Year Four
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
