I just finished watching the first two episodes of Desperate Housewives, filmed on the backlot of Universal Studios, in Los Angeles, California, where I used to live. The perfectly framed images of the women of Wisteria Lane standing in warm sunshine and cool breezes on their immaculately groomed street, brought me back to the tram tour I took through there, and immediately I was reminded of what was beyond the frame. High above the heads of the Housewives a T-Rex was assaulting sight-seers and nearby Scooby and the gang were taking pictures with dozens of tourists. In front of the ladies, beyond the cameraman, was greater L.A., a sprawling, smog thickened, asphalt-and-concrete blanketed wasteland. The perfection of Wisteria Lane could only be found some thirty miles away, in Pasadena, or a little further south, in San Diego. But the immediate surroundings of what Hollywood magic made into the form of quintessential domestic American aspirations was far from the perfectly manicured lawns on T.V.
I was never eager to go to L.A. I'd spent some time there before and had developed a distaste for the urban sprawl and hovering smog. Flying over Los Angeles I could see the seemingly endless expanse of homes, thousands upon thousands of homes, and thousands, yet again, of cars jamming the surprisingly wide freeways. Everywhere, two-level shopping plazas--but only a small handful of small malls. Everywhere, solid. All concrete, asphalt, glass. Barely a green thing in sight, all is grey or a gut-turning yellowish-beige. And everywhere, everywhere, are houses. Maybe it's having come from the New York City area, where either people are stacked away in apartment complexes or a spread distantly in traditional suburbs, but the sudden, bold awareness of all this...humanity stretched out, teeming, as it were, through the valleys, just overwhelmed me and made me--makes me--somewhat nauseous to think about.
Catherine and I landed and got right into a rental vehicle and hit the road. But that's it. We hit it, and stopped. The infamous L.A. traffic, which I had not had a chance to experience my last few times in town, yet had heard all too much of (yet believed could only be myth) was all too extraordinary. What in New York, even during rush hour, should only take twenty minutes, could easily take upwards of an hour, hour and a half in L.A. Think of the worst, tanker-just-blew-up-on-I-95 traffic you can imagine. Now paste that image and frustration onto every single major road (not just the highways) during nearly every single hour of the day. Traffic could occasionally be standstill at two in the morning. Every time I think longingly back to California, idealizing certain aspects of what life was like back there, I just remember the traffic and it straightens me out. In fact, I might go so far as to say that the traffic had a large part in driving me out of L.A.
We ended up in a hotel in Sylmar, in the North Eastern corner of the county, and just a minute's drive from what might as well have been Mexico. Just beyond our hotel gringos like us could not tell the difference between America and Mexico. Every street sign, every advertisement, every noticia was in Spanish. Every person was Hispanic. We even drove through a fairly nice area, a real "Main Street USA" looking place, only to see that everything was written en Espanol. Very strange.
We quickly set out to find three very important things: a car, a home, and a job. There were a number of Outbacks in the surrounding area, but we narrowed our search down to just three we were interested in. One of them, situated central to most everything and conveniently in a shopping center, had so many employees scrambling for the job that we'd have never gotten the hours we needed. The next one, in a more fashionable part of town was, well, fashionable. The hostess had an earpiece and talked to the manager in the back office like a member of the Secret Service--and she expressed her disdain for us in a truly fashionable way. But, far away, just past Pasadena, in a place called Arcadia, was an Outback which, though distant, was just right for us. The manager was accommodating, and the employees were friendly. We were working just a few days later.
The next thing to be checked off was the car. We knew we wanted a fuel efficient, affordable Toyota, so that meant the Yaris. The whole dealership process doesn't leave much to discuss here, but I'd like to think that Catherine and I held our own pretty well against the sly car salesman...who continues to call to see how we're doing to this very day. We didn't get ripped off, and managed to get what we wanted within our budget. Brand new car, too!
Searching for a home proved more difficult. Many places were already off the market, too far away, had hidden costs, or just didn't look very nice compared to their pictures. We finally found the perfect studio in Van Nuys, along Sepulveda Blvd. The apartment was massive, with a sloped roof, separate kitchen, and a small hallway leading to a desk nook and the full bathroom. Not to mention the two massive closets. And the rent was cheap.
But despite the lithe palm tree towering in just in front of our window, it was still planted in soil surrounded by concrete, and something about that unsettled me.
We had everything set up, and I only ended up working about three shifts at the Outback before I finally found myself on the set of a Hollywood production as a P.A.
But more about all that, later.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Thursday, May 19, 2011
There's little I can say about London that I didn't mention in my very first posts, during my first visit. Yet, this time I did get to see a different face of London, a sub-culture that few may have the pleasure of experiencing.
We jumped a train from Southampton straight to Victoria Station in London, and spent the next few hours being accosted by a severely intoxicated Brit. While unsettling, to say the least, it was a very amusing bit of conversation that played up every boozing Englishman stereotype you can think of. He swilled cheap vodka from a half empty bottle that he brought out of a bag that held an empty forty. He was insistent on me drinking some with him. I tried to refuse, but this guy was...persistent, and outright refusal seemed like it might be seen as an insult, and might lead to some unwelcome belligerence. So I pressed the bottle to my lips, made a few dry swallows, and licked the burning away with my tongue.
At some point he realized that, in filling us in on his challenged life and recent divorce, he had missed his stop and he left us in quite the hurry.
After getting to London Cat and I settled into a hostel and began exploring. It was wonderful to be back, and to be in a place far across the globe that I knew well enough to recommend restaurants and lead Catherine around without a map. It's a level of worldliness that sits as a great achievement in my mind.
Went spent, I think, three days just wandering--I was far too nervous to actually start doing any performance. We spent one day down by the London Eye just watching others and scoping out the scene.
Finally, I dressed up in my absurd garb, pith helmet and all, and stood near the Globe Theatre. My leather pouch, filled with cards and ropes and balloons and coins, hung heavy from my belt as I drew out two brilliant silk scarves. I began in on a carefully scripted, and over-rehearsed set of lines to accompany my manipulations. It was some silly thing about having traveled the world and found all these magnificent tricks. My speech promised those who might stop the great wonders of the world, right before their eyes. I thought it would be amusing, an opportunity for some modern day folk to experience something like a 19th century bit of stand-up theatre, imported across time from the Age of Exploration. A very small handful of people stopped to watch--but just for a moment. My silk work is not my best, and I have little passion for it anyway. My words were loud, bold, and clear, but the tricks themselves were muddled together, pointless, and weakly executed. When a dissolving knot failed to dissolve the paltry audience departed as I struggled to tear the silks apart.
I had dove into that first part of my routine like a swimmer into water. It was the only way to get going--to just freakin' do it. I began thrusting the words out of my throat without thought--the rehearsals would do their work. I began moving my hands without true thought--the practice would take care of it. I kept my eyes unfocused, a hundred yard stare keeping me from seeing any crowd, or lack thereof. But, still, the tension had risen in me, choking me, bloating my veins with adrenaline, and when the knot had failed, and my attentions dissolved instead, I felt defeat unlike any I've ever felt before.
Catherine would later describe it as "watching a puppy being kicked." Apparently, all she wanted to do while I stood there was come over and give me a hug, but she couldn't, since I was still "performing." When I finished, and my meager crowd dispersed, I look over to her, the terror and anxiety welling up in my eyes--she said I'd never looked quite so hurt.
But, as I should have known, doing it once, and failing as miserably as possible, only prepared me to do it again, and better. I had faced, frankly, the greatest humiliation of my brief life, and I was, more or less, unscathed. A big ol' "fuck it" attitude dawned in my head, and I tore the pith helmet off my head and dropped it with Catherine. I walked to a new spot, just a few meters away, with my back to the Globe. And then I went of script.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD AFTERNOON LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!" I cried, pushing deep from my belly, channeling no small bit of Robin Williams, and so began my success. Seven minutes later I had ten pounds (almost fifteen dollars) in my hat.
The next day I went to the same spot but was chased off by the bobbies. So, with no other area seemingly good to perform, I went off to the London Eye area, where dozens of performers come daily to peddle their talents (slight as some of those talents may be). Fresh fear soaked my yet again. Here were thousands of people passing by, and the watching eyes of the experienced street performers. And also the danger of treading someone's territory. I bumbled a bit, and didn't perform at all, wandering around and watching show after show, too unnerved to ask for help until I saw one bald, cockney Brit with a fake French accent escape from chains with a smile on his face. I asked him what the hell I should do.
It was that simple. For the next month I had a mentor. This guy gave me tips on how to draw crowds, get tips, and perform better. He showed me who to stay away from, and introduced me to quite a few good guys. In fact, after meeting some more magicians I was invited to perform with them at the main space in front of the museum at Trafalgar Square. They lent me a microphone and amplifier and set me out to do what I could.
About a week later I mustered the courage to perform at Magician's Corner on James Street at Covent Garden. That's where the big boys go. That's where solid talent meets real experience. And, while I may hnot quite live up to that, I threw myself to the wolves and came out of there with a loot quite comparable to that of some of the best guys there.
Catherine and I ended up staying at a hostel in a suburb of London and commuting in to the city every day for a little over a week. She started performing too, spinning plates at the London Eye and along the wings of Trafalgar. By the time we had figured out how to make enough money to live, we were broke and exhausted.
Going out for hours a day and performing is rough business. It's physically taxing and it drains you emotionally--especially a guy like me, who is capable of meeting new people and engaging them, but doesn't enjoy it much. It's constant tension, nerves, and shouting. It's begging, pleading, and joking. It's being quick on your tongue and sharp with your feet...or is it the other way around? Anythign can happen. Frankly, it's a bit scary when a large group of Danish high-schoolers, led by their imposing hyper-alpha male companion encircle you--you don't understand them, and this big guy just keeps grabbing your shit, and egging people on, and every one encircles you tighter, tighter, until you figure something out, like finding the alpha-female, and playing off of her while you humiliate the alpha-male with a really good slight. But that sort of stuff is unplanned, potentially dangerous, and would often leave me begging for a few minutes or hours of respite after such a confrontation. But usually it just drew more crowds. One day I walked away with sixty pounds.
We enjoyed all that London had to offer. Sweltering heat, freezing rain. We enjoyed the open markets and Pizza Express. We explored the Tower of London and Southwark Cathedral. We wandered the Tubes underground and found food in the early hours of a beautiful Sunday morning. That London experience has very few details impressed on my memory the way it has for the first time I was there. This trip, with Catherine is a few flashes of imagery, and the rest is a painting in warm tones, dabbed with sensation like a Manet with a piano playing in the background. I remember the Relentless energy drinks, the closed magic shop, waiting in line for Oyster cards, the British Library with its exhibit of Science Fiction over the centuries. I remember running outside a restaurant to ask a passerby how to tip a waiter in their country. I remember walking across the London Bridge at midnight. I remember turning over in out small bunk at five in the morning, eager, wide-eyed and whispering, "I'm not sleepy." I remember mushroom pate, and the company van we saw periodically which advertised it's radish business. And Ryman's Stationers, and Catherine's awesome drawings on the stationary purchased therein. I remember McDonalds and long, daily walks along the Thames. I remember men with metal detectors, and men making sand sculptures during a big street fair. But these are all like photographs. They lay against, as I said, what feels like a painting, colored in warm tones with a short brush and only the idea of form in mind. These memories feel like summer.
But, soon it was clear that we couldn't support ourselves, monetarily, physically, and emotionally. I wanted to get moving on my screenwriting and on Hollywood, and I didn't have the free time I needed whilst sticking to a fledgling performer's schedule. So Catherine and I booked a flight to Los Angeles, California, via Germany. We were gone in three days.
We jumped a train from Southampton straight to Victoria Station in London, and spent the next few hours being accosted by a severely intoxicated Brit. While unsettling, to say the least, it was a very amusing bit of conversation that played up every boozing Englishman stereotype you can think of. He swilled cheap vodka from a half empty bottle that he brought out of a bag that held an empty forty. He was insistent on me drinking some with him. I tried to refuse, but this guy was...persistent, and outright refusal seemed like it might be seen as an insult, and might lead to some unwelcome belligerence. So I pressed the bottle to my lips, made a few dry swallows, and licked the burning away with my tongue.
At some point he realized that, in filling us in on his challenged life and recent divorce, he had missed his stop and he left us in quite the hurry.
After getting to London Cat and I settled into a hostel and began exploring. It was wonderful to be back, and to be in a place far across the globe that I knew well enough to recommend restaurants and lead Catherine around without a map. It's a level of worldliness that sits as a great achievement in my mind.
Went spent, I think, three days just wandering--I was far too nervous to actually start doing any performance. We spent one day down by the London Eye just watching others and scoping out the scene.
Finally, I dressed up in my absurd garb, pith helmet and all, and stood near the Globe Theatre. My leather pouch, filled with cards and ropes and balloons and coins, hung heavy from my belt as I drew out two brilliant silk scarves. I began in on a carefully scripted, and over-rehearsed set of lines to accompany my manipulations. It was some silly thing about having traveled the world and found all these magnificent tricks. My speech promised those who might stop the great wonders of the world, right before their eyes. I thought it would be amusing, an opportunity for some modern day folk to experience something like a 19th century bit of stand-up theatre, imported across time from the Age of Exploration. A very small handful of people stopped to watch--but just for a moment. My silk work is not my best, and I have little passion for it anyway. My words were loud, bold, and clear, but the tricks themselves were muddled together, pointless, and weakly executed. When a dissolving knot failed to dissolve the paltry audience departed as I struggled to tear the silks apart.
I had dove into that first part of my routine like a swimmer into water. It was the only way to get going--to just freakin' do it. I began thrusting the words out of my throat without thought--the rehearsals would do their work. I began moving my hands without true thought--the practice would take care of it. I kept my eyes unfocused, a hundred yard stare keeping me from seeing any crowd, or lack thereof. But, still, the tension had risen in me, choking me, bloating my veins with adrenaline, and when the knot had failed, and my attentions dissolved instead, I felt defeat unlike any I've ever felt before.
Catherine would later describe it as "watching a puppy being kicked." Apparently, all she wanted to do while I stood there was come over and give me a hug, but she couldn't, since I was still "performing." When I finished, and my meager crowd dispersed, I look over to her, the terror and anxiety welling up in my eyes--she said I'd never looked quite so hurt.
But, as I should have known, doing it once, and failing as miserably as possible, only prepared me to do it again, and better. I had faced, frankly, the greatest humiliation of my brief life, and I was, more or less, unscathed. A big ol' "fuck it" attitude dawned in my head, and I tore the pith helmet off my head and dropped it with Catherine. I walked to a new spot, just a few meters away, with my back to the Globe. And then I went of script.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD AFTERNOON LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!" I cried, pushing deep from my belly, channeling no small bit of Robin Williams, and so began my success. Seven minutes later I had ten pounds (almost fifteen dollars) in my hat.
The next day I went to the same spot but was chased off by the bobbies. So, with no other area seemingly good to perform, I went off to the London Eye area, where dozens of performers come daily to peddle their talents (slight as some of those talents may be). Fresh fear soaked my yet again. Here were thousands of people passing by, and the watching eyes of the experienced street performers. And also the danger of treading someone's territory. I bumbled a bit, and didn't perform at all, wandering around and watching show after show, too unnerved to ask for help until I saw one bald, cockney Brit with a fake French accent escape from chains with a smile on his face. I asked him what the hell I should do.
It was that simple. For the next month I had a mentor. This guy gave me tips on how to draw crowds, get tips, and perform better. He showed me who to stay away from, and introduced me to quite a few good guys. In fact, after meeting some more magicians I was invited to perform with them at the main space in front of the museum at Trafalgar Square. They lent me a microphone and amplifier and set me out to do what I could.
About a week later I mustered the courage to perform at Magician's Corner on James Street at Covent Garden. That's where the big boys go. That's where solid talent meets real experience. And, while I may hnot quite live up to that, I threw myself to the wolves and came out of there with a loot quite comparable to that of some of the best guys there.
Catherine and I ended up staying at a hostel in a suburb of London and commuting in to the city every day for a little over a week. She started performing too, spinning plates at the London Eye and along the wings of Trafalgar. By the time we had figured out how to make enough money to live, we were broke and exhausted.
Going out for hours a day and performing is rough business. It's physically taxing and it drains you emotionally--especially a guy like me, who is capable of meeting new people and engaging them, but doesn't enjoy it much. It's constant tension, nerves, and shouting. It's begging, pleading, and joking. It's being quick on your tongue and sharp with your feet...or is it the other way around? Anythign can happen. Frankly, it's a bit scary when a large group of Danish high-schoolers, led by their imposing hyper-alpha male companion encircle you--you don't understand them, and this big guy just keeps grabbing your shit, and egging people on, and every one encircles you tighter, tighter, until you figure something out, like finding the alpha-female, and playing off of her while you humiliate the alpha-male with a really good slight. But that sort of stuff is unplanned, potentially dangerous, and would often leave me begging for a few minutes or hours of respite after such a confrontation. But usually it just drew more crowds. One day I walked away with sixty pounds.
We enjoyed all that London had to offer. Sweltering heat, freezing rain. We enjoyed the open markets and Pizza Express. We explored the Tower of London and Southwark Cathedral. We wandered the Tubes underground and found food in the early hours of a beautiful Sunday morning. That London experience has very few details impressed on my memory the way it has for the first time I was there. This trip, with Catherine is a few flashes of imagery, and the rest is a painting in warm tones, dabbed with sensation like a Manet with a piano playing in the background. I remember the Relentless energy drinks, the closed magic shop, waiting in line for Oyster cards, the British Library with its exhibit of Science Fiction over the centuries. I remember running outside a restaurant to ask a passerby how to tip a waiter in their country. I remember walking across the London Bridge at midnight. I remember turning over in out small bunk at five in the morning, eager, wide-eyed and whispering, "I'm not sleepy." I remember mushroom pate, and the company van we saw periodically which advertised it's radish business. And Ryman's Stationers, and Catherine's awesome drawings on the stationary purchased therein. I remember McDonalds and long, daily walks along the Thames. I remember men with metal detectors, and men making sand sculptures during a big street fair. But these are all like photographs. They lay against, as I said, what feels like a painting, colored in warm tones with a short brush and only the idea of form in mind. These memories feel like summer.
But, soon it was clear that we couldn't support ourselves, monetarily, physically, and emotionally. I wanted to get moving on my screenwriting and on Hollywood, and I didn't have the free time I needed whilst sticking to a fledgling performer's schedule. So Catherine and I booked a flight to Los Angeles, California, via Germany. We were gone in three days.
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