christmas cheer, unholy night, and denny's

my christmas eve had no crackling fire, no cocoa, no nat king cole, no ribbon and bow. it was spent asking people if they'd like to add a half pound of snow crab legs to their meal for an additional $6.99. these were bitter people who had spent the last three hours in the mall purchasing last minute gifts for their ungrateful spawn - and now they're plopped down in my section; exhausted, grumpy, and broke. the christmas spirit was certainly not residing in their wallets on this particular holy night. that evening my alcohol sales were at an all time high, while my tips were at an all time low.

people were overly rude, ultra demanding, and extra cheap. everything in me just wanted to get out of there and go home. my holiday cheer rapidly shifted from "bye! have a nice christmas!" at the beginning of the night to simply "bye." towards the end.

i clocked out and realized i was starving. knowing full well that my kitchen is devoid of any real food, i drove to the grocery store. closed. jack in the box? closed. mcDonalds? closed. fine! i'll just go home and order pizza. dominoes? closed. pizza hut? closed.

after a lengthy, primal scream into my pillow i collected myself, threw on a hoodie, and drove to denny's. while en route i had set my mind to the fact that if this particular restaurant was closed, there was going to be an arson investigation the next morning.

luckily for all parties involved, they were open. i enjoyed my stack of pancakes and over-cooked eggs alongside the other orphans and degenerates of my fair city. i left a 25% tip to carlito, wished him a genuine merry christmas, and called it a night.

then this christmas morning i woke up to a 70 degree sun, palm trees, a barking dog, and what distinctly sounded like shots being fired in the distance. this is the first christmas since my birth that wasn't spent with my family and while it would have been nice to have the smell of coffee cake and evergreen needles wafting into my bedroom as i awoke - i'm an adult. this isn't candyland and i'm nearly 30 years old. plus i got to see all of my family last month and never one for sappy sentiment i convinced myself, "it's just another tuesday. get over it."

yet after hearing "the christmas song" play on the radio i was overcome with a intense wave of emotion. i missed home and i missed my family even more. i wasn't in the mood to actually break down and cry at this point; so i walked into the kitchen, chugged the egg nog directly from the carton, popped some vitamin C pills, and watched the discovery channel for the rest of the afternoon.

viruses, warning lamps, and man vs machine

it's the end of an era. it shames me to admit it...but i'm sick. for those of you who don't have an extensive knowledge of my medical history; i haven't been sick in ten years. my immune system is mystical and ancient in its powers. i don't do anything to enhance it, i don't questions it's strength; i just know that it's there...and it kicks ass.

over the years, upon discovering my little secret, those around me began to grow suspicious of my claim. every winter while everyone is miserably gulping theraflu and munching on cough drops, i'm cheerfully whistling christmas carols through my phlegm-free windpipe. inevitably suspicion would brew into hatred as co-workers began blatantly lowering their hand when coughing into my airspace in a savage attempt to take me down. which to me is comparable to a person with AIDS purposefully cutting their finger and smearing the infected blood on everyone's lips in order to 'even things out'. and so, this went on for years as no one was able to attack my impenetrable hoard of white blood cells.

to further the mystique i would occasionally act as a circus barker; having everyone gather around as i dramatically took a swig from some sickie's water bottle. there would be a single gasp in the crowd followed by manic whispering.

"how does he do it?"
"i heard he has cybernetic lung implants."
"i heard he's from the future."

my illness-free streak soon grew into legend. that is...until i moved to lovely california. as far as i'm concerned, whatever God forsaken virus that has penetrated my system has to be on par with the Bubonic Plague.

put another tally mark under "reasons why i love california".

my 'check engine' light decided to make an appearance last week. that's the one light on the dashboard that causes a knot to immediately form in the pit of my stomach. it induces the same biological response as red and blue lights in your rear view mirror - a queasy dropping feeling followed by a rushing surge of adrenaline.

i think the fear lies in the lack of certainty. all the other warning lights use friendly nudges and reminders.

the oil change light comes on?
okay thanks! i'll get it done next week.
low fuel light? it's cool! there's a gas station down the street. wiper fluid low? not a problem! i've got some windex at home.

but when that 'check engine' light flicks on, you're immediately thrown into a code red situation. it could be anything - engine is currently engulfed in flames, gasoline is spewing onto roadway, radiator has just exploded. am i in imminent danger? should i pull over? will i make it home tonight? it induces such intense anxiety because it's so vague.

yet, once the initial panic subsides, it eventually dawns on you that anything needing repair within the enigmatic "engine" will likely cost anywhere from $800-$8000. perhaps it would be more honest and less jarring if a large green dollar sign was shown on the display instead.

so i decided on a bold course of action; to stand firm and call it's bluff. each day when i turned the key it would illuminate and icily stare me down. "i will not be intimidated by you, red warning lamp! quit looking at me!"

this charade continued for days; until this morning when i turned the ignition. apparently my will was stronger than the Jetta's - the check engine light didn't come on. victory! in man VS machine, the machine blinked. then it occurred to me that it's probably just lying dormant until i'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the 405; at which time it will re-illuminate a millisecond before smoke comes billowing out from under my hood.

drizzle, downpour, and the Live Mega Doppler 7000 HD

it's raining right now. actually, i believe the technical term is 'drizzle'. coming from Seattle, there are a dozen different terms for the varying degrees of precipitation in the air at any given time; rain, sprinkle, showers, downpour, fog, flurries, and drizzle - to name a few. so, considering it rains once every six months here, it's always amusing to watch the local news when there's rain in the forecast.

once the leathery-skinned meteorologist suggests a hint of rain, every news promo 48 hours prior to the big event go something like this:

"a dramatic change in the weather! your family's life could be at risk. tune in at 11!"

the entire city is thrown into red-alert mode as if were an impending tsunami headed right for us! high wave warnings are immediately put into effect (which incidentally only affect the stoner-surfer demographic) and reporters are put on location wearing rain slickers and bright yellow ponchos that are normally reserved for crab fisherman in the north atlantic.

i look out my window, see a light drizzle, and yawn. but when i turn on the news, it's a completely different picture. they are in complete lockdown mode. STORMTRACKER '07! we are shown minute by minute updates on the Live Mega Doppler 7000 HD; which sounds like some cheesy futuristic device from a classic episode of Star Trek.

what a joke. give me a call when there's enough rain to actually wash the bird crap off my car (pictured on right). until then, simmer down LA and enjoy your trace amounts of acid rain.

but to my astonishment, it's actually been a little chilly lately. this evening i exhaled and actually saw my breath, although that just as well could have been a mini smog cloud hovering perilously close to my lips. that would explain the burning sensation when i inhaled.

i was pleasantly surprised to find that it actually does dip below 96 degrees in the wintertime.

i can't wait for christmas eve and palm trees. stupid california.

coffee, the WGA strike, and Carl Ellsworth

i've had lots of people asking me if i'm on strike. the answer is no. everytime i'm asked this question i sheepishly lower my head and mumble that i have not sold any of my work and am therefore not worthy of the mighty guild. but thanks for asking.

but...the first day of the strike happened to coincide with one of my days off. as i was sipping my morning cup, it occurred to me that the creators of my favorite shows, the authors of my favorite movies, the people i have looked up to for years were waiting at the other end of the 405; standing on the sidewalks, all exposed and shivering as the mysterious and impenetrable iron curtain of hollywood was ripped off of them.

would it be tacky to try to network and schmooze with my out-of-work idols? i decided to hop in my car and find out.

i decided that once i came in contact with them, i'd have to have my A-game primed and ready to go. and by 'A-game' i mean liquid personality in the form of eight shots of espresso in two americanos. after my quick detour i hopped on the freeway and sped towards destiny.

heavy traffic and an inaccurate google map meant that i was in the car for an hour and a half. which meant that my bladder had ample time to collect and pool over 40 oz of starbuck's finest and the dam was about to burst. i begin to squirm wildly in my seat, switch to a lamaze breathing style, and frantically search for a camode. nothing. there are no fast food restaurants, there are no gas stations. i drive for several more miles. no grocery stores, no restaurants. i'm getting desperate. i glance at the empty twin starbucks cups as they mockingly sit in my center console. i was desperate. i glance around to see if there are any cars next to me; i mean i did have tinted windows. wait! have some dignity! i zip up my pants and angrily speed through the next intersection.

finally, an oasis in the cement desert. i see a grocery store several blocks down; i crank the steering wheel hard right, cross three lanes of traffic without using a mirror, and slam my car into a parking spot. i hurriedly hobble into the store, find the nearest nametag and with wild desperation i blurt, "bathroom!". with a disgusted look on her face, she merely points to the far corner of the store and i shuffle in that direction.

salvation. i rush up to the door...it's locked. it requires a deposit of $0.50 to use the facility. was i suddenly in a third world country?! i thrust my hands into my pockets - lint. i can feel tears welling up in my eyes. i rush out to my car, snatch up two quarters, and run stiff-legged back to the far corner of the store. after the caffeine was evacuated from my system, i make my way to the front. i pass a stock-boy on aisle 4 and mention that he may want to grab a wet floor sign near the restrooms.

back to business! i hop in my car and locate Paramount Studios. a tingle of excitement runs down my spine when i come around the corner and see the picket signs. i'm really here. i park on a nearby street and give myself a little pep-talk in my head. "Be cool. Just blend in. Be personable without being persistent. Ask them about their work. Don't be overzealous. Show your support for the union. Don't piss your pants."

i take a few deep breaths and with faux confidence stride up to the closest picketer. i introduce myself and explain i'm not a member of the union, i'm an aspiring screenwriter, and would it be alright if i joined them. he (on the left) answered with a smile and a resounding 'yes'; shaking my hand and introducing himself as "Carl Ellsworth, the writer of Disturbia and Red Eye."

since most people don't recognize writers in the same way you would recognize George Clooney, I found that most of the writers introduced themselves with their full name along with a recognizable sample of their work.

i imagined people doing this in other industries.
"Hi. My name is Pete Smith. I changed an oil filter on a 1982 Honda Civic this afternoon."

i had a picket sign thrust into my hand. now what? i couldn't have felt more out of my place. i look to carl ellsworth for some help. his cell phone rings and he says it's his agent on the line. great. i look around and see about twenty writers milling around like bored zombies weakly chanting, "We are the union...the mighty mighty union" over and over and over. I could immediately see this was not going to be a social affair. several articles have since been written about the lack of creativity in the writer's chants.

the same people who bring you the snappy dialogue on Ugly Betty and the clever witticisms on Desperate Housewives are merely chanting, "What do we want? Fair contracts! When do we want it? Now!" for hours on end. but i don't blame them. the creative juices aren't exactly flowing then they're spending four hours a day pacing the same twenty feet of sidewalk, bored, cold, and wanting a latte.

plus, it was surprisingly loud on the street corner. with the heavy traffic, the chanting, and the car horns constantly being honked in support of the WGA, it wasn't easy to spark up casual dialogue without constantly having to say, "what was that? huh?". so everyone just stuck to chanting or checking their text messages every 15 seconds.

on chad gervich's blog is a very accurate description of the five types of writer's on the picket line:

http://www.writersdigest.com/scriptnotes/A+Guest+Perspective+Notes+From+The+Picket+Line.aspx

sporadically, we would all have to bunch up on one of the corners in order to let the occasional mercedes or lexus though the Paramount gate before resuming our pacing back and forth. i looked to my right recognized the woman next to me. the fact that i even recognized her face probably meant that she was an A-list writer and was most likely the creator of a major network show or written several huge blockbuster movies. my mind was racing trying to remember her name when we began to cross the street again when i heard a strange sound. she was now staring directly at me.

the sound came from her dog. i was so preoccupied trying to recall who this woman was, that i inadvertently kicked her dog in the face as it was smelling my feet. i was petrified. i said i was so sorry and didn't see the dog and began sputtering apologies as she walked away without saying a word. to make matters worse, the dog looked exactly like Lassie. i kicked Lassie right in the face.

i got home at the end of the night and scoured the internet for photos or video of myself, since all the news-crews and photographers were on site all afternoon. i found several photographs where i was always just outside of the frame. after an hour i finally found this brief clip where i can be seen in the background.

if you don't want to watch the entire clip, i'm at 2:28 on the counter wearing a blue shirt, on my cell phone, crossing the street:
http://video.knbc.com/player/?id=179604

regarding the actual reason the writer's are on strike; the studio executives have said told the writers it's too early to know how much money is available for them to share from internet broadcasts and downloads. which is a lie. check out this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8a37uqd5vTw

in conclusion, everyone thinks that all these millionaire writer's are whining about a few more cents per DVD sale or whatever. here are some really cool facts about how many writers are actually with the guild (only about 4000!), how much money they're making, etc. check it:


http://www.latimes.com/media/acrobat/2007-11/33660605.pdf


http://www.wga.org/uploadedFiles/who_we_are/annual_reports/market06.pdf

chelan county, my blog, and charles manson

this week i found out that i have an unlikely group of individuals who are regular readers of my blog - the inmates at the Chelan County Jail! apparently i'm quite popular within the criminal demographic. who knew! welcome aboard!

i have a relative who was recently enjoying a stay at their lovely facility and upon her release called to inform me that every new blog entry (unbeknownst to me) was faithfully printed off and mailed to the jail by my grandmother.

from what i've been told, the inmates began looking forward to my perspective on the outside world and would actively seek out my kin to ask when the next one was coming. i envisioned her bargaining with hardcore inmates with names like Bertha and Madge for a chance to peek at my text; bartering for a carton of cigarettes in exchange for some insight on the latest goings-on at Red Lobster.

with any luck my blog will quietly slip through the US prison system like contraband; perhaps even reaching the eyes of luminaries such as Charlie Manson or Ted Kaczynski (amateur writers, just like me!).

so thank you for reading, loyal prisoners! keep on keepin' on! until next time...

dead batteries, azaleas, and costco muffins

let me start out by saying that my roommate is a douche bag. perhaps a little back story first. he's flamboyantly homosexual and coupled with a chemical imbalance known as bipolar disorder, he's a charm to have around the house.

i usually do my best to avoid all contact with him (mainly for fear of being raped), but on a recent evening i discovered i had a dead battery in my car and was forced to engage him in conversation. he was in the kitchen and i crept from the safety of my room to approach him.

"hey, listen. my batteries dead, could you give me a jump?"
(immediately regretting my double entendre)

"i'm busy." was his curt reply.

"um...it'll literally take 20 seconds. so...if you don't mind."

"i don't have jumper cables."

"well...i do. so again...if you don't mind..."

"i can't. i'm leaving for work right now. maybe tomorrow if i have time."

and with that, he walked past me and went to work.

left with no alternative, i was forced to call dominoes pizza and have the delivery driver jump my car. which wasn't an easy task considering she spoke no english and i had to convey what i needed through a series of ridiculous hand motions and sound effects.

so. he recently went on a two week vacation and left me a pleading voicemail. he literally begged me to water his plants while he was gone because he would be devastated to come home to dead flowers. God forbid our front yard be reduced to anything less than fabulous. memories of my dead battery fiasco came flickering back into my mind and i flirted with the idea of letting his precious azaleas wilt into dust under the blistering california sun.

however, my morality circuit kicked in and i decided to be the better person and water the damn plants. plus, he offered to pay me. while no dollar amount was specifically mentioned, there was enough carrot at the end of the stick to pressure me into get the hose out each day.

two weeks later he's back home. no money. no thanks.

two more weeks go by. still no mention of my saintly deed.

which brings us to today. he was sitting on the couch watching television and i decided to have a little chat with him.

"hey. i noticed you just bought some costco muffins."
(the giant hubcab-sized multi pack variety that was sitting unopened on the counter)

"yeah?"

"considering you haven't paid me for watering your plants i'd like the muffins as payment."

he doesn't know how to react.

"what? you can have one if you want, i guess? here, i can pay you right now."

he reaches for his wallet.

"the muffins will be sufficient payment."

his head tilts to one side and his face scrunches up like a confused puppy.

"but i was going to give you cash. i've got it right here."

"i don't want cash. i want the muffins."

"but...i just bought those. i mean, i can pay you right now."

"no thank you."

defeated, he's forced to relinquish his claim on the pastries. i pop one in the microwave and cheefully make my way back to my room as he suspiciously glares at me from the corner of his eye.

douche bag.

cross-stitching, fraudulence, and shirley temple

i am consistently amazed by the disturbingly high levels of adult black males who order Shirley Temples. what i find most amusing is the fact that they order it completely straight-faced, as if it were a shot of whiskey in a biker bar. these are not 'fruity' men either; they have girlfriends, wives, small children.

"I'll take a shirley temple and a bud light for my baby girl."

and if the syrupy concoction is brought to their table sans maraschino cherry garnish - oh boy. you can expect an angry fork to be promptly shoved into your belly until said garnish is retrieved.

i have also recently begun to have serious issues with the concept of cross-stitching. up till now i've been duped into thinking this was a legitimate art form. prepare to have the (woven) wool removed from your eyes my friends - it's a sham. while once being among some of the oldest embroidery methods; a traditional and revered form of folk art, is has been painfully defiled by housewives wearing silk-screened sweatshirts depicting playful kittens on the front.

the fraudulence lies in the fact that these women are merely copying pre-fabricated designs set up on graph paper; as if it were a project given to kindergartners on a rainy day. they crank out these forged creations and inevitably pass them out to unwitting family members around the holidays; playfully blushing when everyone compliments her creativity and skill level.

imagine the betrayal you would feel if scholars revealed that Michelangelo's magnificent Sistine Chapel was a merely a paint-by-number. we must unite and reveal these women as the flim-flam artists that they are.

the bamboozling ends today.

the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire

for those of you curious whether or not my front lawn is engulfed in flames, i thought i'd provide the following link:

http://www.fire.lacounty.gov/

(i live just north of long beach on the map)

even though i'm 30 miles away from the nearest fire, there has been this haze that has blanketed the sky since sunday; casting a really eerie orange glow throughout the day.

which reminds me...it's time for a pumpkin latte at starbucks.

writers groups, humble pie, and Dude Where's My Car

this week i had a generous portion of humble pie forcibly crammed into my mouth and i was made to swallow. the reason behind being violated by this particular pastry? i recently joined a screenwriters group.

upon the completion of my last script (over a month ago), i realized that watching online episodes of The Office along with the occasional netflix rental hasn't been the most productive (or sociable) use of my free time. i needed to get out of the house and meet actual people who i don't have to feign happiness with in the hopes of getting a decent tip.

which brings us to tuesday's writers group. this was the third time we had met. every week we would read someone's script, critique it, and discuss it at the following meeting. this week it was my script that was to be placed in the petri-dish and slid under the microscope.

i was excited! my family loved it! my friends said it was amazing! i would soon be on the fast track to Hollywood and schmoozing with (God forbid) George Lucas! in terms of its brilliance, i was soon convinced that it fell somewhere between Citizen Kane and The Godfather.

i entered our regular coffee shop in Marina Del Ray with a slight swagger; just enough to let them know the big dog had arrived. i saw them huddled in the corner and i envisioned them whispering amongst themselves about their favorite lines of dialogue i had written and wondering where i come up with such hilarious concepts.

i approached and the entire group immediately fell silent. i would have taken the silence as an act of awe, if it weren't for the distinct odor of death lingering over the group. i pulled up a chair.

everyone just kind of awkwardly avoided eye contact until someone finally muttered, "so...who wants to begin?". as if a starter pistol had been fired, everyone became instantly animated and began speaking at once; anxious to blurt out their very strong opinions regarding my supposed masterpiece.

it takes a particularly thick epidermal layer to withstand the barrage of comments i had to endure for over an hour. to put it lightly - they tore it to shreds and spit on the remains. rather than placing it on a pedestal with The Godfather it was crumpled up next to Snakes on a Plane and Dude, Where's My Car?

i was devastated. couldn't they see the comedic genius printed on the pages before them?! didn't they realize the box office potential of my work?! who were they to judge me?!

it wasn't until i got home at the end of the night and read over their notes that i realized they were 100% correct. character arcs? missing. questionable scenes? lots of them. unnecessary dialogue? plenty.

i saw it all through their eyes for the first time...and i was thoroughly embarrassed. they knew what they were talking about and i was promptly put in my place. now that my massively inflated ego had been punctured, i grudgingly sat down in front of my computer and began re-working the next great american comedy; coming soon, to a theater near you.

welcome to my world

working as a server you encounter some difficult customers; it comes with the territory.

however, i'm soon realizing that at red lobster i've entered a whole new relm.

to put this into context i'd like you to watch this video clip. this woman represents 99.2% of EVERY customer i come in contact with. i cannot emphasize this enough...that figure is NOT an exaggeration.

after watching this video, it should come as no surprise that i carry a shiv in my apron at work.

say a little prayer for me tonight before you go to bed. i need it.

coca-cola, cell phones, and 'the big one'

yesterday at work i approached a table and asked them what they wanted to drink. the girl told me she wanted a coke. fine. then she tells me she wants it in a different glass. alright, princess - which glass would you like it in? she tells me, 'the big one'. not being one for vague descriptions, i asked her through clenched teeth which 'big one' she was referring to.

she performed a series of pantomime motions with her hands and then began flipping through our cocktail menu - hoping to find a picture of the glass in question. i asked if she wanted an alcoholic beverage? rum and coke maybe? she emphatically said no; she simply wanted her coke in a big glass. i pointed to the picture of our large margarita glasses. no. not that one.

i lied and told her i'd be more than happy to escort her to the bar so she can pick out what frickin' glass she wants her coca-cola in. she didn't like that idea and reverted back to motioning with her hands in an attempt to describe the elusive stemware.

she just kept repeating the word 'big', as if that were the only adjective at her disposal. i offered her my writing pad to draw me a picture. no. no pictionary. after several excrutiating minutes of this, she finally threw in another descriptor. handle. it had a handle. a lightbulb went off in my head.

she wanted a PITCHER of coke. not even attempting to hide it, i blatently rolled by eyes. after my eureka moment, she literally began to excitedly clap her hands; nearly wet her pants with glee. luckily, i had brought extra napkins for just such an occasion. her and her boyfriend acted as though i had just kicked the winning fieldgoal at the superbowl; high fives all around followed by a good-natured pat on the ass.

i glanced at my watch. five more hours to go. bleh.

alright friends. it's now time for a lesson in cell phone etiquette. well, not really etiquette as much as 'how not to act like a moron when using your cellular telephone'. since everyone in the united states over the age of four has one (iPhones are especially popular with the 3rd grade demographic this year), i thought i'd impart a few useful nuggets.

1. time and date.
don't tell me what time you called and don't tell me the current day of the week. when executing this particular faux pas, the caller never knows the actual time and inevitably has to take several seconds to search the room for a clock.


"um...hey. this is john. let's see...it's about...um...well... about 3:45 on Thursday and I was just calling to say hi."



i could understand needing this information if i was sporting one of these boys >>

but thanks to modern technology i am able to check a fancy tool called a 'call log' which allows me to retrieve such crucial information as when you actually placed your call to me. as if it mattered.

2. stop leaving eight minute messages on voicemail. rely heavily on bullet points and less on minutia.

"this is john. so i guess we're going to meet at the theater around 10 o'clock. sarah said she can't make it because she has to wake up early tomorrow. she said she can go out next tuesday if we're all free. but next tuesday i'm having dinner with my parents; so we can talk that tonight when i see you. i know you're at work, but we were thinking about grabbing a bite to eat before the show; we're probably going to find some chinese place close-by. so anyway...we'll all just meet you at the theater by 10. bye."

for me, there is only one scenario where this type of message would be acceptable. that would be if you're being held hostage in a dungy basement and managed to find a cellphone while your captures were momentarily out of the room.

"this is john. i think there are three of them and the leader has a southern accent. i can hear a lot of cars in the distance so we're probably next to a freeway. there's a dog barking nearby, it's possibly in the backyard. they were talking about going to a movie at 10 o'clock, probably the new bruce willis one. i've heard it wasn't that good. alright, they're coming back downstairs, i gotta go. talk to you later."

even a death in the family does not need to be long and drawn out. keep it brief while imparting the main purpose of your call.

"hey. this is john. you're aunt just died. call me."

3. caller ID:
when i see your name on the caller ID and begin with the phrase, "hi john, how's it going?" don't respond with the following:

-"hey, this is john."
-"is this matt?"

by using your name, i've just established i know who you are; and considering you've just placed a call to my cell phone, it's hardly necessary to confirm my identity at this point.

this concludes the phone etiquette portion of the blog. practice at home in front of the mirror and do your part to blend in with the rest of the 21st century. be well.

emails, directories, and amanda brammall

so here's the deal. as previously noted, i barged into Diverse Talent Group (one of the top 15 agencies in all of LA) and demanded some face time with Angeline Cook. fine. she promised to read my script personally. fine. two weeks later...nothing. not fine.

i emailed her and politely asked if she'd read my frickin' script. she responded and promised to read it this weekend. two weeks later...nothing. i emailed her again; spinning WTF into an eloquent letter inquiring as to the status of my script. nothing.

my barrel of patience bone dry, i decided to call the agency and speak to her.

receptionist: Diverse talent. How may I help you?
me: Angeline Cook please.
receptionist: I'm sorry, she's no longer here.
me: What do you mean? Has she left for the day?
receptionist: No. She's no longer working here.
me: (12 second pause) Well...do you have a phone number I can reach her at?
receptionist: No.
me: Is she at another agency that I could call?
receptionist: I'm afraid I don't have that information.

a multitude of curse words began piling up in my mouth. I hung up the phone. wonderful. what now? what...now.

i recently purchased an Agency Directory and located the name of another agent at Diverse Talent; Amanda Brammall. Based on Angeline's company email address, I figured it was some combination of Amanda's name @DiverseTalentGroup.com

Now came the fun part; unlocking the code:

abrammall@diversetalentgroup.com

REJECTED.

amandabrammall@diversetalentgroup.com

REJECTED.

amanda@diversetalentgroup.com

REJECTED.

finally, the tenth variation went through. success! that was last week and i still hadn't gotten a response; until this morning. the email was asking me to update my information with my agent and mentioned various success the agency has recently had. i promptly wrote back and said that my agent was M.I.A. and I was unsure how to proceed. i requested a meeting with another agent in order to continue where Angeline left off.

now i reset my clock and the waiting game re-commences.

tootsie rolls, eye patches, and red lobster

i finally buckled. i had to get a job last week. sigh. it was either that or take my laptop and cozy up with the hobos living under the I-405 interchange. i decided to apply as a server rather than a cook for several reasons:


- better tips
- working in a kitchen while it's 96° outside is not appealing
- english is my primary language

i spent the first two days being read to - line by line - from various dry corporate manuals regarding everything from grooming specifications to their sexual harassment policies. sex in the walk-in freezer? it's frowned upon.

finally, by day three i was allowed to actually approach a table.

"Hi. My name is Matthew and I'll be your server. Here's our fresh fish menu and our sexual harassment policies. Just let me know if you have any questions."

seated before me was an elderly couple. well, ancient would probably be the more appropriate term. i was fascinated with the old man hunched over in the booth. he was wearing a black eye-patch; which is always a bit jarring when you actually come face to face with one. your mind is immediately drawn to the image of some sort of accident involving a metal hook. the most curious part of his ensemble? he was sporting a pair of eyeglasses over the patch. i may have casually mentioned the purchase of a monocle in the future and he nodded several times; but that could have just been the parkinson's.

he stared blankly at the table while his wife ordered for them both. as i swiped their menus off the table he extended a wobbly fist in my direction and held it suspended in mid-air. i looked to the wife for some help; what does wobbly fist mean? he shook it several times, impatient with me. then it occurred to me he was holding something and desperately wanted me to take it. with fingers resembling the crypt keeper's; they slowly unhinged and deposited a tootsie roll in my hand. i was praying this wouldn't be the extent of my tip.

it was.

heat waves, polar bears, and marshmallows

i'm sure glad i decided to move to southern california in the dead of summer. brilliant. we had a heat wave last week; which you may have seen on the news and chose to flip the channel - uncaring and oblivious to the suffering of those in some distant corner of the union. like the morons who live on the mississippi and whine when their houses get flooded every year; same goes for the people who complain about the heat in LA. what do they expect?

due to the selfish overuse of air-conditioners, rolling blackouts plagued LA county (where I live). each night i would huddle in front of my air conditioner, gently muttering, "please don't go out. be strong, my friend." as the power-grid struggled like an anemic little girl to keep up with demand.

inside the house, it was sweltering. i could place a raw slab of pork roast on the kitchen counter at noon, and by 4pm it would be fully cooked and ready to serve.

the real irritation came from the smart asses sitting in their ivory towers at Albertsons. pale and seeing double, i wobbled to the checkout stand and actually heard the words, "so, hot enough for you?" How dare they ask me such a question? If I lived in the arctic and had the audacity to say, "cold enough for you?" i'm fairly certain a polar bear would leap out of nowhere and punch me in the mouth. no questions asked.

i'll move on. yesterday i was at the gas station waiting in line. it was late at night and they were totaling up the day's debit/credit transactions; which meant everyone in line had to wait until the process was complete. a menacing black woman waiting in line behind me was growing impatient. unable to contain herself any longer, she finally blurted out to the clerk behind the bullet-proof glass, "hey! i'm sick of waiting! this gonna be much longer?!" The clerk muttered something in Arabic and continued his intense focus on the task at hand. everyone in line was growing irritable; eyebrows were raised, eyes were rolled, feet were stamped into the ground, watches glanced at repeatedly.

taking the initiative, the thunderous black woman barked through the plexiglass once again, "Hey! Muhammad!" He glanced up; hand on hip. "How about some of these marshmallows?" she propositioned. He scrunched his forehead - confused and irritated. She happened to be standing next to a display of Stay Puft Marshmallows and raised a bag high in the air, ensuring he'd see it. "How 'bout a bag of these? For having to wait so long?" He simply shrugged his shoulders, uncaring. Free marshmallows; fine. Who cares.

she went on to explain the intricacies of customer service to the mexican man standing behind her who seemed either uninterested or perhaps just unable to comprehend the english language. either way, it didn't matter to her; she'd won her prize. that night i envisioned her arriving at home, bursting through the front door, and excitedly parading around her tiny house with the bag of Stay Puft Marshmallows held triumphantly over her head. justice had been served. a round of hot chocolate for everyone.

bumblebees, balls, and angeline cook

i'm almost certain that someone in the neighborhood is performing illegal genetic mutations on the local insect population.

this afternoon, i could feel something watching me. silently hovering over my shoulder. i snap my head around in wild paranoia and am face-to-face with a bumblebee the size of a sparrow. i froze and everything became a smeared blur of slow-motion. it's stinger - i was sure - was aimed directly at my throat; dangling like a used syringe from its abdomen.

quick flashes in the recesses of my brain vaguely remind me that i had foolishly spread some honey on my toast this morning. and he wanted it back.

i tossed a small pebble into some nearby bushes; as a distraction. it spun around, giving me the fraction of a second i needed to make a break for the house. i could clearly see it shaking its head menacingly as i pressed my face against the window, breathing heavily onto the protective layer of glass between us.

needless to say, i purchased a badminton racquet at the local walmart to use in our next encounter.

and now onto the main event! i have updated hollywood news:
the agent, angeline cook, contacted me four weeks ago and asked to see a copy of my script and I promptly shelled out $18 to have it shipped next-day. all of my screenwriting books instruct me to wait a month, then try and contact her. the key word here is 'try'. most agents won't even give you the time of day, let alone take a phone call from some unknown writer. my script was at the bottom of a very large stack on her desk; and i was painfully aware of that fact.

last week, day 30 arrived. i picked up the phone to call her and check in, but had a sudden impulse to instead visit her in person. its not as if i have a job or 'life'...what's to lose?

after a 50 minute adventure through the LA freeway maze, i located her building on Santa Monica Boulevard. When I say 'building', I mean a dark and ominous structure rising so high in the sky it blots the sun. The lobby was just as cold and uninviting; I was surrounded by high powered agents and producers, marble floors, and endless rows of elevators - all leading up, if I dared.

I made my way up to The Agency with my script clinging to my sweaty hand. I approached the receptionist and asked to speak with Angeline Cook. She inquired if I had an appointment and I sheepishly told her I didn't. She offered to take down my phone number and have Angeline Cook call me at her earliest convenience. I figured as much. My mouth opened to spew out my number, but suddenly my brain re-wired itself and a new response came to my lips.

"if you don't mind, i'd like to sit in the lobby and wait to speak with her."

"she's extremely busy and will be in meetings all day, but i'll be more than happy to take down your number and have her call you"

"if it's all the same to you, i don't mind waiting over there and if she has a free moment to spare that'd be great. i just need two minutes to ask her if she's read my script."

"i don't think you understand. her meeting could last an hour, it could last five hours. it'll be a lot easier if you just have her call you."

"i think i'll actually just stay here in the lobby. if she's not available in the next four hours, i'll give you my number. until then, i'm going to sit down and read a magazine."

The receptionist just shrugged and resumed her work.

I waited for nearly two hours, lazily thumbing through every magazine at my disposal. Then, a blonde woman approached me and introduced herself. Angeline Cook! She asks me briefly about my script and informs me she hasn't read it yet, but has heard great things. Her assistant, Carl, had said how impressed he was with my query letter. I handed her another copy of the script, now stained in palm sweat, and expected to be on my way.

she asked if I had a few spare minutes. i laughed in my head. i had nothing but time. she invited me into a large mahogany conference room where high-powered meetings took place on a regular basis. she closed the door. she asked me about any other scripts i had. i told her. she seemed impressed. we chatted briefly about television specs, treatments, and networking. she had me sign a release form allowing her to legally read my script without fear of litigation. she assured me that she would read the script personally and admired my tenacity. i told her i appreciated her help and taking the time to see me. i started to lift out of my chair, sensing our little chat was coming to a close. no. she proceeded to ask me if i was from the LA area.

i slumped back into my seat and explained that i had packed up everything i had into my Jetta and moved to LA three months ago to pursue screenwriting. she stared at me with a scrunched face.

"so what do you do for work?" she asks.
"nothing. i'm writing full time."
"so what do you do for money?"
"i have some savings. but when that runs out i'll probably have to get a restaurant job."
"do you know anyone in the industry?"
"nope. i've just been holed up in my house trying to crank out as many scripts as i can until i'm forced to get a job at some restaurant."
"i have to be honest with you. you move down here on a whim, camp out in my lobby for two hours. you've really got a set of balls on you."
(should i show them to her? no. stay professional.)
"thanks."
"listen. i really like you so i'm going to tell you that i happen to know the Head of our Literary Department is looking for a new assistant. If you're interested sent me your resume and I'll see if we can't make that happen."

i wondered for a brief moment if she could smell the odor emanating from my freshly soiled pants. i came in just to check whether or not she'd read my script and i left having been offered a job working for her boss.

it has begun.

the mayor of bellflower

i think the mayor of my town is a warlock. look under his hobbies/special interests:

http://www.bellflower.org/home/index.asp?page=239

romance novels, sensual massages, and ninjas

i was recently presented with the opportunity to visit home. my aunt and uncle make an annual drive from arizona to seattle and decided to swing by LA on their way up. we had dinner together and my uncle proposed that i just hitch a ride with them and surprise my family. normally, i wouldn't have hesitated. yes, of course!

but it was at that precise moment that i glanced across the table at my four year old cousin who was repeatedly banging her fork on the table chanting some unintelligible song; angry glances being shot at our table from every imaginable angle.

they smiled and awaited my response. i'd love to!

thankfully i had the presence of mind to bring my sleeping pills with me. i was able to covertly crush them in my palm and dissolve them into her sippy cup of apple juice. so help me, this was going to be a smooth 18 hour trip.

i spent two weeks there and eventually found a ridiculously cheap ticket to fly me back to LAX. upon my arrival at the airport i soon realized why my ticket was such a bargain. there would be a three hour layover in portland. i felt sick. everything in me just wanted to be home, sleeping in my own bed. well, flimsy aluminum futon. that's not the point.

three hours. fine. i'll just do a crossword puzzle to help pass the time. twenty minutes later i was finished and checking my watch.

i decided to buy a book; apparently, it's what every sensible traveler does. all of the fat older women in the terminal were reading romance novels; with titles like 'The Flame and the Flower' and 'Forbidden Passion'. I entered the bookstore, strode past the endless aisles of a wispy and chiseled fabio staring lustfully into my eyes, and eventually found one that suited me. i went to the counter to pay.

there was a couple standing in front of me with one arm around the other, lovingly. i couldn't help but notice as the man's hand slowly found it's way down her back and onto her rear. so what? nothing new here, he's probably going to just tuck his hand inside the rear pocket of her pants. nope. he slid right past the pocket and went straight for her ass crack. his fingers made a slow and methodical trek down the length of the crack - lingering for a moment at the anus - and continuing downward. his fingers slowly glided up and down the path several times; meanwhile she's acting cool as a cucumber, handing the clerk her credit card, oblivious to the fact that her boyfriend is caressing her crack in public. my face scrunched in utter disgust, i spun around to see if there were any children watching this obscene show of theirs. they paid and left, leaving a distinct odor of sex hovering around the register.

i held my breath until i was at least 25 feet away from the bookstore. now to find a quiet little corner of the airport to read for the next two and a half hours. as i meandered, i passed a glass case containing various items Homeland Security deem dangerous and are therefore not allowed on the plane. curious (and bored) I stopped. The usual items were in there; hypodermic needles, 12-inch hunting knives, fireworks, canisters of propane...and then I saw a curious item. a chinese throwing star. not the flimsy one you secretly made in shop class when the teacher was in the bathroom. this was like a genuine throwing star that ninjas use.

you'd think it would be pretty obvious to airport security who was trying to confiscate these things in. the guy at the back of the line who's slender, wearing all black, and has a hooded mask enveloping his head. i imagined Homeland Security approaching him as he throws his hand to the ground and disappears in a wild puff of smoke, leaving behind nothing but this throwing star; as a warning not to interfere with the mighty and powerful ninja order.

i arrived at my gate to be cheerful informed that after three hours of agonizing layover, my flight would now be delayed another two hours. i could physically feel my heart coming to a grinding halt.

me: are there any earlier flights to LA?
attendant: no sir.
me: in the entire airport?
attendant: don't you think i would have mentioned that, sir?
(at this point i had a fantasy about tossing her tiny head into a nearby jet engine and gleefully jumping up and down, clapping my hands)
me: ok. thanks.

two more hours.

finally my flight arrived. my seat was located in the very last row of the aircraft, which meant i had to do that little two-step shuffle for the next five minutes as I make my way past everyone in the aisle. i sit next to the window, completely ignoring my actual seat assignment on the ticket. if somebody wants to say something to me about it, they can prepare for a face-full of venom.

after take-off i glance out the tiny window to see the cityscape. except that is impossible. my entire translucent square to the outside world has been clouded in forehead grease. it was as if someone had smeared mayonnaise across the entire surface of the window. i took the small napkin that came with my peanuts and attempted to swab a clear spot for myself to gaze out of. waste of time. it just spread the grease around, instead of actually removing it. i considered punching it, to pop it out of it's casing; no longer caring about things like 'pressurization'. dejected, i slumped back into my seat with nothing to console me but a bag containing exactly twelve peanuts and a dixie-cup full of Ginger Ale.

unemployment, license plates and whoopi goldberg

i called the bank today to update my information. jerome went through the usual questions before asking me the name of my employer. i paused.

i was actually embarrassed to answer the question honestly.

i muttered: i don't have one.
jerome: i'm sorry? i didn't catch that.
under my breath: i'm unemployed.
jerome: ...oh.

i felt the compulsion to justify my employment situation with some sort of gutwrenching story. something about how i got laid off at the steel mill, have three kids to feed, my kidney's acting up again, and how this is just a temporary thing because my brother's gonna hook me up with some construction work this summer. without some back story to explain myself i knew the word 'unemployed' would conjure an image in jerome's head of me sitting on my couch in a wife-beater, with a six pack of bud light at my feet, a half-empty bag of cheetos on my chest, and jerry springer on the TV. i uttered the word and immediately felt dirty.

as i was on the road today, i got a tingle of excitement because i was fairly certain that whoopi goldberg was driving in the car ahead of me. i sped up to get alongside her and came to the disappointing reality of a black man with dreadlocks. a commoner. if i was thinking clearly, i would have realized that whoopi goldberg probably doesn't cruise around LA in a brown 1984 honda civic with rust covering the entire rear bumper.

speaking of cars. the license plates are crazy here! you're legally allowed to put symbols on your plates. you can insert a star, heart, cross, or child's handprint (creepy) anywhere on the plate. it's as if the state of california decided to model their licensing format after the souvenir shops in LAX. i took the liberty of creating my own dream plates:







the last two days my friend michelle was in town visiting. ehem. that's right. she came down to visit me. we were driving around because she insisted on seeing Rodeo Drive. we got lost and ended up at the ocean. that was actually the first time i saw the pacific ocean since my arrival. this may take you by surprise, but i'm not exactly what you would call a 'beach bum'. so we pulled up to this seafood restaurant. (side note: i was watching Entourage tonight and Turtle and Drama were at this exact same seafood place!) the place was packed and the only booth available was all the way in the back, facing the kitchen. it was extremely noisy; the wait staff was scampering around, yelling at the cooks, silverware clanking in the dishwasher, etc. Then I glanced up and noticed this lovely sign above our booth:

as if I needed the written confirmation. the waiter cheerfully bounced over to our table and informed us that because we were seated at this particular booth, we would get 30% off our meal.

you may be thinking, "thirty percent? big whoop." that is, until you see the prices on the menu. We're lookin' at $30-$50 dishes; swordfish, ahi tuna steaks, lobster, a half-rack of humpback whale, etc. Afterwards we decided to order dessert.


the picture doesn't do it justice. lacking an actual tape measure, i estimated it as being at least 28 inches across. i'm no lumberjack, but it looked to me like redwood; enormous. this also happend to be one of those fancy-smancy places that wraps your to-go items in tin foil shaped like a swan or harpoon or whatever. our waiter decided to show off a bit and fashioned our mashed potatoes into an exact replica of E.T. All the neighboring tables were staring as he peeled off sheet after sheet of foil. Once he was finished, he actually took a bow and the restaurant broke into applause. I was going to do a little song and dance number to out-do him, but I simply ate too much cake and sourdough bread to partake in that kind of nonsense.

cockroaches, visas, and charles

so last night i'm watching tv in my room and i see something out of the corner of my eye. curious, i get up and turn the light on. sprawled across my wall is the largest cockroach i have seen in my life. it was easily the size of a stapler; unholy. i panicked. our eyes locked.

in a split second decision i raced into the kitchen and grabbed a can of RAID. there was a picture of a spider on the front. would it work? i had to try, this was an emergency situation.

as i run to my bedroom, i'm recalling 'cockroach week' or some nonsense on the discovery channel. they could withstand a nuclear blast, live three weeks without their head, shoot lasers out of their antennae, etc. As I entered the room, RAID in hand, i heard a faint chuckle come from the wall. cocky roach. this mist of deadly toxin would probably just make him drunk for a couple hours.

i proceeded to unload the entire can on his outer shell. he eventually fell down behind my dresser. probably to take a nap and sleep it off.

that night i couldn't sleep for fear that he was going to crawl into my esophagus and cut off my air supply out of revenge. i was defenseless.

luckily, i made through through till morning. i crept into the bathroom to brush my teeth and i was presented with a little treat.

who's chuckling now. i win.

to change the subject, i'd like to take a moment to rant. not necessarily funny, just things on my mind.

i'm really bothered by VISA commercials and have been for quite some time. there's always that one shot of the person sliding their VISA card through the machine at the checkout stand. as they slide it through, the card is upright so we can clearly see its VISA logo gliding past. the problem? if i can read the logo, that means the card is being slid through UPSIDE-DOWN! it's absurd! there is no magnetic strip on the bottom of the card.

i understand this may not make sense to you right now, but i implore you...watch for it. you'll see exactly what i'm talking about. (wink)

rant number two:

it irritates me when i meet a complete stranger and introduce myself as 'matthew' and then they take it upon themselves to refer to me as 'matt' in all future conversation. like we're casual all of the sudden.
they don't get to make that call! when i meet a 'charles' i don't say to myself, "you know, i don't really care for that name, i think i'll call you Larry". no! we're not friends.

you're charles, i'm matthew. have a nice day.

air conditioners, weathermen, and umbrellas

since my arrival in town it's been in the mid 70's everyday. not quite within my comfort level of precisely 54 degrees, but I was coping reasonably well. that is...until this week.

i watched the evening news as the smarmy weatherman joked, "it's gonna be a hot one this week". i rolled my eyes. southern california - hot - not exactly a news flash. then three days ago I came to the realization that he was not kidding around. i stepped outside to retrieve the mail and the air was instantly ripped from my lungs; it was as if i had stepped out onto the surface of mars. and it was only 9am.

all the locals were actually walking around the streets with umbrellas. men and women. there would be like this hardcore gang member with a wife-beater, tats running down his arms, bullet scars on his face, daintily holding a yellow umbrella over his head as he strolled to the market. it was like i had traveled back to 1854 and everyone should be wearing petticoats.

i finally buckled. i reached my breaking point. it brought me to my knees and i tried to cry, but the tears just evaporated the moment they left my tear duct.

so i set out to purchase an air conditioner from my local Wal-Mart. i found the one nearest to my house and literally ran towards the front entrance, passed out after several paces, and crawled the rest. once inside, i was informed that they just sold their last two. i might as well have been told I have two days to live. complete. devastation.

the guy laughed. like it was a joke to him. i lifted off my sunglasses and it took one look into my eyes for him to quickly realize that joke time was now over. i told him to get cozy with the phone because he was about to call every Wal-Mart in southern california (and southwestern nevada if need be) to locate an AC unit.

he found one. the corner of carson and paramount. he didn't even see me leave, all he was left with was the faint aroma of burned rubber somewhere in the distance.

i bought one (on sale, thank you very much) and put it in my trunk. i actually found myself humming on the way home. no radio, just hummin', lovin' the day, lovin' life. it was like being a child on christmas eve...and in reality i was going to have actual snow and frost come nighttime. should i buy tinsel? no, too extravagant. just keep going, you're almost home.

i breeze in the door and head straight to my room. I rip the cord on the venetian blinds and the sun is blaring directly into my retina. not for long, sir, not for long. i'll soon be rid of you forever. remembering to lift with my legs, i hoist the 800 lb. unit up and onto the window ledge. i pause. my heart actually stopped beating for six solid seconds. the window was too small. by one inch.

by God, nothing was going to stop this me from putting this piece of shit into the window. if i have to get a hammer and smash out every piece of glass, then so be it. the sun continued to relentlessly pulsate on my face, i've now broken into a sweat. in one swoop of rage, i clutch both sides of the sliding glass, white knuckled, and physically wretch it up and out of it's tracks. the surrounding aluminum siding is all mangled and bent. don't care.

one more window pane to go. i try the Hulk maneuver again. doesn't budge. i laugh aloud. not because i found the situation humorous, but because i was slowly slipping into insanity. this one has screws. i rummage through the junk drawer in the kitchen and stomp back into my room for round two. half of my body is hanging out the window with my toes clinging to my bed so i don't fall out. my palms are drenched in sweat and i'm having a hard time holding the screwdriver.

since the windows were installed during the Eisenhower administration, as I loosened the window sill and unscrewed the bolts, i'm getting flecks of asbestos and dead fire ants showering on and clinging to my red sweaty face. after twenty minutes of dropping the screwdriver, wiping my face and keeping my balance, i finally have a small pile of screws next to me. i pull on the window. nothing. at this point i'm so furious i'm beginning to see double. i take a seat. i just...I just need to breathe.

my roomate peeks his head around the corner and asks how it's coming along. i want to punch him in the mouth just for looking at me.

he then has the audacity to suggest i call the guy who installed the air conditioner in his room.

he's coming on Tuesday.