The one where Noam goes to Paramount

I’m up at 3am again. Panicking.

By 7.30am I started to drive over to Moorpark. Beep. Beep. The blackberry… can I go over to the Paramount lot and meet Mr X to sort out his Bluetooth in his car… So I headed to Lulu’s café, ordered an omelette and rang my mother to catch up with her. I was excited about going to Paramount. I emailed Xxxxxx, the assistant at Paramount, to put me on the list. A studio. Yay. I got there half an hour early. I’m not on the list. Eek. This is not good. The Paramount assistant isn't there either. This is not good.

Then. Mr X's co-writer on this project, turns up… he’s not on the list either. Great. I go into power mode. Sorted. Mr X, thankfully, is running late, which gives me a chance to make sure everything's okay for his arrival. You can't fuck up in Hollywood. You just can't. Even if it's not your fault it's your fault - that's the law. The law in Hollywood anyway.

After I got in, I decided to take a few pictures. As you do. Before I headed to the office where Mr X was having his meeting. The assistant was frosty. She removed me from the reception area as I looked untidy. I didn't look so bad. But... her boss didn't know who I was thus I presented a problem. They put me in a side room... out of sight so out of mind. Though I did start chatting to an intern, who was photocopying in the room next to me. Then. Mr X arrived, he graciously introduced me to Mr Paramount with a really generous intro before giving me the keys to his car and I was off...

While on the lot I bumped into the office intern. He had a cart. A cart! Like a golf buggy so he drove me around. I loved it! Couldn’t remember his name and felt bad when he said ‘bye Noam’ after he dropped me off. He’ll go far. I, on the other hand? God knows.

I fixed the car - which I was really proud of. I mean. Bluetooth. Cars. Phones. Technology. Seriously. This wasn't easy stuff. I was configuring things on a car that didn't even need a key to start it. I don't mean to sound like a plum, but, honestly, this kind of thing is usually beyond me. I returned the key to the uppity assistant and walked back round the lot. It wasn't easy. I have to say.

After leaving the lot, grudgingly, I raced back to Culver City to the office to sort out more stuff. Meetings, double checking meetings but the mood outside. It was one of … weirdness.

I'm writing this about November... and... back in November in LA it was voting day. One of the most historic days, probably, of the Century so far in America... People kept coming up to me on the street going ‘have you voted… it’s close… you gotta vote…’ I kept saying ‘but I’m English’.

The most political things I’ve ever done in my life are as follows a) voted in the UK elections in some of the most Tory boroughs ever. Even though what's the point? b) dragged on marches from ages 7-12 to go to the Soviet embassies to protest about them not letting Jews out of the country: ‘one two three four, open up the iron door. Five six seven eight let the people emigrate’. C) and most recently? When seeing gays holding up their ‘honk if you’re against prop eight’ signs… I’ve honked. I felt wonderfully involved. Look at me. I’m in politics now. I honked my horn. That’s it. So… to have this election fever? I couldn’t get involved. I feel bad. But I’ve not been here long enough. It's been two weeks. If that. Brown vs Cameron. That I get. That I know. This? I know NOTHING. Sorry. I feel horribly ignorant. I'm too wrapped in my own LA bubble right now that I don't even know where I am...

I went to Larchmont to meet Justin and his girlfriend. Kirsten. She wants me to co-write her book. Money up front. Easy prospect. I’m tempted. Nice to see Justin again, we’ve been playing scrabulous and word scraper now on a daily basis since I met him last March. This was probably the second or third time we’ve met, first time away from others, but having spent months im’ing I feel I know him. And he’s trying to give me a friendly kick up the arse with my career. He also offered me work as a script writer on a reality show. All good. Amazing even.

I raced back across Hollywood as I had a meeting at 8pm. And then, a friend found me and tried to drag me to the Abbey where he was meeting his friend Ivan. It was all go in the Abbey. Big gay bar. Lots of rainbow flags. Squealing. Excitement. Cheers. I was too tired.

Tam rang. Her party was a bit shit. She didn’t know anyone so was heading up to her friend Ms L’s. I joined her. Scraped up the car in the car park, ouch, and headed up into the hills to visit Lena, her parents, a hetero or two, and some gays. As it was all, mainly, Brits, it was quite a relief. Love Ms L’s parents. I spoke to John, her dad, about Stan Ternant and Peter Jackson… He’s from Huddersfield. I’ve been there. Seen the Terriers. That's Huddersfield FC. Played with the dogs and realised, I’m shattered. Really shattered and I’ve got to drive home. People are honking their horns all over West Hollywood. I’m falling asleep at the wheel.

Wednesday November 5th

Bonfire night. No fireworks or Guys in LA. They don’t have a clue. I love Bonfire Night. Head up to Moor Park at 9am and see Dan O’Meara. A friend. Nice to see him, we talk about his film, his prospects, his life and a bit of my life, my prospects and the world at large. A text from JFS, he’s moving back to the UK next week but we’re meeting for coffee in Los Feliz on Friday. It’ll be nice to see someone from home and he’s doing so well out here. Still shattered.

While talking to Dan, my crackberry goes off. ‘Sorry the meeting’s cancelled today, are we meeting next Monday at 11am?’ WTF? I don’t know the name but I know the meeting. It starts in 50 minutes and Mr X will already be on the road. I call ‘young jim’ – that’s seriously his name.
Oops. He made a mistake. Wanker. Utter wanker. I call someone else to double check, after all, I’d confirmed this meeting the day before. ‘He’s new. I’m sorry. He didn’t know’. Two minutes later. ‘beep beep’. He’s apologising. Cross communication. I’ll fucking say. I was about to get the chop there for his error.

Talking to Dan again when ‘ring ring’… It’s Mr X. He wants to know who someone is. Thank god for the Crackberry. I give a name and company. Dan’s impressed. I’ve been here two weeks and I’m multitasking with a crackberry sounding all efficient. It’s frightening though, the fear of not wanted to fuck up. I’m back in ‘Devil Wears Prada’ fears.

Off to the office again. Culver City awaits. My back, however, is slipping away. Thank fuck for Liz and Lisa’s birthday present. I book a massage tomorrow. Can’t wait. Cannot wait.

And then, the madness, the crackberry. Meetings. Confirmations. Texting someone only known as by a nickname who doesn't have an email address - just a phone.

Then… something nice. Mr X asks me about a singer. I check him out. I’m asked my opinion. We agree. He tells me his idea. I agree. It could work. I send Mr X the links to the singer’s myspace page and videos. Mr X likes him. I like him. Mr X asks me to set up a meeting with him.

I feel so powerful. Look at me. I google, use imdbpro.com and sure enough, within ten minutes I’m Mr X's right hand woman setting up a meeting. I love these bits of the job. Where I feel I might be changing someone’s life. Or setting up some kind of deal. I really enjoy it. It just seems exciting.

Then I make the call. They tell me they’ll return.

I send an email:

Hi xxxxxx,

Re the message I left earlier this afternoon, I'm writing on behalf of director Mr X (insert names of film here).

"Mr X would like to set up a meeting with yourself and your client xxxxxx to discuss an idea for a film project that would involve xxxxx and his music.

Please contact me on xxx xxx xxxx so we can put something together."

Two minutes later. It’s the man.

Ten minutes later. The man and I are friends. The man and Mr X are meeting up in Santa Monica before his big studio meeting. And I feel I rock. I feel like I’m at the beginning of a project that might run. And that’s what I came here for. And that’s why I’m enjoying my job. Today.

I leave the office and head over to Western and Lemon Grove to meet Jolyon. He’s a friend of rock Dave – who painted my flat in London and redid my bathrooms. Anyway, Jolyon’s a DJ.

I got lost in Lemon Grove. I went up the wrong street. Apparently I’m in some kind of crack alley but I didn’t know, so ended up asking some crack-smoking local for directions. He has no idea where he is. Let alone me. I call Jolyon for the fifth time in ten minutes.

I’m on the wrong side of Western. The wrong Lemon Grove. The wrong everything.

We eventually head off to the 101 café. And then, by 10pm, he has to leave, he’s working at midnight doing his DJ thing and, meanwhile, I’m shattered. Still, nice to meet someone new.

Shattered I head off to bed.