N.Y. Boy in L.A.

My senior year at the School of Los Angeles Living is complete. Has it really been four years since I arrived at the gates of S.L.L.L.?

It’s funny how each year has brought me to new realizations.

After Year One, I thought I knew the city like the back of my hand. I had a somewhat firm grasp on the hotspots. Still, I was a speck of dust on the cogs of the wheels of the enormous machine that is The Industry.

When Year Two passed, I thought I had become a full-fledged, jaded Angeleno. I had learned what Hipster Irony was: what isn’t "in" is in fact "in." Just like a sophomore, I was a "wise fool." I thought I could shell out some advice to the newbies who were arriving in town, green like I was when I stepped off that American Airlines flight from New York back in June of ‘02.

Year Three found me panicked as the much-mentioned Quarter-life Crisis whupped my ass and dared me to face what I was really going to do with my life. Depression. Jubilation. It was that frickin’ emotional rollercoaster with which we’re all too familiar.

And now Year Four is about to end…

Now a mere splattering of grease on the cogs that set in motion the wheels of this enormous machine, I am beyond newbieship, beyond indifference, beyond dreaming. I am a drone. I like to think I know how shit works. I’ve listened in on the conference calls. I’ve heard the secrets swapped between studio execs. I’ve seen what really happens after the Oscars. I’ve recognized people I know listed in the closing credits of half the movies I see at the theater.

I have become a part of what is now known as an "urban family," a community of peers who live within a particular radius of a major city and share those life experiences that help them grow. They are those cherished friends who have met me for lunches, laughed with me at comedy clubs, hiked with me in the hills, driven with me on road trips, danced with me at clubs, asked me for rides to the airport, shared hangovers during Sunday brunches on Sunset Boulevard, shopped with me at the Grove, wandered flea markets on Melrose, sipped lattes while discussing literature, spotted a celeb while picking up laundry, attended concerts at the Staples Center, tore it up in Vegas, celebrated countless birthdays, gotten on guests lists, gotten over break-ups with the help of one Ben and one Jerry, RSVPed to movie screenings, sent resumes to each other while jobless, grown addicted to MySpace together, updated each other’s iPods, talked behind each other’s backs, spread sunscreen on each other’s backs at the beach, received Evites to various happy hours, gotten invited to dinner parties, helped move boxes into new apartments, experimented with organic recipes, taken advantage of any open bar, vented about our wandering careers…

My life has been gradually resembling a serialized network dramedy, or maybe I just like to think of it that way. Recurring characters pop up here and there to spice up situations. Relationships form and flounder. Moments of surprise and revelation could be cliffhangers worthy of a dishy drama. I imagine a hip, electro-rock theme song starting every morning, kicking off my day with a flashy montage of my friends, living it up, smiling, laughing, pretending that life’s a breeze, you know, like in the opening credits of "Clueless."

A Noxeema commercial this ain’t. Does anyone use that stuff anymore?

"Everything. Everyone. Everywhere. Ends."

That was the tagline for the final season of "Six Feet Under," which I finally finished via Netflix. I will go out on an antenna to say the final episode was one of the best final episodes in television history. It was one of the most beautifully haunting pieces of television I have ever experienced. Those last ten minutes, especially those final moments arranged to Sia’s moving "Breathe Me," stay with me, even after two weeks. Profoundly unforgettable. Make it a mandatory viewing.

And now I am saying farewell to more characters to whom I’ve grown attached. Sydney Bristow has just finished her final mission on "Alias" (check out the pic of me and my boobtube posse on the night of the finale). "Will and Grace" bowed out with a sentimental, albeit change-of-tone, glimpse into the future. And although I’ve been out of the loop for the past two seasons, I TiVoed the ladies of "Charmed" to witness them cast their last spell after eight years of supernatural melodrama.

Admittedly, I am a TV freak. I’ve invested my time and psyche into these programs. And now I can’t help but compare my life to the runs of these favorites. I feel as if I am nearing my own series finale. I feel an end coming.

This is natural for someone living in a town where jobs and gigs come and go with every project that quickly fails or runs its successful course, where rejection always outnumbers acceptance. Everyone is constantly looking for that elusive Next Thing. My bosses produced three drama pilots that were rejected by the network. In mere minutes the futures of more than a hundred people were put on hold, erased and then scattered into the Santa Ana winds.

And don’t think my bosses will throw in the bloodied towel. They’re already churning out ideas for their next projects. Those Final Draft files are about to be reopened and revitalized with new material.

I feel an end is coming because this is what I have been conditioned to expect every four years. High school. College…to borrow material from my friend Jessica’s one-woman show, "Where’s my next diploma? Where do I graduate to?"

Here we have it, folks. Another ending which can only lead to another beginning (Must…fight…urge…to quote Semisonic’s "Closing Time"). I shall pack up my belongings, bid farewell to the Disney lot, start some part-time personal assisting for a friend of a friend, and head off to Inglewood where I shall attend that little Madonna thing tonight. I believe it’s called the Confessions World Tour? Then, on June 1, it’s off to New York to visit the fam and feel ancient when I watch my cousin Lauren, who was just in diapers last month, graduate from high school.

I’ll hold off on the panic and depression until my brief summer vacay is over.

Happy Memorial Day,

H.P.M.

"And I feel like I’m naked in front of a crowd, because these words are my diary screaming out loud. And I know that you’ll use them however you want to." - ANNA NALICK

Lessons learned this past weekend:

1. Kanye West enjoys A-Ha’s "Take on Me" and can pull off a mean Molly Ringwald two-step.

2. Sigur Ros is a moody Icelandic band that will never be found on my iPod.

3. Daft Punk live = sonic orgasm. If you have the chance to see them spin, do so.

4. The Del Taco outside Palm Springs has shitty 24-hour drive-thru service.

5. The lead singer of Franz Ferdinand can channel Jim Morrison very nicely.

6. Depeche Mode is genuinely awesome, and Dave Gahan rules.

7. After six straight hours of standing in a pit of sweat, shoving, and secondhand bong smoke, a beef gyro with teriyaki sauce and a cold bottle of Pepsi at 11:30pm is heaven…

Somewhere, miles past Palm Springs, there’s a place called Indio, where tens of thousands of alternative music fans from across the Southwest gather on a vast desert field for the annual 2-day festival known as Coachella, a 21st-century Woodstock (only more corporate-driven and wi-fi-friendly).

Gracias to "I’ve-never-won-anything-before" Karim, I enjoyed a free ticket to the 2006 fest (Mr. Shah was a 30th caller on KROQ last week). Loaded up on PowerBars, sunscreen and Fiji water, we took Sydney, my Focus (apparently, naming one’s car is an epidemic growing among twentysomethings nowadays) for a two-plus-hour drive into the desert.

The line for parking extended onto the highway. All walks of life were gathering for the musical buffet that was lined up for the day. The sun finally broke through the haze. The heat was rising.

First, the merchandise booths, where twenty-five dollars went towards a nifty green Coachella tee. Next, the "jungle" dome. I call it "jungle" because of the fake vines, leafy plants, and misting fans that stood as decor and the thumping drum-and-bass that attracted plenty of shade seekers. Scantily clad interpretive dancers frolicked and humped their way through the seated crowd. After filling our hedonist quota for the year, Karim and I toured the rest of the grounds - the standard hot dog/hamburger/gyro/falafel/ka-bob stands, the mechanical two-seat ferris wheel, the metalwork sculptures on display, and the two-dollar bottles of water (Those working at the gates confiscated any beverages from our backpacks…grrr).

We made our way to the Sahara tent, the ginormous venue (think: airplane hanger) for all of the DJs that were to spin throughout the day. Perry Farrell from Jane’s Addiction was on stage sharing some vocals while Hybrid mixed some tracks behind him. What had to be the world’s largest disco ball spun above our heads. As expected, there were lasers to accentuate.

Next door was the Internet tent where I cooled off with a quick e-trip to MySpace to let my friends know where I was. Everyone and their high-as-a-kite cousins did the same.

Next stop was the Coachella Stage to catch a few acts leading up to the headliners. Common went on shorty after four in the afternoon. I think the sun burned my eyelids off at that point.

As soon as Kanye West took the stage, that one-of-a-kind odor permeated the air. You know what I’m talking about. Several people in the thick crowd were passing around those "special cigarettes." Parliaments they were not. Needless to say, Kanye rocked (can a rapper rock?). He opened with "Diamonds Are Forever" and got the masses jumpin’ for "Jesus Walks." Mr. West had me rolling when he prefaced "Golddigger" with an allowance: "Okay white people, this is the only time it’s okay for you to use the word n****r." He then shared some of his favorite tunes, a pleasantly diverse arrangement ranging from 80s pop to early 90s soul. A-Ha suddenly blared from the stage, and everyone screamed when he mimicked Molly Ringwald’s moves from "The Breakfast Club." The man totally won me over.

Sigur Ros was the band from Iceland. I did not get them at all. They sang in a weird, moody language that was half gibberish, half am-I-really-listening-to-this? According to Jenn and my bosses at work, they are "f**kin’ amazing." Apparently one needs to appreciate them in a smaller, more intimate venue.

Franz Ferdinand came to the rescue with an awesome set mixing stuff from their old and new albums. Security guards started tossing free water to people in the crowd. I eyed one of them to aim for my reach. An incoming Crystal Geyser flew over some heads, struck my palm, and bounced into the head of a guy two feet from me. "Oops. My bad."

Depeche Mode arrived at nine. A large silver orb occupied one corner of the stage, flashing the words "pain," "love," "peace," and "suffer." A marquee scrolled out a "Hello" to the fans. By now, I was a sardine squished beyond belief, my arms pinned to my sides, body odor enveloping my private space. I knew I couldn’t take any more. Dave Gahan and Co. finished their third song when I "peaced out" to Karim, hopped over the barrier with a little help from Security and made my way through thousands of strangers, Depeche drones deep in a trance.

I collected my wits, breathed in some fresh air, and devoured a beef gyro on the way back to the giant Sahara tent, where Daft Punk was prepping for their closing show.

A sizeable crowd had gathered already. The chanting began. "DAFT PUNK! DAFT PUNK!" Suddenly, the synthesized notes used by the aliens in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" announced the arrival of our otherworldly entertainers. The curtain opened. Two robotic spacemen wearing metallic helmets stood at the top of a neon pyramid. The roar of the fans was deafening. The French DJs, whose identities always remain unknown, boomed into their set with "Technologic," surrounded by a grid of glowing triangles. A wall of lights flashed behind them. It was a performance (and experience) for the music history books (and countless MySpace bulletins).

I bounced along as I watched couples of all orientations move together in unison, as if they were all connected. And they were. It was one of those magical moments that just connotes unity and love. I met a couple from Mexico who shared the portion of the fence I used to stand over the crowd. They were just as happy to be there.

While I made my exit out of the tent, Daft’s "One More Time" began. I sent a text to Karim to meet me at our rendezvous spot in front of the jungle dome where we had started our Coachella journey. On my way I stopped at a Haagen Dazs wagon to scarf down a late-night treat. I looked up into the night and saw beams of light shooting up into the heavens forming one giant spectral tent over the entire festival (please see the attached pics). The spotlights were strategically positioned around the grounds. It felt as if I were truly on another planet, perhaps in another galaxy.

I wonder if Daft Punk had an actual UFO parked nearby.

Ready for M:I:III,

H.P.M.

It’s astounding how many bad scripts are floating around Tinseltown. It’s unfathomable how many exist. These days you can find me sitting in my boss’s office on the Disney lot reading script after script, weeding out the crap, finding writers worthy to be staffed on our shows, wondering why these scribes have representation and I don’t. There’s the one written by the guy who has one stint from the Sci-Fi Channel under his belt. There’s the spec of a popular ABC drama written by a BU alum I know, a script that was purchased by her boss (a producer I shouldn’t name) and apparently broadcast this season (damn girl!). There’s even the one written by…well, whaddya know? My old boss Jack. His agent submitted the "Book of Daniel" pilot to our office for consideration. Oh, how this maniacal machine works. Swimming in this sea of scripts got me thinking. What if scripts could talk? What would they say?Would they vent about the drama they go through?…

"Hello. My name is Untitled Bruckheimer Project. I was born out of a HP Laser printer over at the Gersh Agency on a bright Wednesday morning. I was placed into the moisturized hands of my agent’s assistant, Carl, who soon tucked me into a warm manilla envelope. A gruff messenger by the name of Eli soon arrived to pick me up and throw me into the backseat of his ‘96 Toyota Corolla. My first trip in the outside world was spent sliding over fellow manuscripts and Zone Bar wrappers stuck to a sun-baked Thomas Guide from 2002.

"12 noon: I arrive at my new home, the tastefully decorated office of a hotshot producer whose name I have yet to learn. Shelves are littered with awards. This guy must be big.

"12:15pm: I am placed into a file box, squeezed in between my new neighbors, a "Nip/Tuck" spec and an original pilot about the days and nights of a sex-addict police detective with major daddy issues.

"1:00pm: Scotty, the assistant to said hotshot producer, plucks me from the box and splats me down on a cold glass surface. All of a sudden I am blinded by a harsh light that flashes repeatedly. My pages are quickly shuffled and processed, and my clone is soon spat out onto a tray.

"1:15pm: Scotty ruffles my pages and scars me with a hot mug of coffee he neglects to remove from my cover (that stain will never come out).

"2:13pm: Scotty finishes ravaging me and sticks a pink Post-It next to my stain. For some reason he writes the letters P-A-S-S in red Sharpie. I am viciously thrown into a new box, this one not as crowded. "

2:30pm: I overhear a conversation revealing the identities of the villains in "Spiderman 3" (I’ll never tell).

"3:04pm: After spending an hour in this tattered file box that reeks of Aveda teabags and spearmint gum I realize I am surrounded by a bunch of losers. Have I been exiled?

"4:24pm: I can hear Scotty anxiously deal with his boss via a conference call that has gone horribly wrong. The room grows cold.

"5:44pm: The day darkens. All I hear is the distant ring of a telephone. I grow tired.

"6:30pm: I get tossed around like garbage and find myself staring at the black void of a recycling bin. My destiny awaits me.

"7:00pm: What is that noise? Some strange humming mechanism. Now I hear the screams of my banished brethren. Dear God, it can’t be…the shredder…"

Poor things.

When I was jobless six weeks ago, who knew I would find myself standing in a cemetery watching Denise Richards make out with "General Hospital" bad boy Tyler Christopher? Who knew I’d be brushing hands with Angie Harmon while reaching for some utensils at a catering truck?

A brief rundown on my current gig, while it lasts (next week I shall bid adieu to my Disney haven):

I have been working for the two producers of three ABC pilots that have just entered post-production. "Secrets of a Small Town" is a murder-mystery soap filled with beautiful people, hoping to be slotted behind "Desperate Housewives" on Sunday nights ("Grey’s" fans, don’t fret; ABC may be shuffling it to Tuesdays if this happens). "Sixty Minute Man" stars David James Elliot ("JAG") as a suburban dad thrown into a government conspiracy (one hour of his memory is erased from each day of the week). And finally, there’s "Drift," a script I have yet to read, but all I know is that it’s another procedural crime drama with insomniac cops, attractive lawyers, and dead bodies.

The commute can be a hassle, but this being production, the free lunch makes up for it.

"Time goes by…so slowly."

I am in one of those lulls right now. You know the kind. It’s that boring time during which nothing bloggbale really happens. Nothing to report. Nothing to reveal or share (oh yeah, I’m seeing Madonna kick off her world tour next month and seeing Daft Punk and Depeche Mode this weekend). Just…life. And work. And the overwhelming sense of 90s nostalgia I’m already experiencing. I blame it on my iPod. Lately it’s been shuffling TLC and Gin Blossoms tunes, and I can’t help but think back to those Clintonesque days of yore. Come with me, won’t you?

Purchasing Crazysexycool at Nobody Beats the Wiz in Yonkers. Learning to "slam your body down and wind it all around" during a weekend speech-and-debate tournament. Tuning in to see Kimberly blow up Amanda, Michael, and Billy. Falling in love with Lisa Loeb. Finding out blowfish goes better with a side of Hootie. Rooting for Julia to steal Dermot Mulroney away from Cameron Diaz.

God, it seems like it was just seven years ago. Um, wait…

"Summer-summer-summertime…"

I am trying to catch a whiff of the approaching summer season. So far, billboards with the always-larger-than-life Tom Cruise are signaling the upcoming cinematic fireworks known as "M:I III." My only motivation for shelling out eleven dollars for this Scientologist extravaganza is J.J. Abrams’s directing prowess and the absolute pleasure in seeing a banged-up Felicity aim an Uzi at international baddies. Then it’s off to see a drenched Josh Lucas tell an upsidedown Kurt Russell his career is over in "Poseidon" and a raven-haired Tom Hanks learn about Mary Magdalene’s baby daddy in that "DaVinci" flick.

Who knows what other morsels the megaplexes will serve up this summer? I’m sure they will be just as empty and crap-filled as last year’s smorgasboard of junk.

And on that note, go see "American Dreamz." I order you. HYS-TERICAL.

April showers bring May blockbusters,

H.P.M.