“Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood!”
A week or two after we moved in to our neighborhood, my husband and I both became conscious of a young woman who lived in the building across the street from ours. She couldn’t have gone unnoticed. She looked about twenty-five years old and very pretty, petite, and slim. She had a prim, 1950’s style, pairing Capri jeans with sweater sets and sun hats or adorable dresses and parasols. It was her personality, though, that really got our attention: she’d walk down the street shouting vulgarities to the entire population. She could be heard from blocks away, screaming “Hollywoodhollywoodhollywood! F--- you, Hollywood! F--- your Jesus! Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood!” She scared me. She scared the entire street. She’d sit on the balcony of her apartment and violently flip people the finger as they walked by. She’d walk down the street bearing the middle finger of both hands, waving them like wands of black magic at everything and everyone she encountered. Her every step was a thunderous clap of hatred, and I could only imagine the evil in her gaze (she kept her eyes veiled behind oversized sunglasses).
“Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood!”
She shouted like she was voicing the anger and resentment of generations of damaged dreams, and scolding anyone who might mistake Hollywood for a good place to be.
One hot summer day, I was on my front porch sanding down an antique desk I’d just purchased. A truck pulled up to an apartment building just a few doors down and a woman began loading her belongings into it. The woman was alone in this effort, moving her belongings entirely by herself. Miss Hollywood approached the back of the vehicle, and squatted down, hiding from the woman in the truck bed. For several minutes, she played a solo game of slowly rising into view and then quickly squatting back down, out of sight. Finally, the woman in the truck bed caught a glimpse of her, and startled back. When she regained her footing, she said something curtly to Miss Hollywood, who stood up and laughed. The woman, obviously uncomfortable but uncertain what to do, just went back to arranging her belongings in the truck bed while Miss Hollywood continued to stand in the same spot, and watch.
After a few minutes, Miss Hollywood, perhaps annoyed that the woman had ceased paying attention to her, began reaching out and touching objects in the truck. She’d rise up from hiding while the woman’s back was turned, extend an arm, and touch something. Then she’d wait for a reaction, as if the woman would be able to psychically detect that one of her belongings had been defiled. When the woman didn’t notice anything unusual, Miss Hollywood began moving items within her reach from one place to another, all while the woman was turned away. Eventually, the woman noticed that her stuff had been rearranged, and began yelling and gesticulating violently. “Just leave me alone!” she begged. Miss Hollywood laughed, and stayed put. The woman repeated her desperate gesture several times, snapping her arm and forefinger into a stern point away from the truck, each time with rising acerbity until Miss Hollywood slowly retreated. As she reached the middle of the street, she unleashed a torrent of obscenities upon the woman in the truck, who just stood there, dumbfounded. Finally, Miss Hollywood snapped around and stormed into her apartment building, the stream of profanity trailing behind her.
A few days later, I was again on my porch, this time writing and enjoying a glass of wine, when I heard Miss Hollywood’s signature soundtrack. I glanced toward the location of her voice and saw her perched glamorously on the railing of her balcony, her arms wrapped around one knee, and her other leg stretched out in front of her. She wore sunglasses, a tank top, and shorts. She looked positively relaxed, yet she spewed her usual execrations and comminations with maximum fury.
“Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood!” she screamed. “F--- Hollywood, F--- your Jesus, Hollywood!”
I watched unsuspecting pedestrians wandering down the sidewalk jump with alarm as they entered her range. When they found the source of the noise, they’d freeze and stare in wonderment before moving along. The whole thing was wildly amusing. Eventually, the woman from the truck-bed incident strolled by. When she heard Miss Hollywood, she crouched behind a shrub, dug a camera out of her purse and proceeded to snap some clandestine photographs of our local psycho. She’d slowly raise her arms above the shrub, take a picture and then quickly squat back down to evaluate the result. This she repeated several times, until she placed the camera back in her purse and nonchalantly crossed the street to her own apartment. Miss Hollywood maintained her particular brand of R&R – blaspheming from her balcony – for another two hours. My ears were bleeding by the end of it.
Some months later, I realized I hadn’t seen or heard anything from her since that balcony tirade. I was surprised to find that I kind of missed her, and was truly worried about what might have happened to her. Did she get dragged away in a straight jacket to the nearest mental facility? Did she piss somebody off and get hurt? One day, I ran into an acquaintance, a fellow actor from a theatre company I worked with briefly. It turns out she lives in that building across the street. I asked her what ever became of the screaming banshee, and she told me that, to the delight of the entire building, their resident schizophrenic had been evicted. She didn’t know where she wound up going, after being forced out, and she didn’t care.
Had I lived in her building, I’m sure I would have felt the same relief at her removal, but having been a mere audience to her antics, I felt nostalgic for the coloratura with which she ornamented my first year in Hollywood. Although a nuisance, she had captured my imagination, and had helped secure Hollywood in mind as a place of true diversity and dynamism. Perhaps she was wildy disturbed, but she was also wildly interesting.
--
Read The People of Hollywood, Part I here.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The City Observed: Tony's Saloon
I asked for a Red Hook cocktail with Bulleit Rye, but the bartender suggested something else. A Red Car Named Desire is made with rye, luxardo, and cassis, with a peel of lemon. At first taste, it was too sweet for my liking, but it hit the back of my tongue with an intriguing spiciness before disappearing down my throat all together, as if I'd taken a sip of water. It was an interesting cocktail, with nuances on the tongue like you’d find in a good glass of wine. Tony’s Saloon is my favorite bar in Los Angeles due this kind of personalized service. With each beverage, they craft an experience tailored specifically to the customer.
I also love Tony’s because of how comfortable I am sitting alone at the bar. This is one of my favorite activities, and I say so with absolute honesty. I’m not shy about sitting alone in bars, and I’ve done so at almost every type of place you can think of, from chic lounges in SoHo to the most divey, green-carpeted slime hole on San Francisco’s Van Ness Avenue. Despite my non-discriminating affinity for solo bar-going, there are times that I feel uncomfortable, once seated, as if all eyes are on the lonely girl at the bar, or as if all lonely guys seem to think I’m theirs to win. Not so at Tony’s. I can sit there undisturbed for hours, until I strike up a conversation with the bartender about his favorite whiskey, or a fellow patron chats me up about books or movies. I’ve had many great conversations at Tony’s, over many a great cocktail.
My only complaint about it is that it’s becoming more popular, however deservedly.
Tony’s Saloon - 2017 East 7th Street, Los Angeles, CA 90021
I also love Tony’s because of how comfortable I am sitting alone at the bar. This is one of my favorite activities, and I say so with absolute honesty. I’m not shy about sitting alone in bars, and I’ve done so at almost every type of place you can think of, from chic lounges in SoHo to the most divey, green-carpeted slime hole on San Francisco’s Van Ness Avenue. Despite my non-discriminating affinity for solo bar-going, there are times that I feel uncomfortable, once seated, as if all eyes are on the lonely girl at the bar, or as if all lonely guys seem to think I’m theirs to win. Not so at Tony’s. I can sit there undisturbed for hours, until I strike up a conversation with the bartender about his favorite whiskey, or a fellow patron chats me up about books or movies. I’ve had many great conversations at Tony’s, over many a great cocktail.
My only complaint about it is that it’s becoming more popular, however deservedly.
 |
| Photo by Colin Young Wolff |
Tony’s Saloon - 2017 East 7th Street, Los Angeles, CA 90021
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Summer in Traffic
I live on the East Side, but I work on the West Side. When I moved to Los Angeles, I found this scenario unthinkable. I’d found a place in Hollywood, and while I looked for work, I looked solely east of La Cienega. If I ran across an appealing day job that was based on the West Side, I wouldn’t apply, and would only consider driving to the West Side for a paid acting gig. I eventually had to weaken this personal boundary in order to pursue a broader range of opportunities, and finally the wall came down altogether. I now spend nearly to two hours in my car every day, commuting from home to work and back. On days when I have auditions or meetings elsewhere in the city, this time increases dramatically. One day, I spent over four hours driving, without leaving the confines of Los Angeles.
This is a key complaint amongst people who proclaim to dislike Los Angeles, or amongst those who’ve agreed to live here but merely tolerate it. Traffic. I’ve come to accept it. That said, I take every chance I can to walk or ride the metro, and that’s what Carmageddon was for me: a weekend-long incentive to stay local, and use my feet or ride the metro when I wanted to go out. It was great, and put me very much in touch with summertime.
Summer in New York City is tactile, and not just because the heat glues itself to you. You experience summer with every step – to work, on errands, out and about in your daily life. You’ll stop along the way for an iced coffee and walk down the street with it chilling your hand. You’ll grab a seat in Madison Square garden on your lunch break, and notice what sandals every girl is wearing. You’ll make note of how the fabric on your body is moving with the breeze, or clinging to your body on a breezeless day, and you’ll amend tomorrow’s outfit accordingly. You’ll drink beverages that you don’t usually order in the winter – mint juleps, jalapeno margaritas, caipirinhas. Your friends who live in apartments with any bit of outdoor space will host “garden” parties. Your favorite bars will open their patios or balconies. All throughout the city, you’ll feel summer.
Though the garden parties in LA are held in real gardens in spacious backyards (sometimes even with pools), these parties take place all year round, just as the patios and balconies are open all year. There’s no seasonal ceremony to ordering an iced coffee, nor will you notice it chilling your hand as you walk down the street, because instead, it will chill the beverage holder in your car. You’ll drive past the parks most days, unless you have a confirmed reason to go to one on the weekend – for an event, or a movie screening. Chances are, you won’t just be walking through a park and grabbing a seat on a bench for a spell. The weather will, as always, be good, but you’ll be in your car, with the air conditioning on. Here in LA, you don’t feel summer as much as you just feel LA.
So it goes. It’s nice here. What’s new?
This is a key complaint amongst people who proclaim to dislike Los Angeles, or amongst those who’ve agreed to live here but merely tolerate it. Traffic. I’ve come to accept it. That said, I take every chance I can to walk or ride the metro, and that’s what Carmageddon was for me: a weekend-long incentive to stay local, and use my feet or ride the metro when I wanted to go out. It was great, and put me very much in touch with summertime.
Summer in New York City is tactile, and not just because the heat glues itself to you. You experience summer with every step – to work, on errands, out and about in your daily life. You’ll stop along the way for an iced coffee and walk down the street with it chilling your hand. You’ll grab a seat in Madison Square garden on your lunch break, and notice what sandals every girl is wearing. You’ll make note of how the fabric on your body is moving with the breeze, or clinging to your body on a breezeless day, and you’ll amend tomorrow’s outfit accordingly. You’ll drink beverages that you don’t usually order in the winter – mint juleps, jalapeno margaritas, caipirinhas. Your friends who live in apartments with any bit of outdoor space will host “garden” parties. Your favorite bars will open their patios or balconies. All throughout the city, you’ll feel summer.
Though the garden parties in LA are held in real gardens in spacious backyards (sometimes even with pools), these parties take place all year round, just as the patios and balconies are open all year. There’s no seasonal ceremony to ordering an iced coffee, nor will you notice it chilling your hand as you walk down the street, because instead, it will chill the beverage holder in your car. You’ll drive past the parks most days, unless you have a confirmed reason to go to one on the weekend – for an event, or a movie screening. Chances are, you won’t just be walking through a park and grabbing a seat on a bench for a spell. The weather will, as always, be good, but you’ll be in your car, with the air conditioning on. Here in LA, you don’t feel summer as much as you just feel LA.
So it goes. It’s nice here. What’s new?
Friday, July 15, 2011
The City Observed: Thrillist's Punch Crawl - (Los Angeles Roars On)
During the week of Zooey Deschanel and Pat Morrison’s war of words over Downtown LA, two opportunities arose to experience the wonders of the metropolitan center of the city. The first was the Thrillist Bols Genever Punch Crawl on Wednesday night, and the second was the monthly Downtown Art Crawl. I did not attend the latter, but I did attend and thoroughly enjoyed the former.
Six bars in Downtown LA offered up unique punchbowls mixed with Bols Genever. For $25 dollars, we got one glass of punch and culinary treats at each stop. I love grainy alcohols, I love discovering bars, and I love Downtown LA. It was quite a night. I consider myself pretty savvy about Downtown, as I worked in the Oviatt building on 6th and Olive for nearly a year. However, that was two years ago, and Downtown has since changed. There are more people and more places, and I view them as a very good thing. Of the six bars participating in the punch crawl, I had only been to two: Cole’s and Varnish.
We started at Bar & Kitchen. Their Vondlepark Punch was a refreshing mix of Genever and Amontillado Sherry, and they served us two delectable morsels of bacon-wrapped dates. The deliciousness of both the punch and dates had us drooling over the menu and vowing to go back in the near future for dinner. I also enjoyed the atmosphere of the place: unpretentious gastropubbiness with an East Coast feel.
Next, we wandered over to the address of Caña Rum Bar: 714 West Olympic Boulevard, which happens to be the beautiful art deco Petroleum Building. We saw no sign or door for a bar, and were momentarily confused. We walked under the gorgeous archway into the beautifully-tiled lobby with two walls of old elevators framing a set of double glass doors. We told the security guard that we were looking for the rum bar. She directed us down a hallway (lined with historic photographs of Downtown) to the parking lot (adorned with stunning art deco light fixtures – yes, the parking lot!), where there is a tent in the corner that serves as the entrance to Cana Rum Bar. Once inside, we saw that the double glass doors at the end of the Petroleum Building lobby lead to the bar. But they’re tinted and sealed, either to create a speakeasy atmosphere, to keep rum-filled drunks out of the lobby of the office building, or to provide easy access from car to bar back to car (such is Los Angeles).
We sipped our Panamanian Detective, made with guava, Averna and limes. This was my husband’s favorite punch of the evening. I enjoyed it, though I really savored the scent of cigars from the Cigar Garden. Again, I vowed to go back for a specialty cocktail and a carefully-selected cigar from their humidor. I hope they have someone on hand to help me choose.
Our third destination was Drago Centro, in the corporate City National Plaza. I typically avoid lounging in corporate atmospheres, but as we wandered around looking for the restaurant, I noticed that the plaza is designed to offer an elegant view of the Central Library, the West Lawn, the California Club Building, and the high rises ascending out of the landscaping of the Bunker Hill Steps. It’s really a lovely view, and made the experience of wandering around a corporate plaza actually inspiring. I felt like I was in a dynamic and alluring city, because, well, I was.
Drago Centro served up a Pompeii Punch accented with nastertium petals. This was my favorite drink of the evening, as with each sip it revealed new interactions of flavor. They also cooked up a tasty fennel sausage pizza, which holds a place on their standard appetizer menu. I loved my drink, and I liked the snack, but because of the heavily corporate atmosphere of the restaurant itself, I probably won’t find myself there very often.
Next up was The Falls. We have a friend who works there, and she showed us her newly acquired badass bartending skill of lighting her finger on fire and blowing the flame down the length of the bar. This trick was far more fascinating than their punch. Called Flowing Bols, it was altogether unremarkable. We had a great time there, though.
Finally, we stepped into Cole's for a Peach Cobbler punch, with cinnamon simple syrup and angostura bitters, served with a little side of baked peach cobbler. The pie was good, the punch was underwhelming.
We were, when it came time, very ready to saunter back to Varnish, where the cocktails are always astounding. A charming gentleman named Chris welcomed us to the punch bowl and took great interest in describing to us his punch concoction, which he christened the Dutch Pugilist. He’d peeled dozens of lemons early that morning, dusted them with sugar, and let them sit for hours on end to create a zesty syrup that was the base of the punch. I remember it was wonderful, but I fail to remember details of its flavor (and failed to snap a pic), because at this point in the evening, I’d drunk a lot of punch.
Chris charmed us with his love of libations and introduced us to a distant nephew of Maurice Chevalier, who wore a well-tailored suit and stood about 7 feet tall, no exaggeration. Drinking an old-English-named beverage in a 1920’s style speakeasy, and conversing with a relative of a vaudeville entertainer transported me to a very specific Los Angeles – one you wouldn’t think exists today. And yet, behind secret doors in Downtown’s historic buildings, it endures, this roaring Los Angeles.
Six bars in Downtown LA offered up unique punchbowls mixed with Bols Genever. For $25 dollars, we got one glass of punch and culinary treats at each stop. I love grainy alcohols, I love discovering bars, and I love Downtown LA. It was quite a night. I consider myself pretty savvy about Downtown, as I worked in the Oviatt building on 6th and Olive for nearly a year. However, that was two years ago, and Downtown has since changed. There are more people and more places, and I view them as a very good thing. Of the six bars participating in the punch crawl, I had only been to two: Cole’s and Varnish.
We started at Bar & Kitchen. Their Vondlepark Punch was a refreshing mix of Genever and Amontillado Sherry, and they served us two delectable morsels of bacon-wrapped dates. The deliciousness of both the punch and dates had us drooling over the menu and vowing to go back in the near future for dinner. I also enjoyed the atmosphere of the place: unpretentious gastropubbiness with an East Coast feel.
Next, we wandered over to the address of Caña Rum Bar: 714 West Olympic Boulevard, which happens to be the beautiful art deco Petroleum Building. We saw no sign or door for a bar, and were momentarily confused. We walked under the gorgeous archway into the beautifully-tiled lobby with two walls of old elevators framing a set of double glass doors. We told the security guard that we were looking for the rum bar. She directed us down a hallway (lined with historic photographs of Downtown) to the parking lot (adorned with stunning art deco light fixtures – yes, the parking lot!), where there is a tent in the corner that serves as the entrance to Cana Rum Bar. Once inside, we saw that the double glass doors at the end of the Petroleum Building lobby lead to the bar. But they’re tinted and sealed, either to create a speakeasy atmosphere, to keep rum-filled drunks out of the lobby of the office building, or to provide easy access from car to bar back to car (such is Los Angeles).
We sipped our Panamanian Detective, made with guava, Averna and limes. This was my husband’s favorite punch of the evening. I enjoyed it, though I really savored the scent of cigars from the Cigar Garden. Again, I vowed to go back for a specialty cocktail and a carefully-selected cigar from their humidor. I hope they have someone on hand to help me choose.
Our third destination was Drago Centro, in the corporate City National Plaza. I typically avoid lounging in corporate atmospheres, but as we wandered around looking for the restaurant, I noticed that the plaza is designed to offer an elegant view of the Central Library, the West Lawn, the California Club Building, and the high rises ascending out of the landscaping of the Bunker Hill Steps. It’s really a lovely view, and made the experience of wandering around a corporate plaza actually inspiring. I felt like I was in a dynamic and alluring city, because, well, I was.
Drago Centro served up a Pompeii Punch accented with nastertium petals. This was my favorite drink of the evening, as with each sip it revealed new interactions of flavor. They also cooked up a tasty fennel sausage pizza, which holds a place on their standard appetizer menu. I loved my drink, and I liked the snack, but because of the heavily corporate atmosphere of the restaurant itself, I probably won’t find myself there very often.
Next up was The Falls. We have a friend who works there, and she showed us her newly acquired badass bartending skill of lighting her finger on fire and blowing the flame down the length of the bar. This trick was far more fascinating than their punch. Called Flowing Bols, it was altogether unremarkable. We had a great time there, though.
Finally, we stepped into Cole's for a Peach Cobbler punch, with cinnamon simple syrup and angostura bitters, served with a little side of baked peach cobbler. The pie was good, the punch was underwhelming.
We were, when it came time, very ready to saunter back to Varnish, where the cocktails are always astounding. A charming gentleman named Chris welcomed us to the punch bowl and took great interest in describing to us his punch concoction, which he christened the Dutch Pugilist. He’d peeled dozens of lemons early that morning, dusted them with sugar, and let them sit for hours on end to create a zesty syrup that was the base of the punch. I remember it was wonderful, but I fail to remember details of its flavor (and failed to snap a pic), because at this point in the evening, I’d drunk a lot of punch.
Chris charmed us with his love of libations and introduced us to a distant nephew of Maurice Chevalier, who wore a well-tailored suit and stood about 7 feet tall, no exaggeration. Drinking an old-English-named beverage in a 1920’s style speakeasy, and conversing with a relative of a vaudeville entertainer transported me to a very specific Los Angeles – one you wouldn’t think exists today. And yet, behind secret doors in Downtown’s historic buildings, it endures, this roaring Los Angeles.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Liberty Weekend
My favorite way to spend the 4th of July weekend is at the beach, as I've done for the last three years. I have an affinity for Manhattan and Hermosa beaches, as do all of the rowdiest high school and college kids, who enjoy getting hopelessly drunk and baring their toasted skin. I find their antics endlessly amusing, and love being in the midst of their messy revelry.
Biking up and down the strand from Hermosa to Venice and back is a fabulous way to feel like a spoiled Californian, and I've done this every Independence Day for the past three years. This year, we have a new car, a Prius, and we didn't think to make sure that our bike rack would fit it properly. We just fastened it on, hoisted the bicycles on to it, and then by the time we entered Downtown LA, noticed that the bikes seemed less than secure. We pulled off the freeway at 3rd street and stopped in an empty parking lot.
With the skyrises of Los Angeles laughing down at us, we took the bikes off of the rack, emptied out the contents of our car, and piled the bikes inside.
The ride felt much more safe, though a little crammed, with our bicycles as our passengers.
It was, of course, all worth it, as our bicycles became our best companions on the beach. As the weekend revelers became more and more rowdy, we just sailed past them, perched atop our wheels, peaceful observers of the outrageous comedy that unfolded along The Strand.
Twenty two year old women in barely-there bikinis, their painted faces sagging with drink, dragged their flip-flopped feet behind them, as they tried to mask their lack of balance. They still, despite this charade, appeared attractive to the twenty two year old men who played less dress-up with paint and beachwear, but more with machismo. They layed it on thick.
I, too, enjoy the drink, although I avoid being drunk. My husband and I carried rum and wine splits in our totes, and we stopped in at Shellback Nation on Manhattan Beach for two bloody mary's - among the best I've had in LA - on the morning of the 4th.
Last year, on the 4th of July, we witnessed the tail-end of a night-long party that was still going strong at 10:00 in the morning. A bunch of twenty two year old men and women bounced and shouted along to each song that came on, and drank more than I've seen anyone drink at that early hour. It was a joy to watch. This year, there was no such show, and I missed it.
Biking up and down the strand from Hermosa to Venice and back is a fabulous way to feel like a spoiled Californian, and I've done this every Independence Day for the past three years. This year, we have a new car, a Prius, and we didn't think to make sure that our bike rack would fit it properly. We just fastened it on, hoisted the bicycles on to it, and then by the time we entered Downtown LA, noticed that the bikes seemed less than secure. We pulled off the freeway at 3rd street and stopped in an empty parking lot.
With the skyrises of Los Angeles laughing down at us, we took the bikes off of the rack, emptied out the contents of our car, and piled the bikes inside.
The ride felt much more safe, though a little crammed, with our bicycles as our passengers.
It was, of course, all worth it, as our bicycles became our best companions on the beach. As the weekend revelers became more and more rowdy, we just sailed past them, perched atop our wheels, peaceful observers of the outrageous comedy that unfolded along The Strand.
Twenty two year old women in barely-there bikinis, their painted faces sagging with drink, dragged their flip-flopped feet behind them, as they tried to mask their lack of balance. They still, despite this charade, appeared attractive to the twenty two year old men who played less dress-up with paint and beachwear, but more with machismo. They layed it on thick.
I, too, enjoy the drink, although I avoid being drunk. My husband and I carried rum and wine splits in our totes, and we stopped in at Shellback Nation on Manhattan Beach for two bloody mary's - among the best I've had in LA - on the morning of the 4th.
Last year, on the 4th of July, we witnessed the tail-end of a night-long party that was still going strong at 10:00 in the morning. A bunch of twenty two year old men and women bounced and shouted along to each song that came on, and drank more than I've seen anyone drink at that early hour. It was a joy to watch. This year, there was no such show, and I missed it.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
In Reverence to Enjoyment
One month after my return, Paris is with me still, casting itself over my every experience like a transparency overlay. In the morning, when I walk to my driveway and get in my car, another version of me continues walking down a narrow 17th-century cobblestone road that leads straight to the Seine. On my drive to work, I stop in at Coffee Bean where I pay four dollars for a café latte to-go, to enjoy en-route. Meanwhile, the other me steps into the corner bistro and orders a café allonge at the bar, where the tariff de consummation is only one euro. She stands there with the regulars who sip their coffee slowly, in reverence to the morning ritual. Nobody takes his coffee to go. She’s done it before, but it’s difficult to walk down the cobblestone streets without a lid on the coffee cup, and cafes in Paris don’t carry lids. There, coffee is a thing to spend a moment with, not to consume in a hurry or on the go - the only people on the street with paper cups are standing in doorways, smoking cigarettes, taking time to reflect upon the morning.
In Los Angeles, “to go” is a lifestyle. When I take the time to sit at a café or restaurant, I am usually Lunching or Having Coffee, that is, meeting with somebody I want to work with creatively or professionally, and the purpose of said Lunch or Coffee to is to move forward - to go somewhere in my career. This is Los Angeles: always another meaning, always an ulterior motive. I am not one who believes that these secondary, secret goals that every Angeleno has are selfish or dishonorable in nature. We all just want help, and are usually asking for it - not outright, but in the subtext of our Coffees and Lunches. We may be having them “for here”, but we really mean “to go”.
I have been conditioned to get along in a to-go society, but I think that at heart, I am a To-Stayer. I excel at taking languid pleasure – sitting for hours at a café, simply observing and enjoying; walking through the city (when I lived in a walk-able city) without aim or destination, soaking in the sights and smells, absorbing the essence of the brimming metropolis; laying riverside, or seaside, or lakeside, with or without a book or notebook, maybe reading, maybe writing, but mostly relishing in the feel of the sun on my skin and the light breeze across my back; doing nothing and doing it well.
As I enter my apartment after a long and busy day, and quickly prepare an easy, five minute dinner before approaching my list of pressing, career-oriented to do’s, the other me enters her favorite neighborhood bistrot and prepares to spend the next two hours indulging, just like every night, in a three course meal, where the only to-dos that appear in her mind are the other places where she wants to eat, or wander, or play, or sip.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Vitality, Energy, Spirit
I've recently had a new and unexpected experience in Los Angeles: that of a cancer patient. Here's what I learned: people get cancer. Even if they're pursuing their dreams.
Over the years, I've thought about cancer a lot, actually. I've made adjustments in my diet and purchasing habits to prevent it. I've exercised a lot and chosen foods high in anti-oxidants. Yet, I think I always assumed the main reason I wouldn't get cancer is that I'm ambitious. As if bad things only happen to the idle. This was not a conscious thought, it's something I've realized retrospectively. But when I was diagnosed, I threw my career-oriented ambition out the window. All I could consider working toward were cancer-free cells.
I'm now post-operative, and will go through radiation some time this summer. I have a scar on my neck from the thyroidectomy, and I have to keep it out of the sun. I used to scoff at women who wear scarves in the summer. No longer. My family has a history of melanoma, and now that "cancer prevention" has a much deeper meaning for me, I intend to stay out of the sun entirely. This is difficult, because I love the sun. I've arranged my life to have a closer relationship to the sun; that is, I moved to LA so that I'd always be in it. This year, my trips to the beach will look a little bit different than in the past. I'm scoping out umbrellas and tents with good ventilation. I'm shopping for cute cover-ups, and researching non-toxic sunscreens. I'm devoting myself with a renewed vitality to good health.
I've also allowed ambition to enter my being again. It was difficult, I'll admit. The first two weeks of recovery caused me to re-evaluate my goals, to question whether they are worthwhile, achievable, and propitious. It is now three and a half weeks since surgery, and I chalk my uncertainty up to morphine and codeine. Now that I am recovered and my energy has grown, I'm once again working toward my goals with the expectation of success.
People get cancer. And then they beat it. Even in Hollywood.
Over the years, I've thought about cancer a lot, actually. I've made adjustments in my diet and purchasing habits to prevent it. I've exercised a lot and chosen foods high in anti-oxidants. Yet, I think I always assumed the main reason I wouldn't get cancer is that I'm ambitious. As if bad things only happen to the idle. This was not a conscious thought, it's something I've realized retrospectively. But when I was diagnosed, I threw my career-oriented ambition out the window. All I could consider working toward were cancer-free cells.
I'm now post-operative, and will go through radiation some time this summer. I have a scar on my neck from the thyroidectomy, and I have to keep it out of the sun. I used to scoff at women who wear scarves in the summer. No longer. My family has a history of melanoma, and now that "cancer prevention" has a much deeper meaning for me, I intend to stay out of the sun entirely. This is difficult, because I love the sun. I've arranged my life to have a closer relationship to the sun; that is, I moved to LA so that I'd always be in it. This year, my trips to the beach will look a little bit different than in the past. I'm scoping out umbrellas and tents with good ventilation. I'm shopping for cute cover-ups, and researching non-toxic sunscreens. I'm devoting myself with a renewed vitality to good health.
I've also allowed ambition to enter my being again. It was difficult, I'll admit. The first two weeks of recovery caused me to re-evaluate my goals, to question whether they are worthwhile, achievable, and propitious. It is now three and a half weeks since surgery, and I chalk my uncertainty up to morphine and codeine. Now that I am recovered and my energy has grown, I'm once again working toward my goals with the expectation of success.
People get cancer. And then they beat it. Even in Hollywood.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The People of Hollywood, Part 1: Jimmy
In the heart of Hollywood, at the foot of Griffith Park and just east of the Walk of Fame lies a street lined with tall, supple date palms. Their green and orange bursts of foliage frame a corridor of sky that leads straight to the iconic sign on the hill, self-assuredly declaring itself over my humble neighborhood. I live in the part of Hollywood that is made up of mostly immigrant families, and has a little bit of grit, unlike the part of Hollywood that is well-manicured and inhabited by affluent families of the entertainment industry. Most of the residences on my street are, rather than craftsman homes and bungalows, apartment complexes of various sizes. Mine is a four-plex. The building across the street probably holds nearly a hundred units. Complexes down the street look like single-family homes, but are deceiving, with add-ons and additional units in the back. I’d guess my street is home to a population of over two hundred. My husband Joseph guesses three hundred.
On the day we moved in, a skinny man in his mid-fifties introduced himself. His name was Jimmy and he was wearing a Vietnam Veteran’s baseball cap. I felt endeared to him immediately, as my father is also named Jim and is a Vietnam Vet as well. Jimmy seemed sweet, if a little skiddish, but then he asked us for money. When we declined to give, he walked away angrily, and we became wary of our neighborhood.
Later in the afternoon, when we’d unpacked the U-Haul and were hefting furniture around our new apartment, I saw Jimmy standing under our side window. The window is a little out of the way, at the back of our driveway, in what could only be considered our private property. I called Joseph over and he looked out the window to the top of Jimmy’s head, banged on the glass, and then walked sternly out the front door. Jimmy had retreated down the street. Joseph inspected the corner of our driveway near the window, and took off after Jimmy. Turns out, Jimmy had finished off a forty, urinated, and left the bottle behind. Joseph told him he didn’t want to see him on our property again, and gave him the empty bottle back. Jimmy said, “Yes, sir.”
A few weeks later, we learned from a neighbor that Jimmy was an alcoholic who lived in the assisted living unit several doors down from us. (We didn’t know it was a low-income assisted living unit when we moved to the area - I'm not sure this information would have been a deterrent to our decision, but it certainly was interesting, when we found out.) Jimmy continued asking us for money every time we saw him. Sometimes he'd be sitting on the curb in front of his apartment, and he'd ask as we walked by. Sometimes we’d pass him as he walked, like he did everyday, to the Pink Elephant liquor store on Western Avenue. When he walked back from the Pink Elephant, he’d be drinking from a paper bag. He always seemed sad - deeply, traumatically sad.
Several months ago we realized we hadn’t seen Jimmy for almost an entire year. He’d just disappeared, and we still don’t know what happened to him. Our first encounter with him may have briefly sullied my view of Hollywood, but as we became accustomed to his presence, he began to represent the character of our neighborhood: diverse, dynamic, and full of hidden stories. Now, his absence has added a new quality to the character of Hollywood: fleeting. I hope he's okay, wherever he may be.
On the day we moved in, a skinny man in his mid-fifties introduced himself. His name was Jimmy and he was wearing a Vietnam Veteran’s baseball cap. I felt endeared to him immediately, as my father is also named Jim and is a Vietnam Vet as well. Jimmy seemed sweet, if a little skiddish, but then he asked us for money. When we declined to give, he walked away angrily, and we became wary of our neighborhood.
Later in the afternoon, when we’d unpacked the U-Haul and were hefting furniture around our new apartment, I saw Jimmy standing under our side window. The window is a little out of the way, at the back of our driveway, in what could only be considered our private property. I called Joseph over and he looked out the window to the top of Jimmy’s head, banged on the glass, and then walked sternly out the front door. Jimmy had retreated down the street. Joseph inspected the corner of our driveway near the window, and took off after Jimmy. Turns out, Jimmy had finished off a forty, urinated, and left the bottle behind. Joseph told him he didn’t want to see him on our property again, and gave him the empty bottle back. Jimmy said, “Yes, sir.”
A few weeks later, we learned from a neighbor that Jimmy was an alcoholic who lived in the assisted living unit several doors down from us. (We didn’t know it was a low-income assisted living unit when we moved to the area - I'm not sure this information would have been a deterrent to our decision, but it certainly was interesting, when we found out.) Jimmy continued asking us for money every time we saw him. Sometimes he'd be sitting on the curb in front of his apartment, and he'd ask as we walked by. Sometimes we’d pass him as he walked, like he did everyday, to the Pink Elephant liquor store on Western Avenue. When he walked back from the Pink Elephant, he’d be drinking from a paper bag. He always seemed sad - deeply, traumatically sad.
Several months ago we realized we hadn’t seen Jimmy for almost an entire year. He’d just disappeared, and we still don’t know what happened to him. Our first encounter with him may have briefly sullied my view of Hollywood, but as we became accustomed to his presence, he began to represent the character of our neighborhood: diverse, dynamic, and full of hidden stories. Now, his absence has added a new quality to the character of Hollywood: fleeting. I hope he's okay, wherever he may be.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The City Observed: Cafe Culture
I’ve always had a thing for cafes. It began in high school, with a search for a personal identity. (That’s an interesting time in a teenager’s life – her first unaccompanied forays into social activities. What one chooses to do, where one chooses to go, has everything to do with one’s true character.)
There were few cafes in Salt Lake City, Utah at that time, and I gravitated toward them because of their clientele: what my friends and I later nicknamed pseudo-intellectuals, the most interesting people in Utah. These people knew Shakespeare by heart, they each had a favorite poet, they carried notebooks full of sketches or scribbled stories, they wore clothes other than the typical Utah uniform of khaki pants and polo shirts, and they – gasp – drank coffee. Coffee was much frowned upon in Utah and most restaurants didn’t carry any. The majority population considered coffee shops the devil’s playground, but I’d been to Seattle, I’d been to New York, I knew that café culture was a place for writers and poets and artists and conversationalists. If this was the devil’s work, I wanted a job.
While in college in New York City, my café habit became one of necessity. Living in tiny spaces rife with roommate woes, the café became a refuge - the only decent places to get any work done.
Now well into my adulthood, the café is once again a place for musing, for nurturing my now well-established personal identity. I read, I write, I work, I drink a lot of coffee, and I love people and people-watching. However, over the years of nurturing this habit I’ve also adopted a fairly judgmental attitude. I am very critical of cafes and their décor, their color palate, their music, their air-quality, and the comfort of their chairs. And with today’s ever-changing technological needs, free wifi and plug-ins also now inform my regard for a cafe.
I have, in my mind, a very favorite café. It has lots of tables and comfortable chairs, as well as a lounge section of clean and plush couches and armchairs. It boasts natural lighting by windows or skylights by day, and by evening is lit entirely by floor lamps, and also has a bank of tables with those green library lamps for people who need to get some real work done. It has free wifi and lots of plug-ins. It has a book exchange. It offers a large selection of loose-leaf teas, and serves good, free-trade coffee with a lot of care. It serves simple egg sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, cheese and onion sandwiches, and the usual selection of pastries, cakes, and bagels. Most importantly, the music selection is entirely instrumental, mostly classical, but also a little jazz or bossa nova or salsa or other atmospheric but non-distracting music. It is warm, inviting, clean, and non-pretentious.
I have never found this café, and I’m not sure that it exists (no café I’ve ever been in plays classical music). I may have to build this cafe myself. In the meantime, here is a list of my favorite cafes in no particular order, followed by a list of my least favorite cafes.
Favorites
1. Solar de Cahuenga, Hollywood
Free Wifi and plenty of plug-ins. Great coffee, good teas. The décor is warm and cheerful, and there are wrap-around windows that provide a lot of natural light. The chairs and tables are plentiful and quite comfortable. It’s a great place to sit for a long spell and get a lot of work done.
2. The Oaks Gourmet, Franklin Village
Free Wifi. No plug-ins. Great coffee, good teas, delicious pastries. It’s a combination deli/gourmet food store, wine shop, and café. It has a nice outdoor seating area that overlooks Franklin avenue, and the Wifi signal is strong out there. The chairs are very comfortable.
3. Urth Caffe, Downtown
Free Wifi, a few plug-ins. Great organic coffee and teas. Really expensive, though! Tons of tables and chairs. Chairs are decently comfortable, but not the best. It’s located in the industrial arts-district, and is a good café for people watching.
4. Casbah Cafe, Silverlake
I love their snacks. Soft-boiled egg sandwiches, warm brioches, and exotic frittata-type things. They’re kind of expensive, and their wifi rarely works, but the atmosphere is wonderful. It doubles as a middle eastern gift shop, and the goods for sale, in their saffron and jewel-tone color palette, make the place feel really warm and comfortable.
5. Intelligentsia, Venice Beach
Free wifi. No plug-ins. It’s sleek and everyone there is tres fashionable. Whenever I go there, I feel like I’m on a very fancy vacation. Also, their coffee is absolutely incredible.
Least Favorites
1. The Bourgeois Pig, Franklin Village
It’s a café designed specifically for ravers or Fraggles. Horrible atmosphere, just horrible.
2. Sabor y Cultura, Hollywood
Free wifi, plenty of plug ins, but the décor is terrible – the walls are dirty and painted in drab, muted shades of mustard and red and purple. There are not enough tables, so it feels unfinished. The music selection is horribly distracting – they’ll put on Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Metallica, and my ability to get any work done is stamped entirely out. The coffee isn’t good, the baristas don’t know how to make a good latte, and the pastry display and counter area are sparse, which makes everything in or on them look lonely and unappealing. Tip of the trade: always keep a pastry display filled to the gills, and if you’re running out of supplies at the end of the day, put whatever’s left in the top shelf, and push it all to the front of the display closest to the customer’s view (keeping everything well-arranged) and turn the lights off on the bottom shelves. This will give the illusion that you’re well stocked, because the customer’s eye will only travel to the illuminated shelf.
The staff can be very grumpy, too, and very slow. It once took my friend 20 minutes to get a single cup of coffee even though there was only one person in front of him.
3. Starbucks, Anywhere
Starbucks fails at the very thing they’ve attempted to do: provide a warm and comfortable café lifestyle with good coffee, good music, and an inspired atmosphere. Their décor and the floorplan/layout of their spaces are the absolute worst. The whimsical swirls and trite quotes all over everything are just annoying. Also, most Starbucks cafes in urban cities are dirty and unorganized. The coffee chain has become such a behemoth that it can no longer exercise quality control over its staff, and many of them are unprofessional, barely-fit-for-employment, downright terrible customer service representatives.
There were few cafes in Salt Lake City, Utah at that time, and I gravitated toward them because of their clientele: what my friends and I later nicknamed pseudo-intellectuals, the most interesting people in Utah. These people knew Shakespeare by heart, they each had a favorite poet, they carried notebooks full of sketches or scribbled stories, they wore clothes other than the typical Utah uniform of khaki pants and polo shirts, and they – gasp – drank coffee. Coffee was much frowned upon in Utah and most restaurants didn’t carry any. The majority population considered coffee shops the devil’s playground, but I’d been to Seattle, I’d been to New York, I knew that café culture was a place for writers and poets and artists and conversationalists. If this was the devil’s work, I wanted a job.
While in college in New York City, my café habit became one of necessity. Living in tiny spaces rife with roommate woes, the café became a refuge - the only decent places to get any work done.
Now well into my adulthood, the café is once again a place for musing, for nurturing my now well-established personal identity. I read, I write, I work, I drink a lot of coffee, and I love people and people-watching. However, over the years of nurturing this habit I’ve also adopted a fairly judgmental attitude. I am very critical of cafes and their décor, their color palate, their music, their air-quality, and the comfort of their chairs. And with today’s ever-changing technological needs, free wifi and plug-ins also now inform my regard for a cafe.
I have, in my mind, a very favorite café. It has lots of tables and comfortable chairs, as well as a lounge section of clean and plush couches and armchairs. It boasts natural lighting by windows or skylights by day, and by evening is lit entirely by floor lamps, and also has a bank of tables with those green library lamps for people who need to get some real work done. It has free wifi and lots of plug-ins. It has a book exchange. It offers a large selection of loose-leaf teas, and serves good, free-trade coffee with a lot of care. It serves simple egg sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, cheese and onion sandwiches, and the usual selection of pastries, cakes, and bagels. Most importantly, the music selection is entirely instrumental, mostly classical, but also a little jazz or bossa nova or salsa or other atmospheric but non-distracting music. It is warm, inviting, clean, and non-pretentious.
I have never found this café, and I’m not sure that it exists (no café I’ve ever been in plays classical music). I may have to build this cafe myself. In the meantime, here is a list of my favorite cafes in no particular order, followed by a list of my least favorite cafes.
Favorites
1. Solar de Cahuenga, Hollywood
Free Wifi and plenty of plug-ins. Great coffee, good teas. The décor is warm and cheerful, and there are wrap-around windows that provide a lot of natural light. The chairs and tables are plentiful and quite comfortable. It’s a great place to sit for a long spell and get a lot of work done.
2. The Oaks Gourmet, Franklin Village
Free Wifi. No plug-ins. Great coffee, good teas, delicious pastries. It’s a combination deli/gourmet food store, wine shop, and café. It has a nice outdoor seating area that overlooks Franklin avenue, and the Wifi signal is strong out there. The chairs are very comfortable.
3. Urth Caffe, Downtown
Free Wifi, a few plug-ins. Great organic coffee and teas. Really expensive, though! Tons of tables and chairs. Chairs are decently comfortable, but not the best. It’s located in the industrial arts-district, and is a good café for people watching.
4. Casbah Cafe, Silverlake
I love their snacks. Soft-boiled egg sandwiches, warm brioches, and exotic frittata-type things. They’re kind of expensive, and their wifi rarely works, but the atmosphere is wonderful. It doubles as a middle eastern gift shop, and the goods for sale, in their saffron and jewel-tone color palette, make the place feel really warm and comfortable.
5. Intelligentsia, Venice Beach
Free wifi. No plug-ins. It’s sleek and everyone there is tres fashionable. Whenever I go there, I feel like I’m on a very fancy vacation. Also, their coffee is absolutely incredible.
Least Favorites
1. The Bourgeois Pig, Franklin Village
It’s a café designed specifically for ravers or Fraggles. Horrible atmosphere, just horrible.
2. Sabor y Cultura, Hollywood
Free wifi, plenty of plug ins, but the décor is terrible – the walls are dirty and painted in drab, muted shades of mustard and red and purple. There are not enough tables, so it feels unfinished. The music selection is horribly distracting – they’ll put on Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Metallica, and my ability to get any work done is stamped entirely out. The coffee isn’t good, the baristas don’t know how to make a good latte, and the pastry display and counter area are sparse, which makes everything in or on them look lonely and unappealing. Tip of the trade: always keep a pastry display filled to the gills, and if you’re running out of supplies at the end of the day, put whatever’s left in the top shelf, and push it all to the front of the display closest to the customer’s view (keeping everything well-arranged) and turn the lights off on the bottom shelves. This will give the illusion that you’re well stocked, because the customer’s eye will only travel to the illuminated shelf.
The staff can be very grumpy, too, and very slow. It once took my friend 20 minutes to get a single cup of coffee even though there was only one person in front of him.
3. Starbucks, Anywhere
Starbucks fails at the very thing they’ve attempted to do: provide a warm and comfortable café lifestyle with good coffee, good music, and an inspired atmosphere. Their décor and the floorplan/layout of their spaces are the absolute worst. The whimsical swirls and trite quotes all over everything are just annoying. Also, most Starbucks cafes in urban cities are dirty and unorganized. The coffee chain has become such a behemoth that it can no longer exercise quality control over its staff, and many of them are unprofessional, barely-fit-for-employment, downright terrible customer service representatives.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Ongoing Love Affair
As of two days ago, I have lived in Los Angeles for two years, and California for nearly five.
It was 85 degrees downtown just one hour ago.
It is 5:30pm now, and there are a good two hours of daylight left, after the recent adjustment of clocks to accommodate our energy needs. Energy in the form of carbon emission reductions, as well as energy in the form of Vitamin D, of which there are ample amounts in this golden state.
After these two years, the scent of springtime jasmine still knocks me off my feet, the bright and ever-loving sun still gladdens my spirit with her generosity, and sights such as the yellow convertible porsche that just flashed by filled with ostentatious 30-somethings in thin-brimmed hats and aviator sunglasses still make me giggle.
Here's to you, Los Angeles, here's to you.
It was 85 degrees downtown just one hour ago.
It is 5:30pm now, and there are a good two hours of daylight left, after the recent adjustment of clocks to accommodate our energy needs. Energy in the form of carbon emission reductions, as well as energy in the form of Vitamin D, of which there are ample amounts in this golden state.
After these two years, the scent of springtime jasmine still knocks me off my feet, the bright and ever-loving sun still gladdens my spirit with her generosity, and sights such as the yellow convertible porsche that just flashed by filled with ostentatious 30-somethings in thin-brimmed hats and aviator sunglasses still make me giggle.
Here's to you, Los Angeles, here's to you.
Friday, March 12, 2010
To Sleep; To Wake
I have a hard time going to bed. I have a hard time getting up.
It is 11:56 pm. My husband and I are people of routine, generally speaking, and our bedtime is 11:00pm. At that time this evening, we were mixing cocktails while enwrapped in a conversation about teaching math to twelve-year-olds (don't ask). We are now side-by-side on the couch, each with our respective macbook on our laps, doing general internet research for our careers. He's looking for travel deals for his impending tour with his band. I'm submitting for acting jobs (the life of an unrepresented actor or musician is largely administrative).
Anyway, the clock just ticked over to 12:00 midnight, and I just don't feel like going to bed. There is so much I could get done, if I didn't go to bed. So much administration to administrate if I didn't go to bed.
But then I'd be above-average tired in the morning.
I'm always tired in the mornings. So very tired, whether I get eight hours of sleep, or six or nine. Doesn't matter. The warmth of the covers, the comfort of the pillow, I hate having to give them up. In the morning, any hour of the mid morning, is when I get my best, most restful sleep. Waking up is a real pain, and I never feel like doing it. There's so much sleeping I could be doing, if I didn't get up. So many dreams to have, if I didn't get up.
But then I wouldn't get anything done.
And then none of my dreams would matter.
It is 11:56 pm. My husband and I are people of routine, generally speaking, and our bedtime is 11:00pm. At that time this evening, we were mixing cocktails while enwrapped in a conversation about teaching math to twelve-year-olds (don't ask). We are now side-by-side on the couch, each with our respective macbook on our laps, doing general internet research for our careers. He's looking for travel deals for his impending tour with his band. I'm submitting for acting jobs (the life of an unrepresented actor or musician is largely administrative).
Anyway, the clock just ticked over to 12:00 midnight, and I just don't feel like going to bed. There is so much I could get done, if I didn't go to bed. So much administration to administrate if I didn't go to bed.
But then I'd be above-average tired in the morning.
I'm always tired in the mornings. So very tired, whether I get eight hours of sleep, or six or nine. Doesn't matter. The warmth of the covers, the comfort of the pillow, I hate having to give them up. In the morning, any hour of the mid morning, is when I get my best, most restful sleep. Waking up is a real pain, and I never feel like doing it. There's so much sleeping I could be doing, if I didn't get up. So many dreams to have, if I didn't get up.
But then I wouldn't get anything done.
And then none of my dreams would matter.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Desire and Her Doubts
I read nearly anything, but especially Hermann Melville, Joan Didion, E.B. White or Virginia Woolf, and I am urgently compelled to be a writer.
What if being a writer is my true identity, and all this time I've just been distracting myself from myself? (Then, write and see if the universe opens her arms.)
I go to a museum of contemporary art, and I am compelled to be an artist.
What if I completed every visual art idea I've ever written down in my little black book of ideas? (Perhaps that's all there is to being an artist: doing, making. Perhaps it really is as simple as that.)
I see a film or a good TV show and I am struck with an overwhelming desire to be an actor.
What if acting can be both my strongest dream and an intellectual pursuit? What if I can pursue acting and feel that I am doing something of worth? (Maybe that is the motherlode of fulfillment.)
What if I can stop doubting whether all of my interests are both creatively and intellectually estimable, whether I am living up to my own potential, and whether all of my dreams can be achieved in one life? Can I be a writer, an actor, and an artist? (Word on the streets is that to succeed at any one craft, a person must singularly devote themselves to it.) Can I get published, book a role, and have a gallery show? Will I ever get anything done? Is there time?
And what of family, travel, relationships, security, the marks of a life well lived? What of living?
What of living?
What if being a writer is my true identity, and all this time I've just been distracting myself from myself? (Then, write and see if the universe opens her arms.)
I go to a museum of contemporary art, and I am compelled to be an artist.
What if I completed every visual art idea I've ever written down in my little black book of ideas? (Perhaps that's all there is to being an artist: doing, making. Perhaps it really is as simple as that.)
I see a film or a good TV show and I am struck with an overwhelming desire to be an actor.
What if acting can be both my strongest dream and an intellectual pursuit? What if I can pursue acting and feel that I am doing something of worth? (Maybe that is the motherlode of fulfillment.)
What if I can stop doubting whether all of my interests are both creatively and intellectually estimable, whether I am living up to my own potential, and whether all of my dreams can be achieved in one life? Can I be a writer, an actor, and an artist? (Word on the streets is that to succeed at any one craft, a person must singularly devote themselves to it.) Can I get published, book a role, and have a gallery show? Will I ever get anything done? Is there time?
And what of family, travel, relationships, security, the marks of a life well lived? What of living?
What of living?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
To Be a Casting Assistant
At an audition this week, I noticed a repetitive scene playing out in the casting room adjacent to the one I was waiting to enter.
Door swings ajar.
CASTING ASSISTANT steps out to summon the next ACTOR.
ACTOR enters as ASSISTANT closes the door behind him.
Thirty seconds pass.
Door swings ajar as CASTING DIRECTOR and ACTOR exchange the usual post-audition niceties:
Thanks, thanks so much, thanks for coming in, thanks.
ACTOR leaves, hastily.
Door remains ajar for ten seconds while we see ASSISTANT drop to her knees. She picks Corn Flakes up off of the carpeted floor. The task seems tedious and frustrating. A box of Corn Flakes stands on a table, inside the room.
CASTING DIRECTOR speaks from off:
You missed one, there.
ASSISTANT picks up one last Corn Flake.
ASSISTANT stands, swipes Corn Flakes from her hand into the cereal box.
ASSISTANT enters Lobby and summons the next ACTOR.
- REPEAT SCENE -
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