime, I'm going write. I won't desert you, blog. The fish are fucking dead you stupid kid, what are you, retarded? Or just raised in Los Angeles?
Good luck to me, or it'll be biting the 101 for sure.
30 August 2006
Vons on Pico
"Four dollars a bottle, can't beat that. Can't beat that."
"Oh, there's another one there. Should I get it? No."
"Get it, get it, we'll save it."
There are seven bottles of red wine on the belt, two bottles of white. The larger woman in front of me twists her hand through the bars to get that last bottle of four dollar red wine on the rack next to the register.
"I bet some wine connoisseur came in and grabbed it all up!"
They share a laugh. The smaller woman comments on labels and wines I'm already trying to forget. They speak the way I do when I say Charles Shaw rather than Two Buck Chuck, but they're serious. I'm wondering how much they'll drink tonight. I won't be drinking any at all tonight, cause I figure it'd be a bad habit to drink when I don't have work. Feels wrong, wine should be to celebrate, I'll only feel worse. So I stare at my pitiful pile, bread, yogurt, and black beans. I have a five dollar bill, and I'm thrilled I'll have change.
"No, John."
"But shrimp is nasty."
"No, John, we have chicken."
"Can I get some noodles?"
"No, you are not getting one more thing John."
"Mom?"
"No John! Do you know what no means? What does no mean?"
This mother looks dead at me.
"Sorry baby. You'll get yours. Someday. You got some?"
I laugh, madly, too loudly. Starved. "No. No."
She gives a glare. I retreat to my bones, startled. Even the winos in front of me turn their daze at me, the middle of this pathetic tired worn out woman sandwich. We the life givers, none of us the same at all, ghosts of ourselves.
"Oh, there's another one there. Should I get it? No."
"Get it, get it, we'll save it."
There are seven bottles of red wine on the belt, two bottles of white. The larger woman in front of me twists her hand through the bars to get that last bottle of four dollar red wine on the rack next to the register.
"I bet some wine connoisseur came in and grabbed it all up!"
They share a laugh. The smaller woman comments on labels and wines I'm already trying to forget. They speak the way I do when I say Charles Shaw rather than Two Buck Chuck, but they're serious. I'm wondering how much they'll drink tonight. I won't be drinking any at all tonight, cause I figure it'd be a bad habit to drink when I don't have work. Feels wrong, wine should be to celebrate, I'll only feel worse. So I stare at my pitiful pile, bread, yogurt, and black beans. I have a five dollar bill, and I'm thrilled I'll have change.
"No, John."
"But shrimp is nasty."
"No, John, we have chicken."
"Can I get some noodles?"
"No, you are not getting one more thing John."
"Mom?"
"No John! Do you know what no means? What does no mean?"
This mother looks dead at me.
"Sorry baby. You'll get yours. Someday. You got some?"
I laugh, madly, too loudly. Starved. "No. No."
She gives a glare. I retreat to my bones, startled. Even the winos in front of me turn their daze at me, the middle of this pathetic tired worn out woman sandwich. We the life givers, none of us the same at all, ghosts of ourselves.
28 August 2006
Buy Me a Ruby
money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ money money money money money money money money money money money money money money money $$$$!^%#&^$@^@%$#^%@$# $$ $$ $$ $$$$$$ money money money money money money money money money money, money.. money.. .. gag ugh cough blahrgg spit choke die
Money. You have it, you want it, you need it, you love it. You do sort of need some of it to be happy, unless your version of happiness is starving to death dirty on the street. Which, I daresay, is no one's version of happiness. My version includes being comfortable, being able to eat, and not going to bed at night unable to shut my eyes with worry. Some people have far grander versions, others have far more simple aspirations, but all are equally as difficult to attain.
I want to be a peace with money. I want to cast my money worries away into the fires of Mordor, never to control me again. I'm still somewhere in Hobbiton though, hitting my head on the tiny doorjams of my own design. I still have my money problems, and may always, it's the cross we poor poor Americans bear. Boo hoo.
All at once I'm bitter and thankful and sarcastic. How is it possible?
I have been "poor" my whole life. Not real poor, not going hungry poor, not third world poor, but it's all comparison, right? So in my private school where everyone had money, I was poor. In my New England college where none of my friends had jobs but magically could do everything they wanted, I was poor. That engaged a tiny amount of bitterness. My upbringing, however, invited far larger amounts of gratefulness for the aforementioned blessings of not REALLY being poor. There's something about the struggle (at that point, my mother's struggle on my behalf) that illuminates greater truths. Before I had complex thoughts, I KNEW that I was enjoying all my toys more than my rich friends. Later, I was savoring my vacations, my paychecks, and my savings accounts like no one else I knew. (I still do this.) It also helped, in school, being smarter than some of those rich kids, because then all bets are off. I win. Library books are free motherfuckers!! Ha ha! So.. why do I still want money?
The truth I have come to discover is money CAN buy happiness, but it doesn't HAVE to. It won't necessarily make you happy, and you can be happy without it. It facilitates happiness. Makes it easier to eat, live, create, but not inherently possible.
I realized yesterday, in this great de-lidding of doves and butterflies and ribbons, I am one of the only people I know who is DOING IT. I am doing it, and by "it" I mean going off into the world on my own- financially independent- and doing what I set out to do. Key words: financially independent. The great revelation came while discussing a friend who is clearly wealthy but refrains from activities for monetary reasons. For some reason it never occurred to me how wealthy she actually is, not only because of her family, but also, she has a great job! I don't fault her for this, or any of the people on the mental list I promptly made, but I do single them out and judge them. In finishing the list it became crystal clear that virtually all of the young ladies and gentlemen I graduated with are financially backed. It's like my eyes went into Twilight Zone spirals and I woke up hours later, feeling reborn. I was also drunk at a street fair in the middle of the day.
Roughly two people I know besides myself would be entirely fucked if the money ran out. Our families wouldn't be able to help us that much, we would never ask, and it's been this way since we left home. Or possibly before. It is these people that are closest to me. It's hard to be fully involved with friends who are experiencing every event in a different way, without the struggle. One my best friends recently said, while discussing the newness of being a real adult, with adult bills and demands, to make money and somehow to feed his soul, "But the struggle is good."
The struggle IS good. I can not imagine life any other way. Maybe I would be happy, in the short run. But in the long run, assuming we all succeed at our individual aims, I will have the satisfaction of knowing the success is mine. All mine. My own. My precious. Read it in my memoirs, bitches.
In the meantime, I will drink two dollar wine with my boyfriend, and be happy.
Money. You have it, you want it, you need it, you love it. You do sort of need some of it to be happy, unless your version of happiness is starving to death dirty on the street. Which, I daresay, is no one's version of happiness. My version includes being comfortable, being able to eat, and not going to bed at night unable to shut my eyes with worry. Some people have far grander versions, others have far more simple aspirations, but all are equally as difficult to attain.
I want to be a peace with money. I want to cast my money worries away into the fires of Mordor, never to control me again. I'm still somewhere in Hobbiton though, hitting my head on the tiny doorjams of my own design. I still have my money problems, and may always, it's the cross we poor poor Americans bear. Boo hoo.
All at once I'm bitter and thankful and sarcastic. How is it possible?
I have been "poor" my whole life. Not real poor, not going hungry poor, not third world poor, but it's all comparison, right? So in my private school where everyone had money, I was poor. In my New England college where none of my friends had jobs but magically could do everything they wanted, I was poor. That engaged a tiny amount of bitterness. My upbringing, however, invited far larger amounts of gratefulness for the aforementioned blessings of not REALLY being poor. There's something about the struggle (at that point, my mother's struggle on my behalf) that illuminates greater truths. Before I had complex thoughts, I KNEW that I was enjoying all my toys more than my rich friends. Later, I was savoring my vacations, my paychecks, and my savings accounts like no one else I knew. (I still do this.) It also helped, in school, being smarter than some of those rich kids, because then all bets are off. I win. Library books are free motherfuckers!! Ha ha! So.. why do I still want money?
The truth I have come to discover is money CAN buy happiness, but it doesn't HAVE to. It won't necessarily make you happy, and you can be happy without it. It facilitates happiness. Makes it easier to eat, live, create, but not inherently possible.
I realized yesterday, in this great de-lidding of doves and butterflies and ribbons, I am one of the only people I know who is DOING IT. I am doing it, and by "it" I mean going off into the world on my own- financially independent- and doing what I set out to do. Key words: financially independent. The great revelation came while discussing a friend who is clearly wealthy but refrains from activities for monetary reasons. For some reason it never occurred to me how wealthy she actually is, not only because of her family, but also, she has a great job! I don't fault her for this, or any of the people on the mental list I promptly made, but I do single them out and judge them. In finishing the list it became crystal clear that virtually all of the young ladies and gentlemen I graduated with are financially backed. It's like my eyes went into Twilight Zone spirals and I woke up hours later, feeling reborn. I was also drunk at a street fair in the middle of the day.
Roughly two people I know besides myself would be entirely fucked if the money ran out. Our families wouldn't be able to help us that much, we would never ask, and it's been this way since we left home. Or possibly before. It is these people that are closest to me. It's hard to be fully involved with friends who are experiencing every event in a different way, without the struggle. One my best friends recently said, while discussing the newness of being a real adult, with adult bills and demands, to make money and somehow to feed his soul, "But the struggle is good."
The struggle IS good. I can not imagine life any other way. Maybe I would be happy, in the short run. But in the long run, assuming we all succeed at our individual aims, I will have the satisfaction of knowing the success is mine. All mine. My own. My precious. Read it in my memoirs, bitches.
In the meantime, I will drink two dollar wine with my boyfriend, and be happy.
25 August 2006
No One Cares About Pitchfork Reviews (But Us)
I read THIS on losanjealous.com:
"On paper, it would have been so easy for you to not like them, another bloghyped Canadian band and another one with “wolf” in the name, at that. The early band pics revealed some irony, a few tatoos and a couple of muschaches. So, right out of the gate, before you even heard a single song, you’re not having it. Then, the whole Modest Mouse connection was not something you were sold on either. Next, this relatively-unknown band wrecks their hotel room at the Queen Mary at ATP like they’re Led fuckin’ Zeppelin. This was the final straw, as you loved the Queen Mary and it’s rich history. No one fucks with the Queen Mary. And so finally, the LP drops and it has many of the same songs from their pair of e.p.s. The camel’s back is broken when it gets the infamous 9.2 score handed out by the Russian judge. Surely the fix was in, and you were having none of it."
My question: WHY were you having none of it.
I am not attacking this article, this site, or this author. It is true, this does reflect what probably happened when Wolf Parade's target audience discovered its music. Jaded indiephiles yawning over Modest Mouse, feigning interest in a boat hotel. I agree with this article, but somehow it seems like they are allowing and encouraging this mindset which I find gross.
What is WITH all the aloof, non-committed cynical snobbery of this music scene. I can't even type a question mark here. I am baffled, period. Why are we immeditely turned off by the things that define us. Are we that stubborn. My message to hipsters: YOU HAVE NOWHERE LEFT TO GO. You are making fun of what you love, shunning good bands because it might be TOO cool to like them, you evade your own scene because clearly you are part of some OTHER scene, some UNbearded UNtattooed UNfashionable scene that lives in a hole, reading dead languages and drinking absynthe, or leading some equally inaccessible lifestyle that no blog could describe.
From time to time I do exactly what I'm describing. I'm wearing one of those caps right now, you know those caps? I listen to this music and I am part of this scene, yet I recently wrote about spotting one B-list actor at a Mountain Goats show, and I may or may not have sneered at aspects of her attire and haircut. Okay, I did. Because certain things are just absurd, and I won't tolerate retarded ensembles under the guise of some alternative style, have some pride!
Look, I may no better than the apathetic slack jaws this article portrays. But even though her clothing was atrocious, I DID embrace and give thanks for the fact that a young actress from the best television series ever to grace Fox came to a FREE show, that she had taste, that there existed this parallel... When I heard Wolf Parade I thought, oh god damn, this is good music. And when I heard Arctic Monkeys, I thought, mmm heard it before, I'll pass. (Well, there might have been a slight fuck this lame shit in there also.) Of course there will always be cheap imitations, in any arena of music, art, literature, etc. But if a band is getting great reviews, and you LIKED the EPs, and you like Modest Mouse, and CLAIM to like music, why not embrace Wolf Parade? Because once you start policing your niche to the point of discrediting it, you have nowhere else to go.
Wasn't that the whole point? That we would have some place to go? What are qualifications of this club?
Let's take a trip to the Boston of five years ago, me at a Milemarker show at TT's, wearing no social uniform: no chucks, no black rubber bracelets, no waxy hair, nada. I believe I had black eyeliner on, as I had done since age 14, but that wasn't getting me far. I showed up with an anticipation for live tunes and left with a new vocab word I have since used to describe the music scene goers in Boston: ttude. The ttude of vicious boys and girls dead set on perserving a culture they created. I used to really hate them.
But at least these scenesters had BALLS. Believe me I have welcomed the evolution of the freak folk, space rock, fusion of music of the last four years(you could argue longer)! I truly like having a community of people who dig Iron and Wine! That's rad! I am simply not willing to stab them in the heart for liking a "trendy" indie rock band, or disliking Sufjan Stevens!
All I see/read/hear about the all encompassing indie rock scene of Los Angeles is wimpy judgement based on fashion and timing. Cause not only do you have NOWHERE TO GO with these snide, seemingly astute rulings- I just want to point out- NO ONE CARES. I don't think you understand what a minority of people listen to this music in America, or the world, no matter how many songs Zach Braff can jam on a movie soundtrack. Our trends are but tributaries off the great river of music! Ask ten people on the street who Joanna Newsom is and do the math.
And doesn't it feel good? It feels good to be in this little collective, like a musical family.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I just assumed back there that you loved music. Maybe I assumed there was a club, when really, we're on our own. But that's not true, is it? You love music and you want to protect it. Take a note from the ttude in Boston and OWN IT. Don't act like you'd stab the members and fans of Wolf Parade in the heart and leave for dead before you'd hear the music.
"On paper, it would have been so easy for you to not like them, another bloghyped Canadian band and another one with “wolf” in the name, at that. The early band pics revealed some irony, a few tatoos and a couple of muschaches. So, right out of the gate, before you even heard a single song, you’re not having it. Then, the whole Modest Mouse connection was not something you were sold on either. Next, this relatively-unknown band wrecks their hotel room at the Queen Mary at ATP like they’re Led fuckin’ Zeppelin. This was the final straw, as you loved the Queen Mary and it’s rich history. No one fucks with the Queen Mary. And so finally, the LP drops and it has many of the same songs from their pair of e.p.s. The camel’s back is broken when it gets the infamous 9.2 score handed out by the Russian judge. Surely the fix was in, and you were having none of it."
My question: WHY were you having none of it.
I am not attacking this article, this site, or this author. It is true, this does reflect what probably happened when Wolf Parade's target audience discovered its music. Jaded indiephiles yawning over Modest Mouse, feigning interest in a boat hotel. I agree with this article, but somehow it seems like they are allowing and encouraging this mindset which I find gross.
What is WITH all the aloof, non-committed cynical snobbery of this music scene. I can't even type a question mark here. I am baffled, period. Why are we immeditely turned off by the things that define us. Are we that stubborn. My message to hipsters: YOU HAVE NOWHERE LEFT TO GO. You are making fun of what you love, shunning good bands because it might be TOO cool to like them, you evade your own scene because clearly you are part of some OTHER scene, some UNbearded UNtattooed UNfashionable scene that lives in a hole, reading dead languages and drinking absynthe, or leading some equally inaccessible lifestyle that no blog could describe.
From time to time I do exactly what I'm describing. I'm wearing one of those caps right now, you know those caps? I listen to this music and I am part of this scene, yet I recently wrote about spotting one B-list actor at a Mountain Goats show, and I may or may not have sneered at aspects of her attire and haircut. Okay, I did. Because certain things are just absurd, and I won't tolerate retarded ensembles under the guise of some alternative style, have some pride!
Look, I may no better than the apathetic slack jaws this article portrays. But even though her clothing was atrocious, I DID embrace and give thanks for the fact that a young actress from the best television series ever to grace Fox came to a FREE show, that she had taste, that there existed this parallel... When I heard Wolf Parade I thought, oh god damn, this is good music. And when I heard Arctic Monkeys, I thought, mmm heard it before, I'll pass. (Well, there might have been a slight fuck this lame shit in there also.) Of course there will always be cheap imitations, in any arena of music, art, literature, etc. But if a band is getting great reviews, and you LIKED the EPs, and you like Modest Mouse, and CLAIM to like music, why not embrace Wolf Parade? Because once you start policing your niche to the point of discrediting it, you have nowhere else to go.
Wasn't that the whole point? That we would have some place to go? What are qualifications of this club?
Let's take a trip to the Boston of five years ago, me at a Milemarker show at TT's, wearing no social uniform: no chucks, no black rubber bracelets, no waxy hair, nada. I believe I had black eyeliner on, as I had done since age 14, but that wasn't getting me far. I showed up with an anticipation for live tunes and left with a new vocab word I have since used to describe the music scene goers in Boston: ttude. The ttude of vicious boys and girls dead set on perserving a culture they created. I used to really hate them.
But at least these scenesters had BALLS. Believe me I have welcomed the evolution of the freak folk, space rock, fusion of music of the last four years(you could argue longer)! I truly like having a community of people who dig Iron and Wine! That's rad! I am simply not willing to stab them in the heart for liking a "trendy" indie rock band, or disliking Sufjan Stevens!
All I see/read/hear about the all encompassing indie rock scene of Los Angeles is wimpy judgement based on fashion and timing. Cause not only do you have NOWHERE TO GO with these snide, seemingly astute rulings- I just want to point out- NO ONE CARES. I don't think you understand what a minority of people listen to this music in America, or the world, no matter how many songs Zach Braff can jam on a movie soundtrack. Our trends are but tributaries off the great river of music! Ask ten people on the street who Joanna Newsom is and do the math.
And doesn't it feel good? It feels good to be in this little collective, like a musical family.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I just assumed back there that you loved music. Maybe I assumed there was a club, when really, we're on our own. But that's not true, is it? You love music and you want to protect it. Take a note from the ttude in Boston and OWN IT. Don't act like you'd stab the members and fans of Wolf Parade in the heart and leave for dead before you'd hear the music.
09 May 2006
Hardcore Hit List
I had forgotten, until last night, just how long it has been since I went to a hardcore show. The Bronx played a free show at the Spaceland last night, the first of their month long Monday night residency there.
After an all-too satisfying dinner at the Thai place next door, I and two others made our way to the show. Unfortunately we didn't miss the opener, a band that I thought was the embodiment of Rockstar Energy drink, all sweaty and synthetic with a gross aftertaste... Then, the Bronx.
They did well to open with their LA song.
I miss my hearing. Those ear hairs will never grow back, but under the submerged fuzziness of the world that I COULD hear, was the warm nostalgic ringing of nights in Boston sans earplugs.
What is it about hardcore? Why do I know a good hardcore band from a bad one? Why is there something overtly homoerotic about every moshpit ever? My mind is all questions, people.
All this queries aside. My real reason for commenting was to talk about Mosh Pit VIPs. Now, I am no expert on hardcore, I admit I have merely dated boys who consistently introduce me to more tunes I enjoy and subsequently take me to shows where I stand on the sides watching, going deaf, loving it. So I get to observe the mosh pit politics and the VIPs.
1. Older Bad Ass. This guy loves hardcore more than the folks of fewer years. His middle name might in fact be Moshpit. He is taller than everyone, but this might be an optical illusion. He has sweat in his blood, tattoos on his ass, and fat encasing every inch of his hardcore loving being. He will put up with NO BULLSHIT in the pit. (At this show, his girlfriend followed him around the moshpit unscathed, fearlessly assured that her Older Bad Ass would keep her safe. She was drinking a beer, she was the eye of storm. It was incredible.)
2. Crazy Fuck. The dude is on drugs. Multiple drugs. He should be dead. But he's too tweaked out to die. He pisses people off. He swings, he misses. He may or may not even know he is at a hardcore show, or in LA, or alive. He definitely has no shirt on.
3. Gang of Five or Six. This collection of music lovers is front and center. They are in a perpetual whirling football huddle, occasionally throwing up a fist or a shaved head. They keep the fire going.
4. Lead singer. If the lead singer is worth his hardcore salt he will join in the mosh pit frequently, and really "get it going".
5. Padded Walls. These guys form the outer edge. They just move people along, protecting people like me.
6. Skinny Virgins. I call anyone in the crowd who clearly didn't know what they were in for a Skinny Virgin. These people are inevitably near the front when the show starts and within seconds are behind the Padded Walls. They had no idea. They might still pretend to be hardcore, but their cover is b-l-o-w-n. If this describes you, don't worry. Even the Older Bad Ass was a Skinny Virgin once. There is still time to get a tooth knocked out, just go home and do some push ups first.
Situation: The stage is a flowering bruise, tunes are pumping. The Lead Singer gets right down in there and the Gang of Five or Six goes nuts. This sends the Crazy Fuck over the edge, an eye pops out, an artery bursts, and just before he does some serious damage, the Older Bad Ass (enemies, bound eternally, surviving only by the other's existence) sends him flying back against the Padded Walls. Beside me, Skinny Virgins shudder almost imperceptibly, and the music pounds.
After an all-too satisfying dinner at the Thai place next door, I and two others made our way to the show. Unfortunately we didn't miss the opener, a band that I thought was the embodiment of Rockstar Energy drink, all sweaty and synthetic with a gross aftertaste... Then, the Bronx.
They did well to open with their LA song.
I miss my hearing. Those ear hairs will never grow back, but under the submerged fuzziness of the world that I COULD hear, was the warm nostalgic ringing of nights in Boston sans earplugs.
What is it about hardcore? Why do I know a good hardcore band from a bad one? Why is there something overtly homoerotic about every moshpit ever? My mind is all questions, people.
All this queries aside. My real reason for commenting was to talk about Mosh Pit VIPs. Now, I am no expert on hardcore, I admit I have merely dated boys who consistently introduce me to more tunes I enjoy and subsequently take me to shows where I stand on the sides watching, going deaf, loving it. So I get to observe the mosh pit politics and the VIPs.
1. Older Bad Ass. This guy loves hardcore more than the folks of fewer years. His middle name might in fact be Moshpit. He is taller than everyone, but this might be an optical illusion. He has sweat in his blood, tattoos on his ass, and fat encasing every inch of his hardcore loving being. He will put up with NO BULLSHIT in the pit. (At this show, his girlfriend followed him around the moshpit unscathed, fearlessly assured that her Older Bad Ass would keep her safe. She was drinking a beer, she was the eye of storm. It was incredible.)
2. Crazy Fuck. The dude is on drugs. Multiple drugs. He should be dead. But he's too tweaked out to die. He pisses people off. He swings, he misses. He may or may not even know he is at a hardcore show, or in LA, or alive. He definitely has no shirt on.
3. Gang of Five or Six. This collection of music lovers is front and center. They are in a perpetual whirling football huddle, occasionally throwing up a fist or a shaved head. They keep the fire going.
4. Lead singer. If the lead singer is worth his hardcore salt he will join in the mosh pit frequently, and really "get it going".
5. Padded Walls. These guys form the outer edge. They just move people along, protecting people like me.
6. Skinny Virgins. I call anyone in the crowd who clearly didn't know what they were in for a Skinny Virgin. These people are inevitably near the front when the show starts and within seconds are behind the Padded Walls. They had no idea. They might still pretend to be hardcore, but their cover is b-l-o-w-n. If this describes you, don't worry. Even the Older Bad Ass was a Skinny Virgin once. There is still time to get a tooth knocked out, just go home and do some push ups first.
Situation: The stage is a flowering bruise, tunes are pumping. The Lead Singer gets right down in there and the Gang of Five or Six goes nuts. This sends the Crazy Fuck over the edge, an eye pops out, an artery bursts, and just before he does some serious damage, the Older Bad Ass (enemies, bound eternally, surviving only by the other's existence) sends him flying back against the Padded Walls. Beside me, Skinny Virgins shudder almost imperceptibly, and the music pounds.
27 April 2006
And Me Without My Sweat Towel!!
Like every American culture slave/addict/robot, I am trying to lose weight. I feed (and feed and consume and waste and feed...) right into it. I will obviously be happier when I lose weight.
I pay a gym to let me run on their machines, lift their weights, and stretch on their glorious mats. I've been running on this elliptical for over thirty minutes, well past my legal gym cardio limit. I'm building up to five miles a day, and apparently it takes a LONG TIME to run five miles. How long? I don't know, I keep slowing down.
A toddler stumbles by, suspended from her mother's hand. Her little brow is furrowed, mouth all open and slobbery. Oh, somebody help her understand, why are these big people running and not going anywhere, leaking out water, and wearing horribly fitted clothes? She is clearly not old enough to be confused by what she sees, and her face is probably screwed up from the general odor of the place.
Far more strange than the truly insane things you see people doing at the gym, are the smells. It's best to breathe through your mouth, but nasal passages left ajar will guide you through a forest of smells. There's all kinds of ghastly body odor, and then there's perfume, lotion, and alcohol being sweated out. I probably smell like hell, I can't remember the last time I washed this hoody, the heavy hoody I purposefully wear to make me sweat MORE.
Does this behavior sound unhealthy? Because "I workout to be healthy, to be in shape, to feel good." Certainly not to be skinny, definitely not to attain a body image I've never had... I would say something here like "fuck los angeles and all these pretty people" but the people aren't that pretty. Or, "fuck the american apparel ads, making every girl out to be starved-like-a-prisoner-of-war-skinny." But this is way older than my stay in LA, this mindset. Way older than my memory of being influenced by ads or my Barbies or whatever else screws up little girls. I can't remember a time I've been happy with my body. I imagine myself in the womb, swimming around in self hatred even before my gender developed. This image makes me laugh, and rationale takes over, thank god. Rationale, or hunger, who knows. I love food. mmmm food. I've come to terms with my body image and I'll keep working out to off set the soy lattes, the burritos, and the sushi, my true LA demons...
I pay a gym to let me run on their machines, lift their weights, and stretch on their glorious mats. I've been running on this elliptical for over thirty minutes, well past my legal gym cardio limit. I'm building up to five miles a day, and apparently it takes a LONG TIME to run five miles. How long? I don't know, I keep slowing down.
A toddler stumbles by, suspended from her mother's hand. Her little brow is furrowed, mouth all open and slobbery. Oh, somebody help her understand, why are these big people running and not going anywhere, leaking out water, and wearing horribly fitted clothes? She is clearly not old enough to be confused by what she sees, and her face is probably screwed up from the general odor of the place.
Far more strange than the truly insane things you see people doing at the gym, are the smells. It's best to breathe through your mouth, but nasal passages left ajar will guide you through a forest of smells. There's all kinds of ghastly body odor, and then there's perfume, lotion, and alcohol being sweated out. I probably smell like hell, I can't remember the last time I washed this hoody, the heavy hoody I purposefully wear to make me sweat MORE.
Does this behavior sound unhealthy? Because "I workout to be healthy, to be in shape, to feel good." Certainly not to be skinny, definitely not to attain a body image I've never had... I would say something here like "fuck los angeles and all these pretty people" but the people aren't that pretty. Or, "fuck the american apparel ads, making every girl out to be starved-like-a-prisoner-of-war-skinny." But this is way older than my stay in LA, this mindset. Way older than my memory of being influenced by ads or my Barbies or whatever else screws up little girls. I can't remember a time I've been happy with my body. I imagine myself in the womb, swimming around in self hatred even before my gender developed. This image makes me laugh, and rationale takes over, thank god. Rationale, or hunger, who knows. I love food. mmmm food. I've come to terms with my body image and I'll keep working out to off set the soy lattes, the burritos, and the sushi, my true LA demons...
Ice Cube gets Steak Sauce, I get a Blog.
It's the fourth or fifth time that morning I swing into the amazon aisles of the Ralph's in Sylmar, CA. I would visit the store many more times during the day, in the same frenzy, buying whatever bizarre item I was sent to retrieve. I had ignored the what-the-hell gaze of the cashier through the separate a.m. purchases of 200 plastic hangers, 3 packs of cigarettes, and an armload of air fresheners. It was the quiet town pronounced curl of her eyebrows and lips when I asked if they sold dry ice that persuaded me to quickly explain that I was working on a film shoot up the road, and I was on a run for last minute buys.
Every film shoot needs a runner, and I'm running. I always knew I could win Supermarket Sweep. This trip is a quest for A1 steak sauce, used in 9 out of 10 steakhouses!, demanded by 1 hip hop artist for his New York steak lunch. A pristine, unopened bottle. I can do that. I take a short cut around the deli and when I pass the fish market, this little girl gets a mix of assuredness and horror as I hear her mother respond, "Of course the fish are dead!"
The sauce inches down the black belt, and when the cashier sees my latest treasure hunt, she gives me a knowing smile. Now we're friends, we have this understanding, this implied wink between us. We notice that we both bleach our hair, we both wear silver jewelry, we both chew gum! A world of connection has just been been born in the universe! And if she would just move a little faster, I could get Ice Cube his steak sauce before the director cuts for lunch!
Which, miraculously, I do. And by the end of the day, his enormous bodyguard will apologize for giving me such a hard time. It is obvious that the fish are dead? I really don't know anymore. I've seen so many absolutely unreal things happen in (and around) Los Angeles, that I'm through assuming. And as a resolve, I've started this here blog, all free and public, to document and share my "partially unemployed and considerably young" account of my second year in LA. I think it's important now, to document, to better my voice, and to hopefully entertain.
I waded through the first year. All my observations were skewed on everything I hated about LA, everything that sets it apart from other cities, especially the east coast skylines I grew up in. There's no place to walk here, where's the public garden, where's a fucking dunkin donuts, and why do i feel like an alien in every bar??? That was a sample of my general feelings toward this vast expanse: a longing for familiarity and a confused estrangement. And not that one year is a long time, but it's a long long time, isn't it? Especially for the recently graduated artist. This is me. I quit my steady assistant job last month, I'm working freelance when I can find gigs. I'm writing a new script. I'm trying to find a room mate after my best friend moved to San Francisco quite unexpectedly. I'm running out of money and gas is no less than $3.15 a gallon. This is where I'm starting, let's see where it goes...
Every film shoot needs a runner, and I'm running. I always knew I could win Supermarket Sweep. This trip is a quest for A1 steak sauce, used in 9 out of 10 steakhouses!, demanded by 1 hip hop artist for his New York steak lunch. A pristine, unopened bottle. I can do that. I take a short cut around the deli and when I pass the fish market, this little girl gets a mix of assuredness and horror as I hear her mother respond, "Of course the fish are dead!"
The sauce inches down the black belt, and when the cashier sees my latest treasure hunt, she gives me a knowing smile. Now we're friends, we have this understanding, this implied wink between us. We notice that we both bleach our hair, we both wear silver jewelry, we both chew gum! A world of connection has just been been born in the universe! And if she would just move a little faster, I could get Ice Cube his steak sauce before the director cuts for lunch!
Which, miraculously, I do. And by the end of the day, his enormous bodyguard will apologize for giving me such a hard time. It is obvious that the fish are dead? I really don't know anymore. I've seen so many absolutely unreal things happen in (and around) Los Angeles, that I'm through assuming. And as a resolve, I've started this here blog, all free and public, to document and share my "partially unemployed and considerably young" account of my second year in LA. I think it's important now, to document, to better my voice, and to hopefully entertain.
I waded through the first year. All my observations were skewed on everything I hated about LA, everything that sets it apart from other cities, especially the east coast skylines I grew up in. There's no place to walk here, where's the public garden, where's a fucking dunkin donuts, and why do i feel like an alien in every bar??? That was a sample of my general feelings toward this vast expanse: a longing for familiarity and a confused estrangement. And not that one year is a long time, but it's a long long time, isn't it? Especially for the recently graduated artist. This is me. I quit my steady assistant job last month, I'm working freelance when I can find gigs. I'm writing a new script. I'm trying to find a room mate after my best friend moved to San Francisco quite unexpectedly. I'm running out of money and gas is no less than $3.15 a gallon. This is where I'm starting, let's see where it goes...
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