N.Y. Boy in L.A.

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

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.

That’s What Sub-Friends Are For

I just finished watching the first two episodes of J.J.’s "What About Brian." It’s a cute show. A one-hour "Friends." Beautiful white people with attractive jobs living in gorgeous apartments and houses overlooking the cityscape. And, oh yeah, they have problems too. Especially with love and relationships. Aww.

Clicking off the TV, I got to thinking about friends — how many we have, which ones mean the most to us, where and how they entered our lives. I realized there exists an unspoken system under which our friends are classified (Don’t we just love labels?). Why unspoken, you ask? Maybe we don’t want to admit and acknowledge who is important to us and who is an afterthought. Maybe we don’t want others to get an idea of how we perceive them.

Maybe I am overanalyzing and killing time while I wait for lunchtime to arrive…

First, there are the Best Friends. They are the ones who know our secrets and desires and laugh at silly in-jokes due to the long history we share. A Best knows what we’re thinking and possesses the ability to finish our sentences. "Bitch" is a term of endearment among us. Bests will tell us when it’s time to donate that hideous shirt to Goodwill (you know the one - it’s either dated like a No Fear trucker cap or never ever going to be a part of your "skinny" ensemble). All in all, Bests are our family.

The second level is populated by the Good Friends. These are the ones we think we love just as much as the Best Friends, but we haven’t granted them access to all of the private things our Bests know. We thoroughly enjoy the company of the Goods. Movie nights. Getting sloshed at the bars. Sunday sex-talk brunches. It’s all…y’know, good.

Next on this potentially pretentious pyramid we may find the Simple Friends. These we see on ocassion. We kiss hello, catch up on lost time, and comment on how busy we are while time just flies by. Simples are convenient when Bests or Goods are unavailable. They’re backup. We don’t mind getting a small dose of them once in a while. They’re slightly more than just an "acquaintance" (a term I purposely avoid because it’s so…old-school, y’know?).

Finally there are Pretend Friends (or Sub-Friends). These individuals come into our lives maybe once or twice a year (you know, when we bump into them in the aisles of Whole Foods), and during that brief sighting, we promise to do coffee or the proverbial lunch soon, thinking to ourselves, "I am never going to hang out with this person." Pretends are usually a result of meeting friends of friends of friends. The degree of separation is a bit much, thus preventing us from forming a tight bond. Pretends tend to be good at bullshitting, but there’s no hateration among us because we hardly see each other. It’s all about being civil without bad blood involved.

So, as many of you can guess, all of you are my Sub-Friends…wink, wink.

Now, get the hell off my blog and go have a productive day.

H.P.M.

It is questionably the happiest time of the year.

A time when the Ghost of Birthdays Past and I meet for coffee to reminisce and acknowledge just how darn far I’ve come. A time when I get e-mails from MSN wishing me the best on my special day while informing me I can celebrate alongside Ewan McGregor, Shirley Jones, Richard Chamberlain, and Al Gore (Aries unite!). A time when Bluewater Grill sends me a twenty-dollar gift certificate to enjoy a nice seafood dinner on them. A time when I get my name on the Thursday night guest list at Arena so I can shake my aging butt to music I am steadily growing tired of (actually, thanks to one Mr. Jon Unger, I was able to enter through V.I.P. this time). A time to receive my coupon for a complimentary Aveda product down at the Beverly Center. A time to try a shot of indeterminate alcohol handed to me by a close friend who firmly believes that it is my American right to "get s**tfaced" on the day doctors C-sectioned my fetal self out of my mommy 26 years ago.

When I turned 6, my family planned a surprise party at the Ground Round on Central Avenue in Yonkers, complete with my whole kindergarten class, a goofy clown who performed magic, and an adorable Cabbage Patch Doll that bought my status among the He-Man and She-Ra set.

When I turned 16, my mother helped me plan a bash in the party room of our basement that also functioned as a reunion for the Class of ‘94 from Blessed Sacrament Elementary. It was a chance to see old faces from junior high, eat some Subway sandwiches while listening to La Bouche’s "Be My Lover" (thanks Club Mix ‘96), and get some gift certificates to the Gap.

When I turned 26, I threw my own party at Oasis in Hollywood, complete with a private room, a deejay in the form of the bartender’s iPod, and monster martinis made for me and my marvelous muchachos and muchachas (say that five times fast).

All week I felt the anxiousness that usually accompanies an impending birthday. I would wake up before my alarm clock, my nerves acting up before I could grab the nearest latte. It’s easy to say, "It’s just a number, it’s just another day," but to many us it’s a reminder of where we are in life, how satisfied we are with what we have, and why we haven’t reached the destination we dreamed of five years ago when we first packed our bags and headed off into the clouded sunset. But why concern yourself with all the whos, whys, hows, and whats? A wise friend once blogged "they just get in the way of a vivid imagination that contains the smallest happiness."

Rock on with your philosophical, poetic self Ms. Carno.

When I was turning 6, I was only excited about presents, cake and colorful decorations hung in my honor. Now, the excitement is more like an anxiety. The rainbow curtain has been ripped down to reveal the dull, gray realities that have been hiding from me all these years. Cash gifts? Yay, I get to pay off my overdue car loan. A surprise strawberry shortcake at work? Great, more minutes on the treadmill. But it’s not all gloom and doom. Of course I know how to celebrate. And celebrate I did…

It was a more modest gathering compared to last year’s can-you-top-this "H 2 5." An intimate dinner with Karim, Swaga, Doug, and the new-to-L.A. Wendy at Buddha’s Belly started the rainy evening (don’t even get me started on the crap weather we’ve having here for the past two months). Filet mignon in a peppercorn sauce with a side of mashed pumpkin and broccolini was just the meal for which my stomach yearned. We then arrived at Oasis fashionably late because, according to the Book of L.A. Birthday Etiquette, one can show up to the main event as if he had been returning from a previous, just-as-important engagement. My loyal subjects can wait!

Two caramel apple martinis, one rum and coke, a lemon drop shot, and a gin and tonic later, "16+10 Candles" was in full swing. Evidence can be obtained for your observation here: http://www.ringo.com/photos/album.html?albumId=38181274.

Guests started to trickle out around 1 (after all, it WAS a Friday night; us old folk need some sleep). I gathered my gifts and greeting cards, packed my camera away, and stepped out into the wet night. I hitched a ride with friends who were in search of some late-night munchies. We stormed the gates of a 24-hour Del Taco and inhaled some cheesy goodness. The place was spotted with other young people, probably coming from the 18+ club down the street. I stopped chewing on my quesadilla when I did the math in my head and realized: We’re surrounded by people who could have been born in 1988. I remember ‘88 vividly. Third grade. "Dynasty" entering its final season. "Big" starring a skinny Tom Hanks. Steve Winwood’s "Higher Love."

A mental shudder, a sip of cherry Coke, and we were out of there.

My bed was waiting for me. The party was over.

So, a thank you card to all who conspired with me to make another memorable evening, to all who helped me bid adieu to the early 20s and launch myself into the roaring years to come. I love you all.

F**k, I’m old.

H.P.M

There are moments when you wish you had a camera (and camera phones don’t count; an epileptic mental patient could display better composition than those things).

My Sunday night was filled with several of those moments.

I had fallen asleep in bed (at 6pm!) while reading "The Confessions of Max Tivoli" when my Nokia went off. Private Caller turned out to be none other than the ever-popular, always-on-the-move Swaga.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.

I admitted how lame I was, caressing my paperback in the lonely comforts of my manly boudoir. After all, "Desperate Housewives" was a repeat and TiVo was taking care of "Grey’s Anatomy."

Matter-of-factly he stated, "You’re coming with me to the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week kickoff show."

Arm twisted. Shower taken. Trendy attire on.

He picked me up within an hour. We drove in his Tercel to Smashbox Studios in Culver City. We circled the block, found a space, and spotted the enormous tent that housed dozens of designers and diet-driven dummy models. The paparazzi was in full force. We made our way through the doors and were immediately directed to the Will Call table. Swaga gave his name to Girl With A Clipboard. She couldn’t find him anywhere on the list for the eight ‘o clock Carlo DeMichelis show. Apparently there were no Ds on the list (Swaga’s last name is Deb); a page appeared to be missing. Girl With A Clipboard told us her superior would be back soon and take care of the problem.

Swaga and I usually joke about using the old "Do you know who I am?" line in situations like these, and it seemed like we were getting close to utilizing it. We were ushered to the side of the table, remaining cool and calm because that’s what you have to be in a moment like this. You have to be patient with the gatekeepers of Trendydom and avoid screaming like a banshee. It’s like a Hollywood Commandment: Thou shall not be obnoxious to bouncers and will-call girls for they will decide your fate.

While we waited, Swaga noticed Andre Gonzalo from "Project Runway" and his guest, a shaggy-haired dancer-type covered in five ‘o clock shadow, going through the same frustrating deal with Girl With A Clipboard. They were placed into our little reject corner.

"Were you a D missing on the list?" I asked the shaved-headed reality celeb.

"I’m a G," he said. And introductions were made.

Superior arrived shortly afterwards; turns out the Carlo DeMichelis show was cancelled. She pulled one of those "There’s nothing I can do about it." However, Andre and his guest, Jaime, were able to get their passes for the nine ‘o clock Louis Verdad show which was celebrating the new fall line. "Come look for us later," Andre said. "If we don’t need these (passes), you can use them."

Our hopes for a fabulous evening were deflating despite Andres’s promising proposal. Swaga and I waited around the tented lobby, admiring the Mercedes-Benz model on display, ignoring the open tequila bar, and praying for the fashion gods to conspire in our favor.

We stood near Andre and Jaime while they stood behind the velvet rope that led to the main tent. We chatted about our respective industries for several more minutes. All of us could not get enough of the people-watching. The large room was a multicultural mess of flavorful individuals - Women who had yet to meet a nip and tuck they didn’t like. Asian punks who wore their mascara with pride. Flamboyant latinos marinating in the latest Burberry. Ebony beauties surrounded by entourages showcasing minimal bling. And sweatshirt-donning dudes who were only there for the smorgasboard of poon.

Matthew Perry walked by, looking uncomfortable, like he had just wrapped up a session with a tranny hooker at the Four Seasons. The guy has some serious baggage under those baby blues. Paris Hilton dashed across the room in a vibrant, puffy gown (like THAT wouldn’t get her noticed), apparently late getting to her seat. Cris Judd was playing it cool by the bar, exchanging words with people who (I’m sure) were mentally tsk-tsking over the fact that he will forever be known as the Former Mr. Jennifer Lopez.

All the "important" people were being seated. The standing-room crowd was lined up, ready with their passes. We had nothing. Our hopes were a withered balloon.

We thought about going back to the will-call table one last time. Girl With A Clipboard was sincerely sympathetic and told us to wait a few minutes to see what she could do. Suddenly, Andre appeared behind us with two passes. He was able to obtain two V.I.P. seating tickets for him and Jaime. Swaga and I took their standing room passes. See what happens when you befriend an allegedly psychotic reality-TV fashion star?

We thanked him from the bottom of our hearts, hopped in line, and were soon filtered into the main tent like the couture-craving cattle we were.

"So diva it hurts."

I expected Carrie Bradshaw and Company to enter behind us and take their seats among the glitterati. Dozens of spotlights shined on the already glowing runway. A dense garden of supercharged cameras were planted by the producer’s booth, ready to sprout their digital petals for the numerous magazines and Web sites that would soon feed all of the famished fashionistas around the globe.

Swaga and I took our spots in the standing area behind the rows of spectators. Directly across from us, sitting in the opposite front row, Paris Hilton and her sister, Nicky, toyed with their Sidekicks. The cinderblock of an arm belonging to a bodyguard blocked most of my view. Next to Nicky sat a raven-haired, clown-faced broad who was desperately trying to play down her age. Who was she kidding, with all of that make-up? The lighting in the room didn’t help either; from twenty feet away, I could still make out all of the blemishes and poorly hidden flaws on her face. I then noticed how long her black hair was…and was that a red Kabbalah bracelet on her wrist?

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Mrs. Demi Moore-Kutcher.

A gasp from Swaga made me break out laughing. I had to focus my eyes elsewhere. Carmen Electra was rapidly talking with another woman down the line. That British actress from "Las Vegas" held tight onto her program, scanning the crowd for a particular someone she would never find.

The lights went down. The electro-rock music started. Applause roared throughout the tent. The androgynous models did their struts in early-80s tweed suits and puffy shirts. The hair was frizzy, the make-up garish, and the handbags were fiercely geometric. There were see-through numbers, wool capri pants, really thick belts, and more really bad hair. Everyone ate it up.

I was sweating from the heat emanating from all the lights in the airless tent. It was time to leave and go home. We never got to say goodbye to the generous Andre and Jaime. We didn’t receive any goodies to take home. All we left with was the surreal, Aquafina-drenched memory that I now leave for you to read and for me to revisit.

This exhausted ship has sailed.

Signing off from my new gig working for the executive producers of three pilots (another story for another chapter),

H.P.M.

"Just get messy in life. At least you know you’re living."  -  Prime

My days see few highlights now as I come close to ripping out what’s left of my hair because my future employment has yet to be determined.

Monday: Watch "The View." Go to the gym.

Tuesday: Go to the library to use the Internet and research jobs. Buy "Harry Potter" and "Jarhead" on DVD at Barnes and Noble with the store credit I possess. Receive my spankin’ new Dell XPS notebook when I pull into my garage (highlight of the month, actually - a belated Christmas/early birthday gift from the ‘rents). Have a "Harry Potter" marathon with Rachel.

Wednesday: Play with my new toy and upload my entire CD collection onto iTunes.

Thursday: Play with my new toy and upload more of my CD collection onto iTunes while enjoying free wireless Internet and completing more job research. Go back to the gym (oh, and watch "Oprah" of course).

Friday: More uploading. More e-mailing. Drive to an interview in West L.A. where I’m told I’m overqualified for the position but will still be considered for better-paying openings when the company expands next month. Stop at Starbucks for a marble mocha macchiato. Drive all the way to friggin’ Canoga Park (read: deep Valley) to meet with Tax Guy (an inspiring session, I must say; dude got me pumped about responsibly managing my finances and saving enough to purchase property by the time I’m 33). Try to get an old lady to buy the leftover ten-dollar store credit I have at Barnes and Noble so I can stuff my wallet with extra cash. Meet Karim and Swaga for dinner in Hollywood. Sigh as I fork over fifteen dollars for eggplant parmigana.

Saturday: The CD uploading continues (boy got mad music). Send out my birthday party Evite to everyone I know in Los Angeles (celebrating at Oasis on La Brea on the 31st).

It’s astounding, isn’t it? Truly fascinating, I know. I just don’t know how I can fit so much into my schedule.

I forgot to mention my Oscar Sunday at Briana’s party. I came in second in the Oscar pool (all that studying paid off, Ma). I won’t go into too much commentary on the awards because wouldn’t that be a blog cliche? Yes, Jessica Alba looked hot (even though she somewhat resembled Gozer from "Ghostbusters"). Yes, Jon Stewart was funny (the cowboy montage was brilliant). Yes, Reese’s speech was gosh-darn sweet (I still think we have yet to see her dark side). And yes, I think George Clooney officially RULES (that speech about being proud to be "out of the loop"? Loved loved loved it). There, I’m over it.

Back to the present: I am sitting at the kitchen table, typing away on my new 60GB baby, feet up, hot cup of green tea by my side, Friday’s episode of "General Hospital" playing on TiVo in the living room. I am taking John Mayer’s advice and enjoying the "great indoors." And what better timing; it’s been unseasonably cold here in the city of haloed beings.

I flip over to MTV (because I’m masochistic like that), and I am blessed with a repeat viewing of the "Real World" premiere. All the cardboard cut-out cast members are splashing in the pool before hitting the bars of Key West, because what else can a bunch of pretty things do on a random weeknight? I find it seriously ironic that the anorexic chick has been cast on the kind of show that gives young girls body-image issues. And of course there’s the overused dialogue: "I don’t wanna be here!" "I am so drunk." "If you didn’t have a boyfriend…" Wink, wink. This is why I stopped following America’s oldest reality gimmick after the New Orleans edition.

Nighttime has now fallen. I am minutes away from a new "SNL." I’ve been online for hours, and yet no one from back East has bothered to IM me. Do we really fall THAT out of touch, so much that we don’t even register the screennames that linger on our buddy lists anymore?

Tuesday, March 14, 2005 - 12:09pm…

The breakfast nook in my kitchen has officially become my own little office. The kitchen table is my desk. Now, I just need obligatory framed pics of the fam and a secretary to abuse, and it will be complete!

The TV is off; too many distractions. Today, I shall work from home, send out some e-mails, polish the draft of my pilot (thanks, Jenn, for installing Final Draft onto my XPS), watch the new "X3" trailer for the umpteenth time on Quicktime, because it’s THAT awesome, and wait for a woman to return my call regarding a job that found ME through Craigslist.

Avoiding the Green Beer Come Friday,
H.P.M.

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.