N.Y. Boy in L.A.

Blanche: "Dorothy, have you ever heard of something called Dirty Dancing?"

Dorothy: "Of course, Blanche. They did it in that movie."

Rose: "What movie?"

Dorothy: "’Lawrence of Arabia,’ Rose."

My summer nights have been hot and steamy, watching "Golden Girls" DVDs, laughing every time Dorothy throws Rose into that bedroom closet during the opening credits.

My summer days have been sweltering, commuting to Encino (yes, as in the Encino where Pauly Shore dug up a Neanderthal Brendan Frasier in that 1992 frat-friendly gem) to do some part-time personal assisting, e-mailing resumes, getting leads, getting a MySpace fix every five minutes, getting caffienated with my Tinseltown brethren, interviewing to be an assistant to the guy who produced "Independence Day" and "Stargate," and landing a job as the assistant to the head of production and one of the executive producers at Anonymous Content (http://www.anonymouscontent.com/anonymouscontent.htm). I’ll let that do all the explaining.

And these are just some of the blokes with whom I share a spacious office loft: http://hs.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000798&l=955bf&id=1237320054

The heat is rising. My bank account is falling. The days are longer. My summer reading attention span is shortening. TV is a desolate wasteland of conniving contestants and dancing dunces. I have friends who live in a wasteland of their own. I am beginning to see patterns. Jobs don’t turn out to be the positions we dreamed about. Our hopes of three years ago gradually erode. Uncertainty is a constant companion we’d like to ignore and evict from our mental guesthouses. We want, want, want, and instead we find ourselves settling, settling, settling. The time between May and August is no longer one of frolicking and leisure. Rather, it’s a time to reassess, decompress, and type away our anguish, stress, and blah-ness into blogs very few eyes will read.

During the 4th of July (4oJ) weekend, the invites poured in. I love the names hosts and hostesses give their soirees. "Pee in the Pool Party." "School of Vodka." "Grills and Buoys Club: BBQ in the Marina." "It’s My Birthday and I’ll Smoke If I Want To." I myself am guilty of a few punny names for gatherings I’ve coordinated. "Dirty Flirty Thirty" shall read across Evites come March 2010.

Thank the heavens I haven’t been completely jobless during this summer. I’ve seen what those unemployed industry types do. We fill our time with trivial things. We study "Feng Shui for Dummies." We sit on the sidewalk patios of Los Feliz bistros, drinking wine, flirting with the foreign waitstaff, wondering if the home phone number scribbled on the bill is a bold enough move to deliver the much-needed jolt to our love life ("Thanks for extra glass of merlot. If you wanna grab drinks elsewhere, call me…"). We talk about the dick actor who’s standing a few yards away, smoking some Kents, pretending he’s the usual Hot Stuff, hoping to be photographed by "People" (Stars, They’re Just Like Us!). We scrounge up enough cash to sit in an air-conditioned theater and check out the latest CGI wizardry in movies that consistently open at Number 1 then drop more than fifty percent in revenue the following weekend.

Here at the offices of Anonymous Content, the days are either super slow or super chaotic. A constantly revolving door sends different production teams into our building. They set up, prep for shoots, go into production, and then wrap it up within days. So far, some of the directors my boss manages have landed gigs with Foster Farms (look for those kooky chickens!), XBox, and Lexus.

And I continue to sit, my iPod speakers on low, calling Argentina to make sure one of our producers has received the proper insurance forms for an upcoming project, thinking how sweet it would be to work from our London offices, wondering what this weekend has up its tanned sleeves.

The latte I had made in our kitchen did little to help eradicate the exhaustion that hit me this morning. How was I supposed to know I’d be getting in at 2 a.m. after networking with some of the Outfest people at an OBar afterparty last night? The mojitos were free. That cranberry and stoli? Wave a drink ticket in front of Mr. Bartender, and no cash needed. Passing chicken fingers and bruscheta? Don’t mind if I do nibble. Check please.

Break out the DVDs, rev up the TiVo. I’m staying in tonight.

Heading back to the kitchen to grab a protein shake,

H.P.M.

…thus far:

1. "Mission: Impossible III" - Can we say, "Alias: The Movie"? Well done, J.J. And Tom, I almost forgive you for turkey-bastering Katie with your demon seed. (8/10)

2. "X-Men: The Last Stand" - Dislike Brett Ratner, but not his films. Famke kicked ass. Characters die. Hope the spin-offs don’t become the "Superman IV"s of the new millenium. We missed you, Mr. Singer. (7/10)

3. "Poseidon" - What I expected: cheesy banter, awesome effects. The one summer movie that coulda been a little longer. The wave hits after, like, the first 15 minutes! (6/10)

4. "The DaVinci Code" - Aaron Eckhart would’ve been a better Robert Langdon. The chick from "Amelie" and Gandalf were perfectly cast. Pretty true to the book. Overall, pretty square. (6/10)

5. "The Lake House" - Tres disappointmont. (4/10)

6. "An Inconvenient Truth." - No "Fahrenheit 9/11," but Al sure did his job scaring me into loving Mother Earth. Stay for the inspiring Melissa Etheridge song during the nifty end credits. (8/10)

7. "Cars" - Quite the surprise. These animated machines had more character development than the cut-outs in most movies released this year. Bravo. (9/10)

8. "Superman Returns" - Mr. Singer went a little too crazy on the nostalgia factor, leaving little room for originality. Bosworth, trying to channel the holy spirit of Hepburn, is no Kidder. Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed. The 2 hours flew by. Pluses: the airplane scene and the wildly entertaining Parker Posey. (7/10)

9. "The Devil Wears Prada" - Or, as I like to call it, "The Meryl Can Do Anything." Streep sweeps the scenes with just the right amount of poisonous panache. Fashion claps to the editor who put together Anne Hathaway’s costume-change montage to Madonna’s "Vogue." Props to the music supervisor for adding Alanis’s "Crazy." Applause for Emily Blunt’s pitch-perfect Brit bitch as the first assistant. (9/10)

10. "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest" - Johnny was in full form. Keira kicked pirate booty. Orlando continued to smolder. Bruckheimer bombed away. Despite the complex story (secondary characters keep reiterating key plot points to keep you in the action), my swash was buckled, though unsatisfied. (6/10)

11. "You, Me & Dupree" - (Screened for free, thank God) Do not even bother. I didn’t think I could hate Owen Wilson this much. And: feel embarrassed for Michael Douglas (3/10).

12. "Accepted" - (Screened back in February. Opens in August) A "Revenge of the Nerds" for GenY, perhaps the next "American Pie". Sleeper hit written all over it. Make sure your bladder’s empty before viewing; you may just pee laughing. (8/10)

Trying not to eat too much popcorn and looking forward to "Miami Vice," "Pulse," "Little Miss Sunshine" and "Lady in the Water,"

H.P.M.

…is that a crime?

Back in January of 2004, I returned to Los Angeles from my annual holiday visit in New York and discovered that the Party Station on 103.1 FM had turned into an indie rock station. For those of you who regularly listen to this now, just remember who had that slot before.

While I enjoy the occasional guitar riff and slit-my-wrist lyrics from a garage band on the rise (and realize this blog is two years overdue), I like having the option of tuning into a station that will remix Coldplay and have Madonna’s latest dancefloor anthem in its top 10. It’s another alternative to the top 40 formats that play the same hip-hop/angsty teen rock singles every 40 minutes. I was deeply hurt that my "party station" had collapsed. No longer did I have my aural Red Bull to help me get pumped for a night at the bars and clubs. No soundtrack for the montage of costume changes I’d go through in my bedroom (which vintage T-shirt would pair well with my FCUK jeans and white trainers?).

New York has its own party station, KTU, on 103.5 FM. It’s been thriving ever since the late 90s, when dance elbowed its way into pop. How come L.A. can’t catch up? Is the dance culture in Los Angeles dying or did it ever exist at all? What does it say about New York? Do the clubheads over there have easier access to the the latest in house, trance and electronica simply because they share the same ocean with eastern Europe? Even San Francisco has its own dance destination on 92.7 FM, "The Beat of the Bay." What’s up with that?

Every time I go back to New York I tune into the stations I loved when I was in high school. During the first week of this month, the #1 Most Requested song on Z100, the sister station of L.A.’s KIIS, was "And She Said" by Lucas Prata, a disposable Euro-esque house track. I have yet to hear the single on L.A.’s radio waves. Granted, the radio in my car has been dead for months, limiting me to what’s out there, what’s hot, what "the kids are listening to nowadays."

Some of my West Coast native friends haven’t even heard of the songs that were a part of the soundtrack to my high school career back East. Crush’s "Jellyhead" anyone? How about "Coco Jamboo" by Mr. President? No? Hands off my iPod then.

There is a glimmer of hope, however. After 10PM on weeknights, L.A.’s KBIG 104.3 presents Thump Radio, a collection of dance tracks and remixes (domestic and imported) that are on the rise or at the top of their respective charts. Problem though: You’d have to be a night security guard or late-shift 7-Eleven cashier to enjoy these beats.

American pop music is more powerful than ever, but is it progressive? Look at the lists on iTunes and iTunes UK and compare. What’s wrong with a little more dance on our airwaves? Feel the different beats, people.

Mix it up. Shake the booty. Feel the energy.

Thank you.

H.P.M.

Shoving four dollar bills through the slot to the woman behind the bulletproof glass, I say "Two tokens please."

"Tokens?" The attitude hits me, and then I remember.

I am handed a Metrocard instead. Ah, yes. No longer does the New York City Subway run on tokens anymore. I have been away for so long now, I forget that things have changed. They always do.

"The only constant is change." - BT

Summer in New York. Return to my roots.

The first thing that always hits me when I walk off the plane is the smell. And the humidity. L.A. this ain’t. Then, it’s the same: I maneuver my way through foot traffic to reach the curbside area so I can jump into my father’s moving Nissan as my parents inch their way pass taxis and driverless limos. Hugs and kisses will have to wait once we reach the Thruway Diner for a late-night nosh and park the car.

And things have indeed changed…

Trump is building more skyscrapers in my "little" New Rochelle. Condos have gone up by Five Islands Park. The Food Emporium has transformed into an Equinox. The white picket fence leading to the entrance of my parents’ apartment has been ripped out of the ground; a water fountain now stands in a patch of gravel. And that blue house over on Davis? Red.

My five-day visit to the Right Coast started with a subway ride into Manhattan on Friday. Walked Broadway in the torrential rain. Ate some doesn’t-taste-like-this-anywhere-else pizza. Met friends. Hopped from bar to bar. Three beers and three cocktails later, I found myself scarfing down chocolate chip pancakes at a diner on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen at two in the morning. I woke up a little after nine on the Upper West Side hangoverless and craving an old-fashioned bagel with fat-full cream cheese. Nothing tastes like that carby goodness smeared with Temp Tee as you’re riding a bus to catch your subway ride back to the Bronx.

Saturday saw me flashing back to my high school days (ah, those 90s) as I watched my valedictorian cousin Lauren (the one who was diapers last week?) deliver her speech and bring the family (well, more like her dad) to tears. She blew the rest of her class out of the academic waters - full-tuition scholarships, a summer program at Oxford, and other credits that couldn’t fit on the graduation program. Diploma in hand, she posed for pics under an umbrella outside Blessed Sacrament Church, where I had received my first penance, communion, and confirmation years ago at the elementary school just around the corner. I remember the school masses, the readings up at the dais, the giggling behind hymnals as my classmates and I listened to a bum fart and snore his way through the rehearsal for our first communion ceremony. If that church could talk…

Sunday was the party at Villa Nova Restaurant in Pelham, the same catering hall where my cousin’s baptism party was held eighteen years ago. More memories there. A sweet sixteen party in the fall of ‘96. A graduation bash on the second floor for the Class of ‘98. Wedding showers. Birthday parties. One thing they had in common: the awesome baked ziti and white wine. Yum and yum.
More family. More fuss. More food. It was an exhausting day.

My Tuesday fllight back to Los Angeles took off from JFK on time, and as I sat back in my seat, cradling Anderson Cooper’s memoir under my arm and listening to the neighboring Australian couple excitedly whisper about Brendan Fraser sitting in the cabin ahead of us, I wished I had had an extra day or two to spend in New York.

All of that melancholic reminiscence flew out the pressure-sealed window once I landed in L.A. I had work to look forward to, acquaintances to call, friends to lunch with, resumes to pimp, RSVPs to make. Like a salmon being thrown back into a rushing stream, I jumped back into my network and caught up with all the buzz.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled programming…

This past Sunday I accepted a day job working on the breakdown crew for a vintage auto show on Rodeo Drive. Kathleen hooked me up with the gig and together we arrived on the scene. Lunch for the crew was supplied by the Luxe Hotel. We ate wraps and sipped some iced tea on the penthouse balcony which overlooked the boutiques and trendy trattorias of the Beverly Hills block.

What followed was one of the most fabulous evenings of my life. We were the last two to stick around and make sure Rodeo Drive was returned to its normal chicness. After a little shopping in Guess? I met Kathleen back at the Luxe, where the hotel manager, the ultra-suave Jersey-born Jonathan, had bought us a round of drinks for "working so hard out there." I gladly accepted my French Martini and joined Kathleen, who had already befriended a pair of cocktail-swilling Austrailian women on the sidewalk patio.

Lindy and Rhonda were children’s fashion designers from Melbourne who were in Los Angeles via New York for business. Both were elegantly dressed and appeared to have had a penchant for pinot noir. Realizing our Thai dinner plans in Hollywood would fall through, Kathleen and I ordered some appetizers and chatted up a storm with the friendly Aussies. Rhonda gushed over her wonderful children, all in their 20s, and Lindy bragged about her precious 9-year-old son. Rhonda soon insisted on buying us another round, and who were we to turn down more free booze? We raised our glasses, smiles all around. "Here’s to meeting fabulous new friends," Rhonda toasted.

Conversation ranged from exotic cities we’ve visited to criticisms on the current administration in the U.S. I had the pleasure of introducing the ladies to the creamy decadence of mac ‘n cheese; Lindy couldn’t get enough of the food orgasms. Jonathan brought out more bottles of wine for all to enjoy, "on the house" nonetheless. I ran to the restroom to do a quick costume change and show off the new tee I had purchased earlier. Everyone loved the fabric and design. Dessert was a caramelized pear tart a la mode, compliments of the chef, and I was sure my stomach would stretch out the shirt to a new size. We made sure our waitress, Martine, was in on the fun as well. She sat down for a minute to share her excitement of moving to New York City to pursue a career on Broadway. We all wished her luck and continued to revel in the magical feast that was laid out before us. More chatter followed. I entertained the table with my 40-year-old-woman-who-goes-to-Heaven joke. Rhonda and I talked music. Lindy told Kathleen about the joys of motherhood. Pictures were taken. Business cards were exchanged (Of course I’ve attached some visuals for you).

By the time I finished my second martini, Kathleen was finishing her third and the ladies were on their second bottle. It was nearing midnight, and the bill arrived. Rhonda took it before anyone could argue and charged it to her room. I was utterly grateful and hugged Rhonda farewell as she and Lindy left to return to their rooms and prep for their morning flight to the East Coast. Kathleen, Jonathan, and I remained, taking in the night, the quiet of Rodeo Drive, the amazing generosity of two fiftysomething fashionistas from Melbourne. Who knew the day would end like this? Would we keep in touch? Or was this just a once-in-a-lifetime experience to cherish and jot down in a diary? I will hold onto their contact info in hopes of communicating with them someday. Perhaps a future trip Down Under? Maybe a rendezvous in Manhattan over more martinis?

God, what a night. What could top it?

Certainly not tonight, which was the release party for "The Devil Wears Prada" at iCandy. The open bar was the only incentive to go. After two Smirnoffs, Karim, Pearl, and I quickly became bored of the scene (what, no Anne Hathaway cameo?), bailed, and met Swaga and Kerry for frozen yogurt down the street. My buzz soon wore off after tasting some Carbolite raspberry truffle and oohing over the cute puppies that walked by us on Santa Monica Boulevard. It seemed as if everyone was out for a walk on this longest day of the year.

Tomorrow I hope to trek out to The Viper Room on Sunset to see an awesome new band perform. Under the Influence of Giants is straight out of Thousands Oaks, California, and I can’t get their first single, "Mama’s Room," out of my head. Picture a new millennium Bee Gees with an indie rock flavor. Pretty catchy. They are the latest addition to my personalized summer mix album (track listing to be found on Myspace). I highly suggest Limewiring or iTuning them sometime.

And whatever you do on there, avoid the new Paris Hilton single, "Stars Are Blind." I cringe even as I write this. Winner of the Most Overly-Produced Piece of Ear-Bleeding Noise Pollution of 2006. Someone, get it off the radio - please.

And in an attempt to squeeze more infotainment into this chapter, I gladly share with you these final tidbits: The Snow Patrol music video/trailer for Zach Braff’s September drama, "The Last Kiss" is available to watch on his website. Looks like the perfect companion film to "Garden State." I am officially psyched…."Footballers’ Wives" started its fourth season on BBC America with spousal abuse, a rape, and a baby smothered to death by a Pug (brilliant)…"The Lake House" was a disappointment (Sandra, come on!)…Nelly Furtado is the Beyonce of Summer ‘06…Madonna’s Confessions World Tour was the best concert I’ve ever experienced…and I’ve gotten a new haircut…well, more like a buzz…

School’s out, kids. Wear sunscreen.

H.P.M.

What DJ H is listening to during the hot season: I suggest you take a trip to Limewire and give ‘em a spin…

1. "Maneater" by Nelly Furtado

2. "Is It Any Wonder?" by Keane

3. "Breathe Me" by Sia

4. "Faster Kill Pussycat" by Paul Oakenfold feat. Brittany Murphy

5. "Look After You" by The Fray

6. "Good Time" by Leela James

7. "One Love" by Mary J. Blige and U2

8. "Trains to Brazil" by Guilliemots

9. "Move Along" by The All-American Rejects

10. "The Kill" by 30 Seconds to Mars

11. "Ain’t No Other Man" by Christina Aguilera

12. "Cash Machine" by Hard-FI

13. "Buttons" by The Pussycat Dolls

14. "Crazy" by Gnarlz Barkley

15. "’Cuz I Can" by Pink

16. "Me & U" by Cassie

17. "And She Said" by Lucas Prata

18. "It’s You, It’s Me" by Kaskade

19. "Red Dress" by Sugababes

20. "Ceylon" by Madita

Enjoy. Use protection.

H.P.M.

"Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m stranded in the wrong time, where Love is just a lyric in a children’s rhyme." - KEANE