N.Y. Boy in L.A.

“Don’t you know the finest things in the world are written on an empty stomach?”
             - “Sunset Boulevard”

May 2, 2005…

The Young Hollywood Awards. Again. Why, oh, why?

Lindsay Lohan: blond (someone tell her that cokewhore chic is so 2001).

Marcia Cross: stunning.

Eva Longoria: teeny (girl is a size 0).

Jesse Metcalfe was a walking, young H’wood cliché (blazer, jeans, smirk and all). Ann-Margaret looked…old (she was getting a trailblazer award).  Dennis Quaid brushed my shoulder. Chris Evans brought his posse from Boston. Gwen Stefani showed up without Gavin. Aisha Tyler was our host for a third time, but it wasn’t the charm; her witty retorts while introducing ingénues and boyish assholes were sounding forced and contrived.

And me? Frankly, I was bored. As I sat in my balcony seat, watching Lindsay bullshit us about her idol, Ms. Margaret, I realized how I am over this annual ass-kissing spectacle. Yes, the drinks are free. Yes, you feel pretty. But I should’ve known from the drab gift bags (Carmen Electra’s Strippercise DVDs?) that this was going to be a dull occasion. I didn’t even stay for the after-party on the roof of the Music Box Theater. I ran to my car, jetted over to Kathleen’s, and caught the latest “Desperate Housewives” and “Grey’s Anatomy.” Done. Over. I promise you won’t get another chapter filled with such drivel.

May 12, 2005…

My black Michael Simmons loafers were sliding across the floor as I took an inventory of the buffet behind the ice-sculpted Belvedere vodka bar. I then realized I shouldn’t have stopped at that film festival barbeque in West Hollywood for a cheeseburger.  Wookies and Storm Troopers were posing with fanboys in Kodak moments from which the geekiest of sci-fi geeks would spontaneously combust. Yoda holograms danced from the balconies of the museum courtyard. A nearby orchestra was playing the “Star Wars” theme (this being the “Episode III” premiere after-party and all).

Scratching the purple VIP bracelet on my wrist, I swooped into the buffet line of guests and immediately felt my heart leap into my larynx. Standing before me was J.J. Abrams, the producer/writer/director/all-around genius whose walked-upon ground I worship.

“JJ?” I said in a tone implying that we were college pals reuniting under random circumstances.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I saw you on the ‘Lost’ discussion panel at the DGA back in March.”
“Oh really?”
“It was a great panel.”
“Yeah, it totally was. I love doing those things.”
“What did you think of the movie?” I asked, deciding right there that I would offer a faux review of my own since I missed the actual premiere (got out of work late).
JJ tried to be nice about it: “It was alright. Very noisy.”
Just as I expected.

Our connection was lost once the line moved past the prime rib and potatoes. People were hungry. I spent the next ten minutes sweating under a heatlamp, downing a cosmo, and making small talk with acquaintances I had bumped into by the goodie bag tables. God, it was sweltering.

That was Week One of my funemployment.

But before I continue, a backstory: After “Peep Show” wrapped up at the end of April, I got a gig on an MTV show, produced by the same folks who did “Knock First,” the home design show on which I assisted in the fall. I didn’t have a good feeling about it; I was done with the PA stuff. No longer would I worry about what specific brand of trail mix to buy for the line producer. My uneasiness was solidified when, on the third day of work, all of us learned that MTV was forcing us on hiatus, putting a halt to all production. I took it as a very well-disguised blessing. Next? Assisting a casting director friend for a Pedigree dog food commercial. Four days of playing with dogs and their owners, getting drool on my Jansport backpack.

May 28, 2005

Brunch at Toast. Haven’t been there in a while. Spotted Adam Levine with some of his Maroon 5 mates. Coolness.

June 7, 2005

The one-hour pilot I had been working on with my writing partner? Done.

My pink card at the Coffee Bean? Completely hole-punched.

Calories burned at the gym on Sunday morning? 620.

My dinner last night? Ramen and a bag of Trader Joe cashews.

June 8, 2005…

Gig of the moment: filling in for a friend from “Knock First,” doing admin stuff for the producer we used to work for. She started her own company with her partner. Right now they’re in post, working on a behind-the-scenes special for New York Fashion Week. I sit here, oblivious to the sunshine outside, my vision slowly failing in this windowless office. I have become something I have dreaded: a freelancer. The Big F.

And I’m okay with it. For now. I make my own time. I can catch up on summer reading. I can start on another script. I am just one of the thousands of F-ers in this town, caffeinating themselves at the local Starbucks, lunching with fellow unemployed friends, and, just like those dudes on the shores of Santa Monica, waiting for a good wave to pick them up and carry them far.

Happy 3-Year Anniversary to me.

August. What is it good for?

During what seems to be the suckiest summer movie season in memory I have found solace in TiVoed episodes of USA’s "The 4400," SciFi’s "Battlestar Galactica," and VH1’s "Kept." My cinematic experiences haven’t been too memorable at the theaters in the past three months. And I don’t think I’m the only one out there. "Bewitched"? Didn’t bother. "The Island"? Voted off. "Stealth"? Big, um, bomb. On any given hot day all you had to do was look up at the marquee and spot a lame remake (or three) "now playing."

"The Dukes of Hazzard."
"The Honeymooners."
"The Bad News Bears."
"Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" (actually, not lame).
"War of the Worlds" (definitely not lame…well, there was that ending).
…and it goes on.

No wonder box-office receipts and theater attendance are down this year.  Finally, America seems to be boycotting the Hollywooden crapola studios have been pouring into the overly air-conditioned megaplexes.

And it’s not like I’m succumbing to film-snobdom. I just happened to enjoy smaller, lesser-known films this season, like…"Heights" (Glenn Close…wow), "Mysterious Skin" (disturbing yet poignant), and "Happy Endings" (not perfect, but who knew Tom Arnold could actually…act?) And the only blockbusters worthy of the title were the aforementioned "War of the Worlds" and "Batman Begins."
"Wedding Crashers"? I just have to say: thank God someone made an unabashedly R-rated adult comedy. Enough with this PG-13 poop! As for the rest of the summer, the only flick I have a remote interest in seeing is "Red Eye," directed by Wes Craven and starring hottest-property-in-town Rachel McAdams (how can you NOT love her?). And don’t forget "March of the Penguins." I’ve been hearing critiques of the "I laughed, I cried, I loved it" variety everywhere I go.

The music of Summer ‘05 wasn’t very memorable either. Rihanna’s "Pon de Replay"? Very catchy and ass-shake-inducing, but very disposable. 50 Cent’s "Just a Lil Bit"? Criminal. D.H.T.’s cover of Heart’s "Listen to Your Heart"? Weak. Backstreet Boys’ album "Never Gone"? Sounds neutered.

My summer picks? Thought you’d never ask…

"Ashes" by Embrace - An anthemic British rock ditty that will have your heart soaring.

"Cool" by Gwen Stefani - Breezy 80s pop to get through those dog days.

"Chariot" by Gavin DeGraw - Soulful and transcendent. The Zach Braff-directed video is self-mockingly cute too.

"Don’t Cha" by the Pussycat Dolls - trash, yes. Resistible, no.

As for the jobby job-job? I am CC-ed on memos. I get to listen in on conference calls with the network. I get lunch brought to me. It’s nice.

Despite the lackluster entertainment of this steamy season, I shall close summer on a pretty positive note. For instance, last weekend: 3 birthday parties…

The first one was at a bar called The Velvet Margarita, teeming with tragically typical Hollywood trash. After telling the bouncer I was with the Radosh birthday party (my roommate), I walked through the padded door and past a velvet curtain, entering an eclectically designed bar. We jetted past the bar over which hung two large flat panel televisions playing Elvis movies. The outdoor back patio (it was an alley, really) was hopping with smokers, bad dancers, and a DJ who couldn’t play a record without it skipping over already confusing lyrics and beats. My pina colada was very creamy, and my stomach unleashed a vengeance I knew was inevitable.

Party #2 had a pool. It was a total Valley party, beer pong and all, located in the heart of Burbank. The house was frat boy chic — an ungodly filthy rug, two sofas that could’ve been picked up at the intersection of Derelict Drive and Bum Boulevard, a random hole in the wall (obviously punched in during a past debaucherous kegger), and an entertainment unit boasting all of the videogame systems and electronic toys all boys need for their dude dwellings. Ironically, the one clean-looking place was the bathroom, where the only filth you could find was in the pages of the FHMs and Maxims stacked on the toilet bowl. Needless to say, my posse and I did not partake in any swimming or pong. A grilled cheeseburger was all I needed.

In between the second and third party was a stop at a house in the hills for the GLAAD Volunteer Appreciation Party. I was not on the list; consider me a crasher. I let my friend Swaga do all the talking. Munch on some Mexican cuisine. Enter a raffle for an iPod Shuffle. Gulp down two Absoluts by the pool. And we’re done…Next!

The final stop was at my friend Pearl’s duplex for her birthday soiree. A DJ took up shop in the living room, but most of the guests gathered in the concrete backyard, taking turns on the hammock and on the bong that was made out of an Arrowhead water bottle. Tennis starlet Venus Williams made a cameo, but she was soon kicked out by the birthday girl for stirring up some drama; I’m not sure what exactly happened because I was falling asleep in said hammock and eavesdropping on nearby chatter (it’s what we writers do: observe). I ended up walking back to my car, which was 2 blocks away (damn you, parking restrictions!), and sliding into bed before the clock struck 2am.

Last night: An Sports Issue party and fall fashion show with 300+ guests at the W hotel, hosted by Instinct magazine, Land Rover, and Skyy Vodka. No celeb sightings to report. No drama to be had. It was just me, bumping into a poopload of acquaintances and friends of friends, gabbing about the lack of hors doeuvers, the insane price of the latest "Six Feet Under" DVD, and Madonna’s recent horseback-riding accident. The open bar did nothing for my appetite; I rushed straight from work without dinner. However, I was surprisingly functional during the event. Nevertheless, a little midnight session with friends at the Westwood Denny’s proved to be divine. Props to Wagner, our odd little waiter who didn’t seem to mind our excessive side orders of ranch dressing.

And so concludes a summer that could have used a little more sizzle. A summer that could have delivered a little more punch. A summer that could have been a little more than…eh.

Bring on the new TV season. Bring on the Oscar contenders. Bring on the foliage (in L.A. that means the fall colors at the Beverly Center).

I’ll be here waiting.

"Los Angeles is a paradise wasteland."
                                                 — me

The least photogenic city, yet it is the most photographed. A city that is full of both hope and hunger. Gorgeous palms frame boulevards full of ghetto mini-marts and hollowed buildings from a decade long dead. Pretentious pretty people hardly mix with the indie-inclined artsies, but there is a shade of gray one may discover on a late night down in Silverlake, where martinis and Miller Lights stand side by side on the same bar and Gucci and Target color coordinate in a non-discriminatory display of fashion.

When you’re up, you can’t help but think of the possibilities and good fortune that may come your way.

When you’re down, you question your potential and feel suffocated by all the limits you face.

We’re a bunch or artists in a ridiculously spread-out metropolis, dying day by day to express what we want people to experience. Truman Capote was brilliant when he said an artist dies a little every time he creates a new piece of work. There’s always the question, "What’s next?" that follows the completion of a great product. And the artist must muster up the stamina to create more, entetaining a constantly hungry audience, putting all he can into his project, leaving a part of his life behind to shrivel up and perish. He gives and gives, and that is energy questionably well-spent…

I sit here in the cool comforts of San Sebastian, the gorgeous palazzo owned by my boss, the wonderful Mr. Jack Kenny. I sit in this office, several feet away from the door that separates me and the outdoor cabana, where all nine writers (and co-producers) brainstorm and blog their way through the twelve episodes they need to create. The pool glistens in the sun. The heat is insane. Empty paper cups from rival coffeehouses litter the large table. If I lean back in my chair and look out the bay windows I can be greeted by the hazed-out skyline of downtown L.A.

These guys sitting outside with my boss are marinating in "What’s next?" Each one of them is excited at the prospect of enjoying a long, successful run on this NBC drama. We all believe in it. I can honestly say I would watch this show. Naturally, there will be comparisons ("It’s the next ‘Six Feet Under’ or ‘Desperate Housewives’…"), but it is truly an original vision, a twisted take on the family drama. It’s safe to say: "Joan of Arcadia" or "7th Heaven" this ain’t.

Last Friday the studio threw a "greenlight meeting" for us. In truth, it was more like a welcome reception, a chance for the studio execs to meet and greet us between sips of champagne and bites of chocolate-covered strawberries. The gals over in publicity were all smiles, excited for the show. They learned my name quickly, knowing that we were going to be developing a phone rapport in the months to come. Could there have been some sucking-up as well, being that I am the assistant to the creator of a potentially big hit? Nah. Who am I to let that get to my head?

Monday was an NBC press conference held at the Beverly Hilton. Jack encouraged the writers to come and listen to him and the cast answer questions on the panel in one of the ballrooms. Critics were spitting out everything they could, and Jack reciprocated with some great replies. A pleasant surprise was hearing Ellen Burstyn talk about her character’s relationship with Aidan Quinn’s (she plays Bishop Beatrice Congreve). The dame is intelligent, very well-spoken. I later had the awesome chance to be introduced to her. Alas, Aidan Quinn and his TV wife, Susannah Thompson (from "Once & Again"…remember her?), quickly disappeared, probably at the request of their respectively pushy managers.

Today is the last day we will all work from Jack’s home in the Los Feliz hills. Tomorrow we finally move into our office space over on La Brea. I let out a "Whew!" when I learned that we weren’t going to be on the Universal lot; that commute would have been a bitch. I look forward to working in a more stable atmosphere, having my own desk (and office), getting ecstatic over the idea of fresh office supplies (c’mon, who doesn’t love fresh stationary?).

The caffeine is now wearing off. I must avoid the box of bagels and pastries in the kitchen. I have learned my lesson from working on other production jobs: BAGELS + SWEETS = DOOM. Plus, I now have that gym membership that can curb my cravings. Jack is all about health food anyway. Our kitchen in the offices will not tolerate chocolate or any other hazardous edibles. The writers agree. We refuse to plump up to the point where we won’t able to fit two people in the elevator. Death to calories!

Thus, my life right now. Not quite "down," I must say. It can only get busier from this point on.

Did I mention the view is beautiful from here as well?

Love to all,
Hiko