Sadness #soLA

Published 4/21/2013

Sometimes I have good days, like when I realize I’ve had two auditions in a week and people think I was born in the 90s. Other times, I’m putting duct tape on my car and interviewing for a necessary second, and tragically quintessential waitress job. This past week has unfortunately been made up of the latter. While food and beverage industry servitude is depressing for most, I’ve realized that there are  a wealth of scenarios that would darken only the brows of my fellow Hollywood dwellers. Life in perpetually sunny weather can be really hard sometimes, guys.

1)      When brunch gets cancelled.

Brunch is important. It is really, really important. Brunch is a magical time when you can eat French toast or a sandwich and drink and no one will judge you. Because this is LA and most people are ambiguously employed, brunch can happen every day of the week. This is amazing. People who cancel brunch plans are horrible human beings.

2)      When good shows get cancelled after  two seasons or less, while mediocre ones get renewed and picked up for syndication.

Enlightened, Boss, Luck and Dirty Sexy Money were all cut down in their prime, but Glee just got renewed for two more seasons. Two! I shall say no more on the matter.

3)      When people who don’t live in LA/work in film comment on Deadline.

Just, why? They’re never accurate or relevant and 90 percent of the time have no working knowledge of the things they’re ranting about. It makes me sad. Please stop it.

4)      The death of Roger Ebert.

That man should have his own holiday. I was sufficiently crushed when I heard the news because his reviews and his insight were legendary. I also had the pleasure of (almost) meeting him and he was a delight.  He will truly be missed.

5)      The realization that box office numbers are life.

The weekend box office, and by extension the American public is unfortunately responsible for the onslaught of franchise reboots and underwhelming  sequels. Original content, shmoriginal shmontent- there’s no need for that when people are preordering tickets for The Fast and the Furious 18!

Unfortunately, rabid devotion to the numbers has recently gotten a little out of hand. While reporting on the tragic Boston Marathon bombings, a popular entertainment site which shall remain nameless  reported that “The Boston area lockdown is lifted – so tonight’s movie-going should proceed as normal.” This is a new  level of crassness. They also previously reported that Boston makes up only one percent of the US market, so lucky them. Heaven forbid the apprehension of terrorists upend the bottom line of a studio. We’re making movies people, not curing cancer. 

6)      The impending Weird Science remake.

This is self-explanatory. You don’t remake John Hughes movies, you just don’t. The dearth of Hollywood creativity has gone way, way too far when it manages to reach its ugly hand into the cannon of near-perfect 80s  teen classics. I shudder at the thought of the casting  alone, as I’m sure one of the cast members of Spring Breakers will be thrown into the mix. What’s next, the inevitable dubstep remake of Don’t You Forget About Me? Tears.

7)      The traffic caused by the Hollywood Bowl in the summer.

It is the effing worst. No traffic on Highland is ever good, but Hollywood Bowl traffic is an entirely different beast .  If you have to enter or exit the valley between seven and midnightish on any day of the week, just be prepared to hate your life. Last year, I made the dreadful mistake of thinking that if I gave myself an extra half hour the night that Barbara Streisand was performing, I could make it to Hollywood and La Brea in a timely fashion. What was I thinking? This is Babs we’re talking about! My twenty minute trip took two hours.  Fail.

8)      When everyone except you is at Coachella.

I have to admit that before moving to LA I had never even heard of Coachella, but now that I have, it’s on my before-I-hit-thirty-bucket list. I want to drive deep into the desert to listen to bands I’ve never heard of, get trampled by people on shrooms and almost die of dehydration. Why does everyone else get to have all the fun?

So as you can see, life in LA can be really tough and people who live in less perfect climates should be more understanding. We may not have to deal with snow or humidity, but it’s not all beach bonfires and American Apparel rompers folks. We have struggles too.

 

 

Awards Season Withdrawal

Published 2/25/2013

Southern California may not be known for its inconsistencies in weather, but Hollywood most certainly has very clearly defined seasons. They all sort of overlap each other, but pilot season, awards season, sweeps,  and “beach weather” are all very real to us. As awards season has come to an end, I now find myself in the midst of a jarring post-Oscar slump, and I’m seriously considering substance abuse to fill the void that I’ve been facing since this morning.

I think the problem is that I’ve been living a bit above my station for the last few days and the sudden decrease in fabulousness is proving harmful to my emotional health. Because I’m one of the great many scarcely employed actresses in this city, I can accept all matter of gigs, which recently included delivering invites for Elton John’s Oscar party and “working” the party itself. Work in this case is relative, and most of it consisted of telling obscenely wealthy people where they could and could not go, and standing in platform pumps for 11 hours.

With my deliveries began the very depressing task of going to houses that could easily be mistaken for museums or English estates. It was seriously architecture porn, and if I hadn’t been driving a borrowed luxury car I might have driven off the road while straining my neck to see these veritable castles. I was also simultaneously depressed and elated as I tiptoed through the depths of one of the big three,  which incidentally had a great week in client stealing recently, and thought about how far I am from being on the radar of any of the super agents who are no doubt upset that they didn’t think of those staff meeting videos first. Le sigh.

In any case, by the time the actual event started, I had come to terms with the fact that I would be surrounded by people whose watches cost more than my car. Also, after attending the party last year and having spent another year as a jaded, seldom working actress, I thought that I had sufficiently trained myself not to gawk at the stars, but alas….

There were a few instances in which I had to restrain myself, like when I saw Aisha Tyler for example. It was really, really hard for me not to go up to her and yell “Lana… Lana… LANA! “ the way Duchess does on Archer. I also had to stop myself from attacking Armie Hammer. The man is beautiful- not hot, beautiful. He looks like he was carved out of stone. Despite those two moments of weakness, I spent most of my time watching ridiculously rich people get extremely wasted, which is always a treat, and I openly laughed in the face of a naïve Canadian who told me she was going to crash the Vanity Fair party when she left Elton’s. Yeah, good luck with that.

 I also learned some important things, like the fact that Analeigh Tipton is freakishly tall and ridiculously gorgeous , Jim Carrey literally looks as if he’s animated, Andrew Rannells is much thinner than he looks on TV, and the sideburns on that guy from the Vampire Diaries are real. Also, apparently it’s cool to wear fur again because I guess it’s the 80’s in New York? Someone forgot to tell me.

In any event, driving home in my own car and waking up in my own bed felt horribly dreary and I’m not entirely convinced that I won’t break out in hives.  A year is far too long to wait for awards season to come again, but luckily I can keep myself busy by watching horrible franchise installments and writing specs that people will pretend to read.

EVENING SCORECARD:

Venue: 5

Alcohol Situation: 5

Actual Beneficial Networking Achieved: 5

Personal Victory/Dignity Retained: 5

Atmosphere: 5

*Drag queens who demonstrated the correct way to dance to Disco Inferno: 1

*Times I was mistaken for Kelly Rowland: 2

*Intensity with which I wished I could hug Jennifer Lawrence for her win: 12

*How much I loved Charlize Theron’s hair: 10

*Oscar extras*

 

The Many Faces of Rejection

Published 1/30/2013

There was a time when I pictured being a starving writer in a whimsical, romantic light, not entirely unlike Rent, although without the terminal disease but plentiful in musical numbers and fingerless gloves.  My reality however, has been disappointingly lacking in impromptu musical set pieces.

Luckily for me, I haven’t embarked on any time consuming ventures like joining SAG or meeting with designers for award show fittings or hiring assistants to make sure I get from pitch meetings at Sony to generals at Mandeville in a timely fashion. Only successful people do things like that and alas, that is heretofore not me. I have however realized that most of the rejection I’ve faced has come in the form of the various ways in which friends and acquaintances fail to follow through on their promises. I’m on to you, guys! Here are a few things my fellow writers should be aware of, but basically, most of the people who say they are going to read/pass along/option your script will do nothing of the sort.  I’ve learned this the hard way. Please exercise caution in the following scenarios.

1)      “I  read your script and it’s awesome and I’m going to meet with my co-producer about making you an offer.”

My very first week in Hollywood,  I got a call from a producer who was a friend of a friend who was enthusiastic, nay gushing, about one of my features. He all but promised me an option and said that I would hear from him by the end of the week. That week came and went and when I contacted him again I got some version of  “Lydia? Oh, yeah, we decided to go in a different direction…” And thus began my inauspicious trek down the boulevard of broken dreams.

2)      “OMG! You’re so talented, let me introduce you to my manager.”

This is a lie. If another writer says this to you, please know that they won’t read anything you send them because no one in Hollywood can be bothered to read anything longer than coverage. If they do read it and so much as suspect that you are equally or more talented than they are,  they will definitely, definitely not introduce you to their manager. Writers are insecure and deathly afraid that your talent will take away from potential work for them. It’s a fact.

3)      “I just started at a lit desk at (insert agency). Send me your stuff.”

Nope! This person  may mean well, but they are simply too busy to read your earnest story of redemption. When you start on an agency desk , your only free time will be the fleeting moments between transferring calls.  This person will HARASS you to send your script multiple times because they will lose it, but they will never, ever read it. And if they do, no one at ICM, WME or the like is going to read a script that their new second assistant is championing.  Try again.

4)      “You seem really bright. I’d love to read a spec.  Here’s my assistant’s email address.”

This is the kiss of death. If someone says this to you, they don’t even consider you worthy of their generic office email. True, their assistant would ultimately delete it  and send it into the “unsolicited”  abyss, but at least if the exec’s name was attached you could fool yourself into thinking that they would see it. If you’re immediately relegated to a third party, you have failed.

Now that you’re aware of these disheartening scenarios, all of which I’ve experienced numerous times, you can forego the pain that lives in the silence of an unanswered email.  As for me, I may give up writing entirely, marry Rob Kardashian since that’s obviously the quickest way to get a show on the E! network, and  attempt to parlay my subsequent unfavorable publicity into a respectable acting career. In the meantime, I’ll be practicing my “gracious loser” face in the mirror. Maybe one day I’ll get to use it at the Independent Spirit Awards…

The One with A Modern Speakeasy…

Published 12/13/2012

After spending a considerable amount of time in LA, one quickly accepts the fact that people are probably lying to you in 90 percent of your interactions with them. Once you realize this, it becomes much easier for you in turn to become a purveyor of half-truths with very little weight on your conscience. I’m not saying I’ve become Pinocchio, but I may have exaggerated (a lot) to land  a commercial audition a couple of weeks ago and I’ve mastered the art of looking background wranglers in the eye and convincing them that I most definitely do not have a cell phone right here, in my pocket even though I’m really not supposed to have it on this closed set…

In this town of smoke and mirrors however, sometimes one stumbles upon a not-so-hidden gem that is more of a delight than an affront to your intelligence. On a recent outing, my friend’s dogged search for a random hookup led us to Laurel Hardware and aside from my fleeting disappointment at not finding a wrench or gasket in the place, it turned out to be a spot I wouldn’t mind being dragged to again.

I was initially annoyed by the line that stretched along the building, only because it was a nod not to the number of people inside but the attempt to make the place seem more exclusive than it actually is. This did however give us more time to note the cool sliding glass doors in the front of the restaurant and ponder on what exactly the people behind the counter were doing. They were literally handing stacks of plates to each other but no one was eating or cooking. They never stopped moving though. Like I said, smoke and mirrors.

Once we got inside and made it past the front dining room, the rather large bar area with booths, casual seating and a large communal table were more than precious.  This place is faintly lit but it also has a great patio, which besides closing at midnight and being freaking freezing, was charming. And as much as I like my nightlife to be devoid of any references to the holidays,  the unabashed Christmas décor was surprisingly inviting rather than kitschy. My friends and I spent most of the night name-dropping, ducking various studio execs, and pointing  out agents to our East Coast visitor. While we debated the validity of the new Blacklist service, she was mostly disappointed that the place wasn’t brimming with Hollywood’s Chosen. We explained that duh, it was the first night of Hanukkah and what did she expect, and immediately shared the collective realization that we’ve been here far too long and have indeed drunk the Kool-Aid, or the Manischewitz rather.

But oh how I thoroughly appreciate this place! The vintage storefront and the discreet bar in the rear made me feel as if I had stumbled across a speakeasy in West Hollywood, missing only passwords and hidden doors. I half expected to walk in and hear someone decrying the advent of “talkies.” And here was a place with adults, actual adults who were both not creepy and not feigning importance, mostly because nobody here had to pretend. Apparently this is a place that even industry heavies have trouble getting reservations on certain nights.

As for our friend’s pursuit of le sex, I’m not quite sure if she was successful, as I’m not one for sticking around once the lights come on and quickly made my escape. But this reconstituted hardware store is definitely one of my new favorite things.  I mean who doesn’t like a modern speakeasy? It’s pretty much the cat’s pajamas- yeah, I’m bringing that back.

EVENING SCORECARD:

Venue: 5 (Did I mention it’s like a speakeasy?)

Alcohol Situation: 5

Actual Beneficial Networking Achieved:0 (Does seeing people who could advance your career count?)

Personal Victory/Dignity Retained: 5

Atmosphere: #winning

 

Happy Hanukkah Yall

(Re) Published 12/8/2012

So I'm reposting my Hanukkah tale from last year because, why not? Also, watch this:

SNL Christmas for the Jews

Published 12/19/2011

Twas the Night Before Hanukkah…Because Openly Celebrating Christmas in Hollywood is Damn Near Offensive

If you haven’t been living under a rock and/or you’ve watched at least one episode of Entourage or Curb Your Enthusiasm, then you know that Hollywood is run by the children of Israel. Don’t get angry or offended, it’s just a fact and the sooner you realize that being one of the chosen is the way to go, the better. Besides, in this liberal climate where practicing every religion except Christianity is accepted and encouraged, Christmas has become passé at best.  Jesus is not politically correct guys! So pull up a chair Jews and goys alike because I’ve got a Christmas Chanukah story for you:

 

Twas the night before  Hanukkah and all through Hollywood,

studio execs wondered if their box office numbers were good.

The Oscar buzz had started  but they only wanted to see,

if real acting would ever come from the cast of Glee.

The ICM Holiday party had gone off with a smash,

and agents hoped that the near implosion was a thing of the past.

The “professionals” at UTA admired their sparkling new logo,

while failing to answer the phone in client info.

Poor assistants and interns consoled themselves with cheap beer,

while Ari Emanuel counted his ridonkulous money with cheer.

As I weaved through the 101 I had such a fright,

before realizing it was the newly skinny Jonah Hill, what a sight!

I perused the Blacklist but what did I see,

every script already attached and repped- this looks fishy to me.

I texted a daughter of Abraham to find out where to purchase chocolate gelt

and delivered them for my boss’ kids before they should melt.

Nikki Finke had hung her snarky stockings with care,

and Kim K’s waxed her newly-divorced body hair.

Not a sleigh did I see but a TMZ tour bus instead,

and I tried to erase Lilo’s Playboy shoot from my head.

I raced to the Whitney set to do my background work for the night,

Wishing Happy Hanukkah to all, and to all a good (eight) nights!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Funday at the Hudson

Published 11/6/2012

 

If you’re one of the faithful few who actually reads my blog, you may have noticed that more than a month has passed since my last post. I blame this on a myriad of things, all of which can be attributed to a magical and horrible phenomena that occurs when one has been in LA for two years. Things suddenly get much, much worse. Gone are the days when I could leisurely write about my subpar living conditions and unfortunate on set experiences with caustic  glee.  I have suddenly become more of a starving artist than I previously was for reasons that include but are not limited to the fact that my hours at my dead end, non-industry job have been reduced due to new part-time laws in California.  I’ve also been slightly preoccupied as I’ve been trying to sue my landlord because surprise, my studio apartment isn’t properly permitted and it turns out, I’m living in an illegal unit. Fun.

In any event, a few of my friends recently dragged me to theHudson for much needed drinks that I can no longer afford. As luck would have it, the Hudson is a charming place: It’s dark but not gloomy, the crowd is actually sophisticated  as it’s far enough beyond Hollywood to avoid being grimy and not deep enough into Weho to be wild, and their late night menu has ah-mahz-ing creations like short rib grilled cheese sandwiches, and garlic fries that will no doubt haunt my dreams until the end of time. Also the guy at the door has a magnificent beard. Seriously, you could probably find the way to Narnia through that thing.

 The only bone I have to pick with this establishment is that for a place so wonderfully mellow, the music was so, so loud. Like, I had to shout more than I do at college game day at Big Wangz. But despite the noise  and the inordinate number of women swathed in Jersey Shore-levels of leopard print and entire Housewives franchises worth of rhinestone jackets, I will definitely be adding this to my list of new favorite places.

This outing of mine was nearly perfect but alas, it was tarnished by my dear unsubtle friend. I have become the target of her unsolicited matchmaking because she and one of our compadres have started dating, and have made it their mission to marry me off to our fourth mutual friend. Well-meaning though they may be, this foolhardy plan will only end  badly for everyone, as the only thing that said friend and I have in common is that fact that we are both black and attractive. Well, also we’re actors, but out here who isn’t . It’s not going to happen friends! We do NOT like each other like that. Anyways, I shall return to the Hudson to wreck my diet with their carb-tastic bar food and hopefully by the time I do, my life will be in less of a shambles.

EVENING SCORECARD:

Venue: 5

Alcohol Situation: 4 (Only because they insist on using mason jars. Really, that needs to stop!)

Actual Beneficial Networking Achieved:0

Personal Victory/Dignity Retained: 5

Atmosphere: #winning

 

 

 

I Am NOT a Hipster, Really I’m Not…

Published 9/26/2012

In the past few months, I’ve repeatedly had to tell people more and more often that I am definitely not  a hipster.  I’m not a hipster. Never mind the fact I can often be found wearing a scarf when it isn’t cold, talking about buying a Prius, perusing dresses with abstract floral patterns and ambiguous waistlines  at Urban Outfitters and planning eco-friendly, vegan cookouts at which to play some newly acquired records when I’m accused of this common Hollywood affliction.

I feel that I must stress that I’ve always loved vinyl and character lenses and indie bands with small but devout followings. Why is it then that only recently my friends have pointed out with increasing regularity my faux oxford shoes, my closet brimming with striped shirts and my attraction to men with tragically tight shorts? 

Then someone reminded me that one of the most readily identifiable traits of the hipster is their unwillingness to be labeled as such- obviously, because labels signify conformity to a mainstream, capitalist society- and I began to be slightly concerned.  This conundrum has forced me to devise the following quiz-slash-drinking game to find out if I am in fact a hipster, or not. Feel free to take it as well. FYI, if you know what PBR stands for, you’re already in deep trouble my friends. You’ll see what I mean…

Rules:

For every “A” answer, you must drink a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, increase the volume on your record player or outdated hip hop album that you’ve recently “discovered” (maybe I should turn down this Andre 3000 from 2002), or read another chapter in whatever Kafka book you’re pretending to be inspired by.  Enjoy, or whatever, don’t enjoy, just be.

1)On movie nights you and your friends watch

a)a French documentary about the influence of Kubrick on the new neo realism wave.

b)The  Artist.

c) a super hero blockbuster.

                2) The most coveted item on your Amazon wish list is

a) a fixed-gear bike.

2)a pair of harem pants.

3) a pair  of patent leather Louboutin pumps

3)Handlebar moustaches are atrocious.

a)False

b) True

4)Your Saturday shopping trip consists of a visit to

a)a vintage/consignment shop.

b) American Apparel or Urban Outfitters.

c)The Grove.

5) When you’re trying to be cool you

a)throw around some French phrases or  arbitrarily quote The Seagull.

b) wear an ironic tee shirt, perhaps one with a picture of an owl on it.

c) name drop.

6)You think a man should smell like

a) Tom’s of Maine and home-grown marijuana.

b)soap.

c) Axe body spray.

7) You always have these things on your grocery list:

a) quinoa, organic alfalfa sprouts, sake, spirulina and locally grown honeycomb.

b) a Trader Joe’s summer salad kit and soy milk.

c)Oreos.

8)To stay in shape you do

a) transcendental yoga.

b) a cardio barre workout.

c) whatever Blake Lively’s trainer’s cousin’s friend recommends.

Well how did you do friends? If you answered mostly Bs and Cs, then you’ve barely touched your PBR and you’ve only been slightly affected by the time you’ve spent living in LA (or Portland or Brooklyn). If you’ve chosen mostly As however, then I suspect that you’re lighting up an American Spirit with a match, or drunkenly stumbling in your Toms and ridiculously low v-neck shirts around the coffee table you made from salvaged recycled wood behind your bff’s start-up microbrewery.  I’m not going to say what I scored, but I think it may be time for an intervention. I just hope I get to keep my record player when it’s over.