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.