Spinning Around
It was either my jaded self or the fact that I was exhausted and coming down with a cold that made me indifferent to the sight of Sean Penn and Owen Wilson sitting at a table behind me at the wrap party for "You, Me and Dupree," the Universal flick my writing partner worked on as a script coordinator (the girl got to stay in Hawaii for three weeks - hate her).
The movie seems to be Universal’s attempt to repeat the success of "Wedding Crashers." It’s due in theaters this summer and stars Owen, Matt Dillon, Kate Hudson, and Michael Douglas. I have no clue what Sean was doing at the party. Perhaps he and Mr. Wilson are BFFs.
Whatever healthy-eating resolutions I made this year were checked with the bouncer at the door because I went to town on the shrimp cocktail and dessert platters. Before you could say "bulimia of Lohan proportions," Matt Dillon walked by, looking angry as usual. Apparently the crew had a lot to say about him, and it was all hysterically depicted in the mock "horror" trailer they edited for the occasion.
Jen did her best to introduce me to every producer, assistant director, and coordinator there was while pointing out who had read and loved the script we wrote. By 10:30, I was ready to head home and pass out.
I’ve been back in L.A. for almost two weeks now, and half of that time was slept in my own bed. Another housesitting gig for Jack had occupied most of my time while back in town. Operation Holiday Recuperation has been in full force.
New York was just as I had left it a year ago. Saw family I hadn’t seen in over a year. Felt much older after seeing my cousins hit growth spurts and share the same height as me. Got drenched on a rainy Christmas. Met friends for dinner and drinks in both Boston and Manhattan. And was asked for the umpteenth time, "How do you like L.A.?"
My snowy New Year’s Eve was spent at a house party with a large number of strangers. My friend Jenn invited me to ring in 2006 with some of her friends in Allston, just outside Boston. Beer pong? Check. Keg? Check. Mellow boy rock? You betcha. The hosts went by the names of Marty, Justin, and Matt.
After realizing what a tasty combo cherry vodka and Coke make, I noticed that some the partygoers were growing tired listening to the umpteenth Death Cab/Beck/Sublime track blare throughout the house. Some lightning needed to strike. Some energy needed to boost. Some booty needed to shake. I turned to Jenn who gave me the nod to break out my secret weapon: my iPod. I plugged into the stereo system, found my playlist, and let the music shuffle itself for the dance-starved party posse. I sat there on a stool in the living room, cranking out a little Missy Elliot, giving them a dash of Black Eyed Peas, and sprinkling some Basement Jaxx on top of it. Not to toot my own horn (oh, who am I kidding?), but during those two musical hours several people approached me to compliment my spinning abilities. One girl, visiting from Vermont, begged me to go back to her hometown and play one of the local bars.
"You’re an awesome DJ!"
"I know, right?"
It has recently become a fantasy job of mine to be a deejay at a small dive bar that just borders on hipster cool. I’d know exactly what the people would want to hear. I’d thrown in the popular stuff, spin a few random oldies, and release a couple of obscure numbers they would grow to love. Just like Javier, the DJ I met over at Posh in Hell’s Kitchen, I’d bring aural pleasure to those in need of some stimulation. It would be an awesome gig, playing the tunes I want, guaranteeing everyone a groovy time.
My love affair with my iPod has soared to new heights. On the way to work this morning, I activated the shuffle mode, and it knew exactly what tunes I wanted to hear. First, it treated me to a little Level 42 with "Something About You," then a definitive Hiko-pleaser, Tears for Fears’ "Everybody Wants to Rule the World." It was just what I needed to help me forget the sandpapering of my esophagus I like to call a sore throat.
It was at that moment I realized I had missed my car. I had missed my commute down pot-hole-prone La Cienega. I had missed the obnoxious fashion/movie billboards that flashed at every corner. I was…home.
For as long as I can fathom, the debate between why it’s great to live in L.A. or New York City has reared its well-coifed head in dinner parties, watercooler chats, hip-hop singles, cell phone conversations, and e-mail rants/blogs such as this one.
I, for one, have had it with East Coasters dismissing Los Angeles as an overly sunny mecca populated by plastic pod people. I have entered my fourth (!) year living in the City of Angels, and though I have experienced an occasional "poser moment" every now and then, I don’t let them tarnish my image of L.A. as a great place to live.
Disclaimer: Please don’t mistake me for opening a can of hateration on New York. It will always have a special, rent-controlled place in my heart.
I’ve been meaning to discuss this topic for the past month or two, and thanks to my friend David, who was recently interviewed by New York Magazine on reasons why to love NYC, I have been inspired to prepare a defense for a city in which I have comfortably settled.
But you’ve heard me go on about L.A., so why bother you again with details about scenic drives, fashionable eateries, multicultural neighborhoods, and the camaraderie formed by my fellow transplanted East Coast brethren? If you want your own personalized L.A. Cityguide, I’ll be happy to respond to your requests at a later date and time.
Right now, I’m in search for some aspirin to stop the jackhammer that won’t quit in my head while my boss preps for his on-air interview with Terry Gross on NPR. This is only one of the dozens of interviews Jack has had to give in the past few weeks. Oh, how we love responding to the ridiculous controversy that’s been surrounding "The Book of Daniel." God forbid you depict a minister and his family going through real problems on TV. Heads will spin at the silliest things. I’m sure the American Family Association and various Christian coalitions will remain quiet when Eva Longoria gets all Krystle Carrington on that hot Catholic nun on Sunday’s episode of "Desperate Housewives" but will cause an uproar when Aidan Quinn counsels a gay mobster this Friday night. If you can’t go after the popular powerhouse, attack the vulnerable newbie.
Thank you to everyone who tuned into the two-hour premiere. I can only tell you it gets juicier. The next three episodes are even better, and the finale has a nifty plot twist. If you haven’t gotten a Season Pass on your TiVo, do it now…or just cancel your plans for the next several Friday nights.
- H.P.M.
