Anonymity
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.
