i finally decided to treat myself to another car wash. this one was $12, so I figured it must be good. there was a squadren of fourteen highly trained men standing at the ready when I rolled in. i handed them my car keys and made sure i removed all my valuables; cell phone, ipod, americano. i don't need them sneaking a few sips.
four of them peeled away from the pack and began vacuuming the hell out of my car. alright. cool. complimentary vacuum.
they pulled my car in front of this quarter-mile strip containing a series of cleaning stations that it would go through; each with a solitary man standing guard, overseeing the soap distribution ratio or whatever.
after its run though the gauntlet, they pull my car over to the parking area and four more break away and run towards my car. all four doors and the trunk-lid burst open. they begin furiously scrubbing and polishing every piece of metal inside and out. then the windex bottles come out and every inch of glass is cleaned. i've never actually seen human beings move that fast before. their limbs were just vague blurs of flesh moving around inside my car.
they finished and waved me over. it looked brand new, all sparkly and glistening in the sunshine. i had to look away for a moment to wipe the tear from my eye. i didn't want them to see me like that.
I slipped those little rascals two bucks and gave them a "Buenos Dias!" and a wink.
6.28.2007
6.24.2007
wrigley, bentley, and clark
i got in my car this afternoon. i decided i'd enjoy a slice of gum, which was located under my dashboard. turns out when you leave gum in a car, located in southern california, all afternoon, it changes its molecular structure. it had shifted from a solid to a liquid state. ever so carefully, i peeled open the aluminum casing and slowly poured the peppermint concoction into my mouth. it was more like a mouthwash then a gum. frustrated, i poured the remaining wrigleys out the window. i now had a thin coating of warm, minty-fresh film covering every tooth in my mouth. i tried to swallow.
my second week in town i obtained a list of 100 agencies from the Writer's Guild of America. in fact, i drove all the way down to their building off Sunset Blvd. Now, Sunset Blvd. is a series of endless stoplights every ten feet, packed with non-stop traffic. The entire street itself is a glamorous, working, open showroom for Bentley, BMW, and Lamborghini. I've never seen so many $100,000 cars in my entire life. If I tallied up the combined cost of every car next to me at each red light, it would be roughly equivalent to the GNP of a small eastern european nation.
the writer's guild building itself is ominous and sinister. it takes up the entire block and i felt microscopic as i crept up to the entrance and opened the enormous fifteen foot glass doors. there are five foot portraits lining every wall of the front lobby. each containing the face of great screenwriters over the years. i knew each and every one. some were my idols, some were...George Lucas.
the lobby was open and spacious, yet only had one man sitting at a desk. however, this was no ordinary desk. the man looked like he was running a command center at NASA. the desk was circular and had roughly the same area as my livingroom. he had no less than four computers surrounding him and was sliding back and forth between them in his swivel chair. every phone line on his grid was lit up; he was effortlessly gliding back and forth.
"Writer's Guild? Please hold"
"Writer's Guild? Let me put you through"
"Writer's Guild? Let me transfer you"
i slowly tiptoed my way towards the ring of fire. i didn't want to bother him, i glanced around to see if i could ask for help from somebody else. anybody. i wimpered, "somebody help me". it just echoed endlessly through the cavernous halls. i was now in front of his desk and i stood there, like a dope. he paused for a moment, stared at me, then continued his zig-zagging around inside the pit. several moments go by. i don't move a muscle. he realizes i'm still there; like a lion knows the gazelle is still standing nearby. without making eye contact, says "yes?". i bowed slightly at the hip, out of reverence, and requested their list of agencies. he makes a vague motion towards the tiny table across the room and resumed his business. i quickly locate a pamphlet and rush to the glass doors to escape this place. as the doors close behind me i hear a giant 'whoosh', as all the air (and my soul?) is sucked from my body.
that night i bought bulk amounts of envelopes, thirteen books of stamps, and a reem of printer paper. i had to handwrite each address for 100 different agencies, in addition to the 100 hand-written Self Addressed Stamped Envelopes I had to include inside. let's just say the 3M company shareholders are holding a celebration in my honor this weekend.
i wrote a query (hee hee) letter to every agency on the list. for those of you who don't know, this is the standard form letter you must send to agencies in hopes that they'll take you on as a client. it roughly says:
-i'm seeking representation
-here's what my screenplay is about
-i will pledge to you my firstborn child if you take the time to read my script
so, if they like what they read in the query letter they will request your actual script. then if that passes their test, then they take me on as a client. that's the process. I dumped them all in the mailbox on the corner and then the waiting game began.
it took about a week, but finally the rejection letters started flowing in; which i fully expected. most agents receive dozens of query letters a week, and very rarely accept new undiscovered clients. and by 'rarely', i mean 'never'.
what did surprise me though, was their lack of professionalism. i was expecting a standard rejection letter politely telling me to stop wasting their time with my worthless storylines. instead, they simply take the original letter i sent to them, handwrite "not interested" across the top and send it back in my SASE. they don't even want to waste precious paper on me! that's how low on the totem pole i am.
then...yesterday. i recieve a voicemail from an agent's assistant. clark. clark informed me that his boss liked my query letter and requested a copy of the script. after several minutes of jumping up and down in jubilation, i rushed to the post office and sent it off; next day delivery. the rush delivery cost me $18, instead of the $2 sluggish delivery. maybe i can have clark reimburse me.
and now i'm just waiting. waiting for the agent to read it and hopefully like it enough to take me on as a client. who knows, if all goes well there may be a Bentley in my future.
my second week in town i obtained a list of 100 agencies from the Writer's Guild of America. in fact, i drove all the way down to their building off Sunset Blvd. Now, Sunset Blvd. is a series of endless stoplights every ten feet, packed with non-stop traffic. The entire street itself is a glamorous, working, open showroom for Bentley, BMW, and Lamborghini. I've never seen so many $100,000 cars in my entire life. If I tallied up the combined cost of every car next to me at each red light, it would be roughly equivalent to the GNP of a small eastern european nation.
the writer's guild building itself is ominous and sinister. it takes up the entire block and i felt microscopic as i crept up to the entrance and opened the enormous fifteen foot glass doors. there are five foot portraits lining every wall of the front lobby. each containing the face of great screenwriters over the years. i knew each and every one. some were my idols, some were...George Lucas.
the lobby was open and spacious, yet only had one man sitting at a desk. however, this was no ordinary desk. the man looked like he was running a command center at NASA. the desk was circular and had roughly the same area as my livingroom. he had no less than four computers surrounding him and was sliding back and forth between them in his swivel chair. every phone line on his grid was lit up; he was effortlessly gliding back and forth.
"Writer's Guild? Please hold"
"Writer's Guild? Let me put you through"
"Writer's Guild? Let me transfer you"
i slowly tiptoed my way towards the ring of fire. i didn't want to bother him, i glanced around to see if i could ask for help from somebody else. anybody. i wimpered, "somebody help me". it just echoed endlessly through the cavernous halls. i was now in front of his desk and i stood there, like a dope. he paused for a moment, stared at me, then continued his zig-zagging around inside the pit. several moments go by. i don't move a muscle. he realizes i'm still there; like a lion knows the gazelle is still standing nearby. without making eye contact, says "yes?". i bowed slightly at the hip, out of reverence, and requested their list of agencies. he makes a vague motion towards the tiny table across the room and resumed his business. i quickly locate a pamphlet and rush to the glass doors to escape this place. as the doors close behind me i hear a giant 'whoosh', as all the air (and my soul?) is sucked from my body.
that night i bought bulk amounts of envelopes, thirteen books of stamps, and a reem of printer paper. i had to handwrite each address for 100 different agencies, in addition to the 100 hand-written Self Addressed Stamped Envelopes I had to include inside. let's just say the 3M company shareholders are holding a celebration in my honor this weekend.
i wrote a query (hee hee) letter to every agency on the list. for those of you who don't know, this is the standard form letter you must send to agencies in hopes that they'll take you on as a client. it roughly says:
-i'm seeking representation
-here's what my screenplay is about
-i will pledge to you my firstborn child if you take the time to read my script
so, if they like what they read in the query letter they will request your actual script. then if that passes their test, then they take me on as a client. that's the process. I dumped them all in the mailbox on the corner and then the waiting game began.
it took about a week, but finally the rejection letters started flowing in; which i fully expected. most agents receive dozens of query letters a week, and very rarely accept new undiscovered clients. and by 'rarely', i mean 'never'.
what did surprise me though, was their lack of professionalism. i was expecting a standard rejection letter politely telling me to stop wasting their time with my worthless storylines. instead, they simply take the original letter i sent to them, handwrite "not interested" across the top and send it back in my SASE. they don't even want to waste precious paper on me! that's how low on the totem pole i am.
then...yesterday. i recieve a voicemail from an agent's assistant. clark. clark informed me that his boss liked my query letter and requested a copy of the script. after several minutes of jumping up and down in jubilation, i rushed to the post office and sent it off; next day delivery. the rush delivery cost me $18, instead of the $2 sluggish delivery. maybe i can have clark reimburse me.
and now i'm just waiting. waiting for the agent to read it and hopefully like it enough to take me on as a client. who knows, if all goes well there may be a Bentley in my future.
6.17.2007
lave, whippets, and singing telegrams
Happy Father's Day, friends!
Originally, when I found my house online, I was promised an air-conditioning unit would be in my room. I arrive to find a crappy ceiling fan that only has a 'low' setting. I didn't want to be a dick and start pointing fingers and making accusations my first week in town. So I waited until week two. I cornered my roomate (Paul) while he was sipping some iced tea and demanded to know why he lured me in with the promise of crisp icy air only to dump me in a room that's quite easily the same temperature as molten lava. He just laughed it off, saying that the room with air-conditioning was given to the third roomate before I arrived. To the Old Man. His name is Doug, but I prefer to refer to him as 'The Old Man'. Most nights I lay awake in a pool of warm sweat wondering if the Old Man would mind if we shared his bed for the night. I wouldn't even mind some harmless cuddling, as long as I could see our breath in the air every time we exhaled.
Today we had a visitor at our home. My bedroom window faces the front door, so I can see anyone approaching the house long before they see me. The mystery man came to the door holding two leashes, each attached to a Whippet. For those of you who don't know what a Whippet is; it's the only member of the canine family that bears a striking resemblance to Michael Jackson. They're quite possibly the most hideous, vomit-inducing animal that God has ever created.
Paul answered the door and the moment the man began speaking, my jaw dropped. He had this warbly, high pitched, feminine, goof-ball voice. It was as if Tiny Tim and Truman Capote had a bastard child. At first I thought he was one of those singing telegrams, hired to do quirky impressions. That was, until Paul invited him in. They were friends! I tried to stifle back laughter as I quickly ran over to shut my bedroom door. I didn't want to be involved in any of their shenanigans.
Originally, when I found my house online, I was promised an air-conditioning unit would be in my room. I arrive to find a crappy ceiling fan that only has a 'low' setting. I didn't want to be a dick and start pointing fingers and making accusations my first week in town. So I waited until week two. I cornered my roomate (Paul) while he was sipping some iced tea and demanded to know why he lured me in with the promise of crisp icy air only to dump me in a room that's quite easily the same temperature as molten lava. He just laughed it off, saying that the room with air-conditioning was given to the third roomate before I arrived. To the Old Man. His name is Doug, but I prefer to refer to him as 'The Old Man'. Most nights I lay awake in a pool of warm sweat wondering if the Old Man would mind if we shared his bed for the night. I wouldn't even mind some harmless cuddling, as long as I could see our breath in the air every time we exhaled.
Today we had a visitor at our home. My bedroom window faces the front door, so I can see anyone approaching the house long before they see me. The mystery man came to the door holding two leashes, each attached to a Whippet. For those of you who don't know what a Whippet is; it's the only member of the canine family that bears a striking resemblance to Michael Jackson. They're quite possibly the most hideous, vomit-inducing animal that God has ever created.
Paul answered the door and the moment the man began speaking, my jaw dropped. He had this warbly, high pitched, feminine, goof-ball voice. It was as if Tiny Tim and Truman Capote had a bastard child. At first I thought he was one of those singing telegrams, hired to do quirky impressions. That was, until Paul invited him in. They were friends! I tried to stifle back laughter as I quickly ran over to shut my bedroom door. I didn't want to be involved in any of their shenanigans.
6.16.2007
car washes, warm urine, and angelina jolie
Most days we keep the windows in the house open. If every window in the house isn't cracked, the temperature in the house would immedietly bring the silverware to its melting point. There happens to be a window in the bathroom, located directly above the toilet. This, like every other in the house, is open.
The houses in this neighborhood are so closely set together that I could reach through my window and shake Pedro's hand in the next house over as he sits in his livingroom watching Telemundo. Most times, the open window in the bathroom causes no problems. But there is, on occasion, the awkward moment. This morning for instance as I'm taking a long, satisfying pee; I happen to slowly glance over my shoulder. A woman is in her house, doing some dishes, and kindly smiles at me and nods her head as I stand there taking a leak. Not knowing the layout of my house, does she know I'm in the bathroom? Does she know she's staring at a complete stranger as he takes a piss? Trying not to sprinkly urine on myself, I raise my hand up and casually wave, accompanied by a forced and awkward smile. Once she re-focuses on her dirty dishes, I slowly slide the window shut and flush.
This afternoon I decided to get my car washed. I haven't washed it since my arrival in town. Because I have no pride, the entire front of the car is an insect graveyard; and has remained so for two weeks. Looking like some low-budget paint job, every square inch of blue on the front third of my car has been replaced with various shades of green and yellow. It's so hideous in it's blatent lack of respect for life, it would cause a buddhist to instantly burst into tears upon viewing it. I actually considered contacting the local entomology department and invite them to study my car. For a small fee, of course. What a rare and exciting opportunity for them!
I took it to the local Arco gas station to take a run through their top-of-the-line car wash. It proceeded to covered my car with a few soapy bubbles and washed that off with a light mist. No brushes. No scrubbing. Just a sprinkle of water and sent me on my way. All it did was merely wet the blanket of insects, leaving them to further encrust on my grill in the california sun. I would have been better off with a blind, mildy retarded homless man spritzing my car with a bottle of windex.
I'm watching Angelina Jolie being interviewed on the Daily Show right now. All they can talk about is how incredibly hot she is. I never have understood her appeal. She looks like a man in drag with water-wings for lips. I wouldn't have sex with her, but if I were drowning in the ocean I'd be happy to have her as a swimming parter. I could use her mouth as a flotation device and her jaw-line as a board to surf back to shore.
The houses in this neighborhood are so closely set together that I could reach through my window and shake Pedro's hand in the next house over as he sits in his livingroom watching Telemundo. Most times, the open window in the bathroom causes no problems. But there is, on occasion, the awkward moment. This morning for instance as I'm taking a long, satisfying pee; I happen to slowly glance over my shoulder. A woman is in her house, doing some dishes, and kindly smiles at me and nods her head as I stand there taking a leak. Not knowing the layout of my house, does she know I'm in the bathroom? Does she know she's staring at a complete stranger as he takes a piss? Trying not to sprinkly urine on myself, I raise my hand up and casually wave, accompanied by a forced and awkward smile. Once she re-focuses on her dirty dishes, I slowly slide the window shut and flush.
This afternoon I decided to get my car washed. I haven't washed it since my arrival in town. Because I have no pride, the entire front of the car is an insect graveyard; and has remained so for two weeks. Looking like some low-budget paint job, every square inch of blue on the front third of my car has been replaced with various shades of green and yellow. It's so hideous in it's blatent lack of respect for life, it would cause a buddhist to instantly burst into tears upon viewing it. I actually considered contacting the local entomology department and invite them to study my car. For a small fee, of course. What a rare and exciting opportunity for them!
I took it to the local Arco gas station to take a run through their top-of-the-line car wash. It proceeded to covered my car with a few soapy bubbles and washed that off with a light mist. No brushes. No scrubbing. Just a sprinkle of water and sent me on my way. All it did was merely wet the blanket of insects, leaving them to further encrust on my grill in the california sun. I would have been better off with a blind, mildy retarded homless man spritzing my car with a bottle of windex.
I'm watching Angelina Jolie being interviewed on the Daily Show right now. All they can talk about is how incredibly hot she is. I never have understood her appeal. She looks like a man in drag with water-wings for lips. I wouldn't have sex with her, but if I were drowning in the ocean I'd be happy to have her as a swimming parter. I could use her mouth as a flotation device and her jaw-line as a board to surf back to shore.
6.11.2007
hot lips, paris, and tacos
i was abruptly woken up this morning. my next door neighbor (whose window is three feet away from mine) was frantically screaming loud enough for everyone on my street to hear, "MY ASSHOLE'S BURNING!" i didn't know if i should call 911 or bring her a glass of water. i decided to ignore it and toast myself a bagel.
yesterday i dropped my friend nina off at the airport. we got there ahead of schedule, so we decided to stop at a nearby denny's for some lunch before her flight. i ordered a super-bird and some fries with a side of ranch. the super-bird arrives...no ranch. not a big deal. i wait until the waitress comes around and ask again. she apologizes and assures me she'll return with the ranch. i have to assume that she went on break at this point because i don't see her for another 30 minutes. no big deal, i was once a server; i can wait this out. eventually she comes around again and i politely ask again for a ramekin of ranch. she begins this lengthy apology about how it's been a long morning, she doesn't know where her mind is, she's so sorry, etc. Fine. To make up for past transgressions she returns with an entire SOUP BOWL filled to the very brim with delicious ranch! I requested a straw.
speaking of nina, her aunt and uncle live on Sunset Blvd (la DEE da!) at the base of the hollywood hills. this is basically where all the celebrities live in their big celebrity mansions. their house (and most houses in this area) was build around 1928 and is ENORMOUS. it's like old-school hollywood, something you'd envision Humphrey Bogart living in in the 40's. huge vaulted ceilings, elaborate crystal chandeliers, bay windows in every room looking out to a perfectly manicured lawn containing vines and mini-palms. you get the idea. in fact, their next door neighbor is Jamie Kennedy. it's not Pacino, but it's something.
her uncle grew up in the hollywood area and is one of those awesome storytellers. at all times he had a glass of booze glued to his left hand and no matter how much he drank the glass always seemed to stay full. he would tell me wild tales about his trip down the zambezi river in africa, how he spent four months living in peru, how he spent a year working as a taxi driver and would take money on the side from whorehouses to bring them visiting sailors every weekend, and on and on and on. then the hollywood stories began to flow. i didn't recognize the names of half the people he was telling me about, but it didn't matter. i was just totally enthralled. he told me Loretta Swit rented out their guest quarters (formerly the servant's quarters) for five years. the blank look on my face told him i had no idea who Loretta Swit was. he said, "you know, Hot-Lips, from M*A*S*H?" it was just hour after hour of really cool stories, which got louder and more zany as he slowly drained the bottle of tequila.
he and his wife were complaining all night because for the past few days there have been at least three helicopters hovering over their neighborhood 24 hours a day. the reason for this? paris hilton lives two minutes from their house. in fact, when nina and i were trying to locate their house we accidently took a wrong turn and ended up driving past this house that had six news vans, various photographers, and a cop car in front of it. this was of course paris' house. she had just been sent back to the courthouse about 20 minutes before we drove past. that's hot.
the aunt and uncle had some of their friends over for dinner. one of them was Larry Flint's (of Hustler magazine fame) personal PR manager. also, there were two screenwriters! one of them was a pretty big stand up comedian (so they say) in the 80's and later got into television as head writer and then producer on 'Blossom'. the other guy did television also, but now does just playwriting for stage. it was a fine line for me though because they were sitting there eating and chatting with their friends and i didn't want to be the schmuck who bursts into the room like, "hey guys! aren't these tacos great! so how about setting me up with an agent?" but in the end, i did get some gems of wisdom from them. no agent, but whatever. i got gems.
lastly, i was driving on the road today and for about five miles i was behind this little honda civic. across the rear window in huge seven inch white lettering said the words, "FUCK HATERS" awesome. welcome to LA.
yesterday i dropped my friend nina off at the airport. we got there ahead of schedule, so we decided to stop at a nearby denny's for some lunch before her flight. i ordered a super-bird and some fries with a side of ranch. the super-bird arrives...no ranch. not a big deal. i wait until the waitress comes around and ask again. she apologizes and assures me she'll return with the ranch. i have to assume that she went on break at this point because i don't see her for another 30 minutes. no big deal, i was once a server; i can wait this out. eventually she comes around again and i politely ask again for a ramekin of ranch. she begins this lengthy apology about how it's been a long morning, she doesn't know where her mind is, she's so sorry, etc. Fine. To make up for past transgressions she returns with an entire SOUP BOWL filled to the very brim with delicious ranch! I requested a straw.
speaking of nina, her aunt and uncle live on Sunset Blvd (la DEE da!) at the base of the hollywood hills. this is basically where all the celebrities live in their big celebrity mansions. their house (and most houses in this area) was build around 1928 and is ENORMOUS. it's like old-school hollywood, something you'd envision Humphrey Bogart living in in the 40's. huge vaulted ceilings, elaborate crystal chandeliers, bay windows in every room looking out to a perfectly manicured lawn containing vines and mini-palms. you get the idea. in fact, their next door neighbor is Jamie Kennedy. it's not Pacino, but it's something.
her uncle grew up in the hollywood area and is one of those awesome storytellers. at all times he had a glass of booze glued to his left hand and no matter how much he drank the glass always seemed to stay full. he would tell me wild tales about his trip down the zambezi river in africa, how he spent four months living in peru, how he spent a year working as a taxi driver and would take money on the side from whorehouses to bring them visiting sailors every weekend, and on and on and on. then the hollywood stories began to flow. i didn't recognize the names of half the people he was telling me about, but it didn't matter. i was just totally enthralled. he told me Loretta Swit rented out their guest quarters (formerly the servant's quarters) for five years. the blank look on my face told him i had no idea who Loretta Swit was. he said, "you know, Hot-Lips, from M*A*S*H?" it was just hour after hour of really cool stories, which got louder and more zany as he slowly drained the bottle of tequila.
he and his wife were complaining all night because for the past few days there have been at least three helicopters hovering over their neighborhood 24 hours a day. the reason for this? paris hilton lives two minutes from their house. in fact, when nina and i were trying to locate their house we accidently took a wrong turn and ended up driving past this house that had six news vans, various photographers, and a cop car in front of it. this was of course paris' house. she had just been sent back to the courthouse about 20 minutes before we drove past. that's hot.
the aunt and uncle had some of their friends over for dinner. one of them was Larry Flint's (of Hustler magazine fame) personal PR manager. also, there were two screenwriters! one of them was a pretty big stand up comedian (so they say) in the 80's and later got into television as head writer and then producer on 'Blossom'. the other guy did television also, but now does just playwriting for stage. it was a fine line for me though because they were sitting there eating and chatting with their friends and i didn't want to be the schmuck who bursts into the room like, "hey guys! aren't these tacos great! so how about setting me up with an agent?" but in the end, i did get some gems of wisdom from them. no agent, but whatever. i got gems.
lastly, i was driving on the road today and for about five miles i was behind this little honda civic. across the rear window in huge seven inch white lettering said the words, "FUCK HATERS" awesome. welcome to LA.
6.06.2007
gang shootings, doughnut shops and marilyn monroe
i've arrived!
i drove down alone to Salem, OR where i stayed with my grandparents for a couple nights. then i met with my friend nina in Eugene, OR and drove the rest of the 14 hours with her. we played 20 Questions for about 8 minutes until she informed me that she was sick of it. let's just say that for the remaining 13 hours and 52 minutes the ol' iPod was in heavy use.
once in my new town (Bellflower), i tried to locate a starbucks. there are about as many starbucks in LA as ice cream shops in the arctic. NO drive through coffee stands, NO starbucks inside every grocery store, NO starbucks every 2 blocks. very odd. once i found one, i ordered my usual quad grande americano. i got a blank stare. i tried it in spanish. no change.
"so wait. how many shots do you want?"
four.
"on top of the two that come with it?"
no. four total.
"with water?"
yes. an americano.
"so wait. a venti?"
can i see a manager, please?
i've gone there three times now and they have never once got it right. oh well!
i had no idea where the local grocery store, mall, restaurants, etc. were so i drove around aimlessly trying to explore the city. this was fun until two hours had passed and i realized i had absolutely no idea how to get home. next item of business; maps. i am now the proud owner of every single LA road map Rand-Mcnally has created.
which brings me to the freeways. wow. i got my first taste of traffic yesterday. it was dreamy. i'm fairly certain that the majority of LA drivers are heavy crystal meth users. they are INSANE. i thought i was an agressive driver. i think i've seen one turn signal since my arrival. they just shoot in front of you at their leasure. the speed limits on all the freeways is 65mph, but everyone goes at least 85mph. anything less than that and you'll get the finger as they zoom around you.
the freeway system is so confusing! there's the 405, the 605, the 710, 5, the 91, the 110; just to name a few. and there are no exit numbers at all! the signs just say 'santa monica' or 'hollywood' and you have no idea what exit you're at or where they lead. at this point i rely heavily on google maps when i'm going to a specific place.
apparently, crosswalks aren't fashionable. pedestrians, skateboarders, bikers, etc. will just cross the street in front of you whether you're ready or not. several times i've had to slam on my breaks because a skateboarder or someone on a bike decides now would be a nice time to cross. there are regularly people just wandering across busy streets and they just weave through traffic like it was no big deal. very odd. and potentially deadly for everyone involved.
you know how whenever a cop pulls up alongside you at a red light how he always stays like half a car length behind? down here, everyone does that. if someone pulls up right along side you at a red light, odds are you're about to be involved in a gang shooting. and when coming to a red light, everyone leaves a full car length between them and the car in front of them in case someone runs up to your car and attempts a carjacking. no joke. tomorrow i'll go and see if there are any gunshops on one of my shiny new maps.
it's actually fun driving down the various local streets because of all the diverse shops and restaurants. i have no idea how you can literally have three authentic mexican restaurants on every corner and still stay in business. i'm not talking like Azteca, these are real mexican places with really good food, hiding in some run-down hole in the wall. they're everywhere. another weird thing is that within a three-mile radius of my house there are (no joke) at least 15 doughnut shops. so yesterday, to fit in with the locals, i purchased three dozen maple bars. when in rome...get a cinnamon twist. i guess.
yesterday i drove to USC and UCLA film schools to check out their bulletin boards and try to hop on a film student's set. i met a girl in charge of film stuff at USC and she gave me her email address and told me she'd hook me up with a PA job on one of the various sets. so that's kinda cool. that way i can get some experience, meet some future filmakers, and build up some kind of resume so i can get a better job at a studio.
ok, that's all for now. i'm going to bed, but first i'm going to show the LA Times crossword who's it's daddy.
i drove down alone to Salem, OR where i stayed with my grandparents for a couple nights. then i met with my friend nina in Eugene, OR and drove the rest of the 14 hours with her. we played 20 Questions for about 8 minutes until she informed me that she was sick of it. let's just say that for the remaining 13 hours and 52 minutes the ol' iPod was in heavy use.
once in my new town (Bellflower), i tried to locate a starbucks. there are about as many starbucks in LA as ice cream shops in the arctic. NO drive through coffee stands, NO starbucks inside every grocery store, NO starbucks every 2 blocks. very odd. once i found one, i ordered my usual quad grande americano. i got a blank stare. i tried it in spanish. no change.
"so wait. how many shots do you want?"
four.
"on top of the two that come with it?"
no. four total.
"with water?"
yes. an americano.
"so wait. a venti?"
can i see a manager, please?
i've gone there three times now and they have never once got it right. oh well!
i had no idea where the local grocery store, mall, restaurants, etc. were so i drove around aimlessly trying to explore the city. this was fun until two hours had passed and i realized i had absolutely no idea how to get home. next item of business; maps. i am now the proud owner of every single LA road map Rand-Mcnally has created.
which brings me to the freeways. wow. i got my first taste of traffic yesterday. it was dreamy. i'm fairly certain that the majority of LA drivers are heavy crystal meth users. they are INSANE. i thought i was an agressive driver. i think i've seen one turn signal since my arrival. they just shoot in front of you at their leasure. the speed limits on all the freeways is 65mph, but everyone goes at least 85mph. anything less than that and you'll get the finger as they zoom around you.
the freeway system is so confusing! there's the 405, the 605, the 710, 5, the 91, the 110; just to name a few. and there are no exit numbers at all! the signs just say 'santa monica' or 'hollywood' and you have no idea what exit you're at or where they lead. at this point i rely heavily on google maps when i'm going to a specific place.
apparently, crosswalks aren't fashionable. pedestrians, skateboarders, bikers, etc. will just cross the street in front of you whether you're ready or not. several times i've had to slam on my breaks because a skateboarder or someone on a bike decides now would be a nice time to cross. there are regularly people just wandering across busy streets and they just weave through traffic like it was no big deal. very odd. and potentially deadly for everyone involved.
you know how whenever a cop pulls up alongside you at a red light how he always stays like half a car length behind? down here, everyone does that. if someone pulls up right along side you at a red light, odds are you're about to be involved in a gang shooting. and when coming to a red light, everyone leaves a full car length between them and the car in front of them in case someone runs up to your car and attempts a carjacking. no joke. tomorrow i'll go and see if there are any gunshops on one of my shiny new maps.
it's actually fun driving down the various local streets because of all the diverse shops and restaurants. i have no idea how you can literally have three authentic mexican restaurants on every corner and still stay in business. i'm not talking like Azteca, these are real mexican places with really good food, hiding in some run-down hole in the wall. they're everywhere. another weird thing is that within a three-mile radius of my house there are (no joke) at least 15 doughnut shops. so yesterday, to fit in with the locals, i purchased three dozen maple bars. when in rome...get a cinnamon twist. i guess.
yesterday i drove to USC and UCLA film schools to check out their bulletin boards and try to hop on a film student's set. i met a girl in charge of film stuff at USC and she gave me her email address and told me she'd hook me up with a PA job on one of the various sets. so that's kinda cool. that way i can get some experience, meet some future filmakers, and build up some kind of resume so i can get a better job at a studio.
ok, that's all for now. i'm going to bed, but first i'm going to show the LA Times crossword who's it's daddy.
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