Screen Test Surprise

I survived the dog- eat- dog/ "survivor style" audition procedure for a feature film co- directed by, and costarring, a major Hollywood celebrity.  The celebrity's identity remained a secret, but I immediately embraced the notion that two- years my junior megastar, Justin Bieber, was said celebrity. Admittedly, and unfortunately, I caught a sorry case of Bieber fever and, in preparation for my screen test, imagined myself greeting Mr. Bieber with professionalism and grace instead of passing out or puking. Alas, I was met with a roller-coaster of emotions, (confusion, disappointment, fear, excitement, loss,) when I discovered that my screen test partner was, in actuality, Will I Am from 'The Black Eyed Peas'.

This was my first feature film audition with my new talent agency, and, after somehow stumbling through several rounds of callbacks, one fuck up at a time, I beat out thousands of ladies and secured one of two possible screen test slots for the female star.  I waited eagerly next to my screen test nemesis, a blonde, knowing that, at this stage in the process, a particular 'look' determined who secured the role... an unusual casting circumstance unbeknownst to most industry insiders.  I considered begging the director and his crew, on hands and knees, for said role, professing some unimagined and non- existing love for Will I Am's music, or duking it out with blondie, but concluded that any and all of these methods of persuasion would produce an opposite effect.  Thus, I popped blondie's tires.. just kidding... I proceeded into the room, took my position next to Will I Am, and acted the shit out of the sides...

Several days later, I was met with disappointment when blonde domination came to fruition, and I, in a depressed flurry, subjected myself to the couch with two jars of buttercream frosting.          

Why do I keep subjecting myself to this bullshit?

Simply because I thoroughly enjoy eating, and my unsuccessful endeavors justify said binge eating habits.

In short, Will I Am, I implore you, please, reimburse me for the parking meters, and send me a personal trainer.  As much as I enjoy fueling the economy, one callback at a time, I'll send you a bill in the mail... Perhaps we can discuss logistics over coffee because I am, admittedly, slightly offended by your string of callbacks, leading me on to believe that I, indeed, secured a role in your feature.

Kindly,

(soon to be blonde,)

actor kid

TOURISTS

Tourists get off on star gazing; they hop on these TMZ tour buses like rabid bunnies going into heat, and push and shove each other to obtain a window seat.  In an orgy of sorts, tourists grind up against one another, dripping in the summer heat, just to catch a glimpse of Snow White's star on the Hollywood walk of fame.  Dignity and shame evaporate into the toxic waste bucket that is Los Angeles as adults run wildly through the streets, disposing of their clothes, imbibing le liquor, and taking pictures of each other holding fake oscars.  Time and time again, visitors troll the Hollywood and Highland mall, hoping for one celebrity spotting, and waiting patiently by the stars of their deceased idols, praying for a resurrection.  In viewing their public displays of insanity, obscene and unnecessary sexual acts, and disillusionment, I feel completely and absolutely violated!  

I love to hate the Hollywood and Highland mall.  I frequent the location on a weekly basis, and find myself both incredibly delighted and stressed by the outset of my visit.  On any given day, the mall attracts celebrity seeking tourists, aspiring superstars, screaming children, and the occasional prostitute.  Each and every human labels himself either an actor, director or producer, although experience demands otherwise.  I once spotted a homeless man whip out his package and, while occupying a public bus bench, fondle his genitalia in the middle of bustling traffic.  Passerbys were unfazed by this display, continuing their friendly banter as the man violently thrusted his pelvis into the air.  Although I experience shock with each similar display, the tourist bubble blocks this behavior, focusing only on finding and caging of celebrities.  

Few celebrities occupy the Hollywood and Highland mall, choosing, rather, to indulge in a steak at CUT in Beverly Hills, shop along Rodeo Drive, or hike the Calabasas hills.  Every so often, though, a B list actor, looking to rectify his ego, casually struts across the mall, nonchalantly addressing his fans and pocketing compliments.  This pathetic display is thoroughly entertaining; I pull up a portable seat and nibble at my cupcake as tourists engulf the somebody actor.   

Public Displays of Affection

I witnessed a man squat down on a patio bench, with a euphorically cynical grin upon his face, and defecate on the front porch of privately owned property.  Now it's not everyday that you see a fifty year old man, in a fedora, spreading his fecal matter on an unfortunate and unassuming household in the middle of Los Angeles… just every other day.  Not quick to judge, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, attributing his unusual behavior to the new 'pay to pee' system overtaking the Los Angeles community.  In several public vicinities, a toll box adorns the bathroom door, and an easy fifty cents buys you a pee.  So I commend you, fedora man, for having the balls to negotiate this disillusioned system and develop your own form of free urination alleviation.     

I can't decide if I love or hate Los Angeles, but one thing is certain: I haven't seen this much diversity since 'Who's Line Is It Anyway'… just kidding (that show had no diversity).  But I absolutely love people- watching here, and oftentimes wonder how such an eclectic and distinctly unique set of individuals troll the Hollywood streets on the same day, at the same time.  On any particular afternoon, a slightly grungy/ borderline homeless man might approach you, with pot in hand, and invite himself to dinner with you and your friends.  And on said occasion, all you will consider is how this man has not been arrested for blatantly smoking pot at the busiest intersection in Hollywood.  This is just another average afternoon in the Hollyhood, one filled with the uncertainty of survival, unforeseen adventures, and debauchery…

My first day as an LA intern, after being instructed to enter the office via a conveniently located doggie door at the eastbound corner of Sunset Blvd, I spent a third of my day retrieving and delivering various orders from el pollo loco for my boss and her staff.  At approximately twelve thirty p.m, I, in my Jeffrey Campbell litas, walked the half mile distance down Sunset blvd to said destination, ordered exactly six chicken hard tacos and, with food in hand, strutted back to the office.  After completing my service, my employer reprimanded me for neglecting to check the order; the tacos were soft, and she refused to eat this sub- par food.  Minutes later, I was back on Sunset blvd, receiving cat calls while walking the route to el pollo loco once anon.  And as I struggled with the el pollo loco manager for approximately five minutes, pleading with her to compensate for her error, then returning to work and receiving instructions to get a second round of food from el pollo loco, I questioned my current pointless state of existence as the unpaid in- office food retriever/ bitch.

In exchange for my time as an unpaid intern, I expected compensation in the form of knowledge.  Perhaps my expectations were far too broad; I secured an entertainment- industry internship but only learned two irrelevant lessons: 1, how to walk in platforms down Sunset Boulevard without eating shit and 2, how to fend off uninvited accompaniment.  On my first walk to el pollo loco, a street creep, noting that I have a "pleasant face and sick shoes," followed me from the office to el pollo loco, then waited as I ordered my food.  After housing myself in the bathroom for a half hour, I exited the facility stalker free.  On the second walk, a fellow, in his car, offered me a ride around town… I quickly darted off before he could snatch me up.  Finally, on my third walk down Sunset Boulevard, a delusional man decided to grab at my clothing but I forcefully pushed him away.  I then found sanctuary, at the outset of work, a mile down the road, just hidden behind the Chik- fil- a riot, within the nail polish section of Rite Aid.