N.Y. Boy in L.A.

When I see the amount of people enjoying the sun, sitting on the patios of all the brunch places and coffeehouses in L.A., on a WEDNESDAY, I ask myself, "Why aren’t they at work? Shouldn’t they be slaving away under harsh flourescent lighting, watching the clock slowly tick away while dying a little inside?"

I then remind myself: This is L.A. Most of them are unemployed. Some of them are in between jobs. Several are just grabbing some java before heading off to that audition for the bit part as Anemic Patient #2 on "Grey’s Anatomy." Few consider themselves writers, typing away on laptops, fingers furiously dashing through specs and manuscripts that will be repeatedly rejected and thrown in recycle bins across the agency circuit.

Another reminder hits me: I am one of them…well, for now.

It’s time to hit up old connections, and in this town, we all know how many you need. As I drove to Jenn’s apartment for dinner on Singles Awareness Day (we were planning to hit the bar at Birds with friends for an Anti-Valentine’s Day party), I thought about all the people I know in this crazy city and how ridiculously related we are to one another.

Break out the charts and diagrams…no, seriously:

I plan to have coffee with Jay, who knows my friend Rachael, who knows Zadoc, who works at Paradigm with Ruchie, who’s friends with my old Venice roommate, Marissa, who knew that guy who guest-starred on "Battlestar Galactica," which is a favorite show of Drew’s, a "Book of Daniel" staff writer who knows Flody, one of our executive producers, who knows Zadoc, who’s roommates with Jeff, who went to BU and knows Chris, who knows Jason, who worked with me at Carsey-Werner and knows another Chris, whom I bump into every time I’m out with Karim, who used to intern at Instinct Magazine, where he met Doug, who works with Robbie, who used to work with Swaga, who used to work with me on "Knock First," where we knew Jess, who’s dating Zaynah, who went to BU and now lives in the Bay Area, where I visited Erica, who is becoming good friends with my writing partner, Jenn, who knows Briana, who got me the job with Jack, who used to work with Shawn, who works on "Girlfriends," the same sitcom as Reema, who went to BU and knows Tyson, who’s friends with Matthew, who used to intern on the same lot where I worked for Carsey-Werner and frequently bumped into Rachel F, who’s friends with Aimee, who lives with Casey, who works at G4 in the same building where I temped at Power Entertainment, thanks to Josalynn, who went to college with Paul, who worked on "Grounded for Life" with Deborah, who attended UCSB with another Rachael, who’s lives with Mariya, who dated Adam, who played drums in a band with the brother of Christopher, who is now married to Alicia Silverstone, who has a personal assistant, Molly, who knows Jessica, who knows an actor I worked with at BU, Ethan, who shared a class with Stephanie, who invited me tonight to her in-the-hills birthday party at the house owned by the brother of her boyfriend, David, who’s an actor on "CSI"…

Believe it or not, I could continue, but my eyes are hurting from staring at the screen and making sure my facts are straight.

I had my second interview with Anonymous Content last Friday. The head of production, who interviewed me the Friday before, kept me in their Culver City offices, allowing me to meet all of the executive producers and coordinators. Hands were shaken, questions were repeated, compliments were given to my resume, and one exec told me she was "rooting for me" as I walked out. How’s that for keeping my hopes up?

Back to Valentine’s Day: The night was spent drinking some hard cider at Birds, which is gradually becoming our L.A. equivalent to Central Perk, a place to randomly drop in, meet friends, grab a drink, and people watch along Franklin Avenue.

Jenn was a woman on a mission. She was determined to make out with at least one random stranger before heading back to the apartment. Said stranger came in the form of a slightly intoxicated, Red Sox cap-wearing Masshole who was dumber than Styrofoam. Jenn brought him over to us to do a quick intro. Here’s what happened when Red Sox Dude learned my name:

Dude: "Hiko? Is that Japanese?"
Me: "Yes, it is."
Dude: "Cool. I have a stepmother from Japan. I have some step-relatives over in Osaka…or is it Masaka…"
Me: "Oh really?"
Dude: "I have a cousin named Kinko."
Me: "Kinko? Like the copy shop?"
Dude: "What?"
Me: "Kinko’s?"
Dude: "I think her name’s Ginko."
Me: "Like Ginko Biloba?"
Dude: "What’s that?"

Jenn had to stifle her laughter. Drunkenness and natural-born stupidity should not mix.

Feb. 18, 2006:
I simultaneously update my profile on MySpace and finish this chapter at Kathleen’s apartment while "Monster-in-Law" plays in the background (Jane Fonda just bitchslapped J.Lo), losing track of time and remembering I have a karaoke party to get to in Koreatown. I just downed a glass a wine, turned down an offer to work the Governor’s Ball after the Oscars (I’m sure it’ll be a Brokebactacular night), and I am starting to brainstorm my next doozy of a chapter-blog-rant-word vomit-you-name-it.

Feb. 21, 2006:
I have been offered a job (paperwork, parking pass, handshakes and all!) on a new NBC sitcom pilot…as an office PA. Yeah, um…no. I could swallow my pride, take the position and sink back down to the level from which I ascended last year, but mutant monkeys could fly out my butt and take up residence in Compton too.

Feb. 24, 2006:
Alas, I received the bad news from my Anonymous Content contact: I was one of the final three "strong candidates" they didn’t hire. Pass the Godiva truffles.

I finish another week of aimlessness and self-evaluation. Thank you to the staff of Elixir on Melrose for brewing those herbal teas and providing a comfortable Zen setting to sit back and enjoy my latest paperback novel. Thank you, Santa Monica Library, for allowing me to type away my thoughts in your newly renovated, state-of-the-art computer facility. And thank you to my incalculable number of peeps-comrades-connections for the job listings, the updates, and the heads-ups. Without you, I would not have this large pool of support and kindness to jump into.

9 days til the Red Carpet…

H.P.M.

What a shame.

After watching the final episode of "The Book of Daniel," all I can think about is how it’s so unjust that no one will ever see such a fantastic piece of work be broadcast. And I’m not biased. The final two episodes are two great pieces of television. Our consulting producer, the fabulous Dava Savel, came up with a great analogy: "The Book of Daniel" is a 6-hour independent movie we made for a small audience who will go on to tell others about its magnificence. As she made this observation on the couch at Jack’s pot-luck finale party last Thursday night, the rest of us nodded in agreement while enjoying her chocolate-covere strawberries.

The blame for the show’s demise falls everywhere. The bigotry and narrow-mindedness of the religious and family coalitions. The scared advertisers who were bullied by those manipulative moralists. That death-sentence of a time slot…

It was great to see all the writers again. And finally, after being Jack’s eyes and ears in L.A. while the show went on in New York, I had the opportunity to meet some of the actors. Here’s what went down:

While passing on my carrot cake and chocolate chip cookies to Jack, Christian Campbell greets me in the foyer ("Don’t I know you?" he asks), offering me a Caesar, a special alcoholic concocton he and his actress girlfriend, Nikki, were making at the bar. I follow him into the media room and spot a familiar face, Wilson Cruz (Ricky from the definitive portrait of 90s teen angst, "My So-Called Life"). Wilson and I had met before at a mutual friend’s birthday party in Los Feliz.

"This is Hiko," Christian announces. "Jack’s assistant."

"I know you," Wilson says, studying my eyes, hoping for a name to pop out of his mental database.

"Herson’s birthday. Fall 2004."

"Herson! Yes. We dated for, like, five seconds."

"I’m Hiko."

"Good to see you." Firm handshake.

I then remember we had met somewhere else (a bar, a magazine party, a mixer, what?), but it doesn’t matter now. There are a million situations like these in L.A. where you’ll meet an actor, chat it up with the necessary bullshit, and move on to the next cocktail carry-on like nothing happened…only to find yourself reacquainting yourself with the same actor a year later at another function. Meanwhile, Christian’s spunky blond significant other, Nikki, quickly gives me the same reaction.

"I know you, too!"

"You were at Herson’s birthday party, I think," I tell her. I’m pretty sure I saw her there.

I do remember her. I didn’t know she was Christian’s GF. After establishing that I have the most familiar face in Greater Los Angeles, we focus on the drinks. I pass on a cocktail (I’m not planning to drink tonight), and situate myself among the tantalizing threesome. It turns out Ricky, sorry…I mean, Wilson, was the one who brought Christian and Nikki together. The three of them had been on tour doing a musical or a play (the name and category elude me) three years ago, and Nikki had confessed her crush on Christian to Wilson, who forced her to make the first move. Yada, yada, yada, it worked, and here we are.

The doorbell rings. Ivan Shaw (Adam on the show) has showed up with three pizzas. Christian brings him to the bar.

"Hey Hiko," Ivan says, offering a what-up handshuffle. He remembers me from lunch after the Television Critics Association convention at the Beverly Hilton last August. We sat next to each other and ordered the salmon caesar salad. A flicker of flattery passes.

"You’ve met a friend of mine," I tell him. This is true. Kathleen had met Ivan at a party several weeks ago. She e-mailed me the jpeg as proof. "She told me she met you at this party?"

Ivan nods. "Yeah. I forgot her name though."

"Kathleen."

"Yeah."

That’s about it. I was actually more excited to see the other writers and our script coordinator, Tamara, who shared an office with me for five glorious months.

Noodle kugel. Spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread. Pine nut salad with chicken. Shrimp gumbo. Chicken fingers. Cheese quesadillas. Cheese and fruit platter…all the "crucifixin’s" to make a South Beach dieter spontaneously combust. I didn’t dare go for seconds. We ate and chatted, catching up on who’s doing what project, who has a deal at a cable network, and who has absolutely nothing lined up after all of this is kaput.

It was a class reunion without the graduation. A family reunion without the relatives.

"We have a clinger…"

It’s hard to let go of what has been the best work experience I’ve had thus far. The people were awesome. The pay was better than previous jobs. And the perks, of course, were something out of "The Devil Wears Prada." As I write this, the final chapter sent from my barren office on La Brea (the computer guys are about to arrive and take away my precious), I hope to hold on to the few connections I’ve made here (I just sent Dava a copy of my pilot script to see what feedback she can dish out).

"Next stop…who knows?"

It’s resume time once again. As an older and wiser Angeleno, I’ve come to terms with the fact that this is how the business works. Call it fickle (Many of you did so when I broke the sad news). Call it crazy. But you can’t say it doesn’t keep you on your toes.

There’s nothing like an industry interview. Half of them are usually outside the conference rooms and conducted over milky lattes and scones. Questions about the candidate’s strengths and weaknesses are seldom brought up. Instead, one’s potential boss likes to know what movies you enjoyed last year and what TV shows you TiVo every week. They want to see how immersed you are in the biz, how aware you are of what’s out there and what’s coming.

Last Friday morning I had my second interview with the CEO of Flame Television ("South Beach," "Faceless") at the Starbucks on the corner of Sunset and La Brea. I’m not holding my breath; they haven’t called back. Instead, I’ll focus my energy on the interview I have tomorrow morning with a woman at Anonymous Content, a production/management company that specializes in music videos and commercials. I’m squeezing in the appointment before I drive up to San Francisco to visit some friends and to simply get out of town so I can, in this natural course of events, mentally readjust myself.

And so, we have another frustrating farewell.

Goodbye desk. Goodbye window that looks out on to the cityscape. Goodbye piece-of-crap phone with your cord that always got tangled up in everything. Goodbye.

Hoping not to gorge myself with a box of Valentine chocolates next week,
H.P.M.