Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The one where I meet Kevin Bacon...

A friend from the UK is doing a play in LA. Well. I say friend. We only ever nodded at each other in London but… when people come into town it’s nice to see people from home so we meet up. AC’s only got about two more days and, to be fair, it was lovely to see him.

I took him to meet some friends. I wanted to show how well I was settling into LA. Thing was... my actual friends had left the venue. I knew two people there. AC walked in... and knew them all. I felt like a tool. They were all: "How did you know we'd be here."... because of me? I looked like a sad stalker. Sad sad stalker. So... I did what I've been doing now for some time. If there's a lull in the conversation, I do the whole IBS thing. You know. I've been shot. IBS.

Please talk to me. I just moved to LA. And... IBS. Oh. I don't know you and I have to make conversation? I know. IBS. Being shot could just be the making of me.

I’ve got a treat in store. My friend LH is taking me to see the Bacon Brothers at the Hard Rock Café on Universal City Walk. You know what that is? No? It’s Kevin Bacon’s band. That’s what. He plays in a band with his brother. I’m so excited. I mean. Kevin Bacon. Footloose. The Kevin Bacon game. And now I’m going to see him live and meet him after. Whoop.

First up food. LH takes me to Nozawa. Apparently this is the best sushi in LA. The chef is known as the Sushi Nazi. It's an institution. It's also in a strip mall turn off, off Ventura in the Valley. Hardly looks special. But then… then… I get the albacore tuna. Jesus. I’ve never had anything so good. Nothing. No phones are allowed in here. It’s kind of intense. There are only about six things on the menu. Okay. A bit more. But it’s amazing. I love it. Mmmmm. Food noshed, it’s on to Universal Studios.

JM’s joining us there and we head into the Hard Rock… and there he is. Kevin Bacon. I wonder if I can take some pictures without embarrassing LH. She goes to the bathroom so … picture time! Yay! He’s on the bongos. Kevin’s on the bongos! I don’t know why this pleases me but it does. I have included a picture. It's Kevin! Kevin!

We move around and meet his manager, his wife, the family etc., but I’m too engrossed in watching the Baconettes. A bunch of women who are going CRAZY for Kevin. Fantastic. They’re having so much fun! And me? I’m having so much fun watching them….

The show over, we go to meet Kevin. We head up to his dressing room with him, his brother and other people. Hands are shaken. I have no met Kevin Bacon. Shame I’ve not worked with him. This man is a legend. Legend. If only for the game… I’d like to marry a Bacon one day. Noam Bacon. That’s just so wrong.

Monday, June 29, 2009

The one where I nearly lost an eye...

My eye is hurting. It’s hurting really badly. I think I have an infection. Or something. But this isn’t normal. It’s itching really badly and it’s looking quite puffy… I don’t know what to do. I still have health insurance but I’m stumped. I phone a friend of my mother’s. Her husband is a leading optician. He’ll be able to help me. I know I just need some antibiotic drops but… what the fuck? You can’t get them like you can at Boots back home.

This is not good. It’s getting worse. Worse by the minute. I went to the pharmacist here. There was nothing he could do. I’m beginning to panic now. No one will give me the drugs I want. I want Boots. I want the NHS. I want someone to help me. Fucking America. Fucking health system. I never thought I’d really miss the NHS. Actually. That’s a lie. I did. I’ve never had complaints about the NHS in the past. And here, nothing but trouble. From being shot to, well, everything. Their ibuprofen’s a bit stronger. That’s about it. Bah.

So. Yes. My eye. I’m panicking. I’ve got some drops now from this woman’s husband… JM calls. She basically tells me not to be such a dick. Go to an optician. I refuse. It’s too much money. $350. At least. But, she points out, it’s my eyes. What am I playing at here? My eyes. I can’t afford to take a risk. I refuse. I’m not paying.

Then… I talk to my sister in Boston. She suggests asking my aunt to lend me the money. I ask her to do it for me. I’m a pussy. I can’t do it. I don’t want her to know how freaked out I am. AJ says she will but suggests that I call too. She’ll lay down the groundwork. I get the green light. She’ll pay up. Now call her so… I call my aunt. My aunt in Wisconsin. I’ve never asked her for money. But now? I’m so scared about my eye. I’ve talked myself into a frenzy. She’s happy to help so I head off to the Benjamin Eye Institute. By now I’m nearly blind in my left eye.

There are videos on the wall. I think they’re of famous people talking about how good Dr Benjamin is. I can only see with one eye and am bumping into the old people, who appear to be really short. I mean, I’m pretty short, but these people. Tiny. Bump. Bump. And they don’t like getting bumped into. I can tell they’re about to get angry and then they see my eye. I look like a battered housewife. They back away. Sympathy etched on their faces. Shit. I must look awful.

I’m called into see Dr Benjamin. Apparently I have some kind of eye cyst. AND the ducts are all blocked. I need to put on hot compresses regularly to melt the crap that’s built up around the ducts. PLUS… He prescribes some medicine – basically nasty gel to put into my eye – at a cost of $59 and sends me on my way. By god it hurts. I thank him. $350 for 15 minutes. Not great. But I did the right thing. I asked him to see me.

I went to bed feeling really sorry for myself. I think I might have snivelled a bit. I couldn’t really cry because my eye was too puffy to excrete tears.

The next morning…

Oh Jesus. My eye has swelled up to the size of a small Clementine. And oh my god. It hurts. It’s turned purple. I call Dr Benjamin in a panic and he tells me to come round right away… $350 AGAIN! This time… I get my sister to call my mother in London. I’ll claim it back on my travel insurance but… right now. I just don’t have that kind of money. My mother is livid. She’s not heard from me in days, weeks maybe, and now I’m getting in touch because I want some money. Okay. I agree. It’s not great. But … seriously. My eye. My eye.

I turn up there and dr Benjamin and I chat. He runs a magazine – which is published in Russian. He’s from Tashkent. He’s Jewish. I fantasise about being Noam Benjamin for a minute. He seems nice. I could get my eyes lasered. For free. Especially if I’m Noam Benjamin. I can’t see if he has a ring on because I really only have one eye now.

Dr Benjamin flips open my eye. As he does so I reach into my bag and hand him my camera. He looks confused. I tell him I need pictures. For my insurance claim (but really for my mother, just so she can see what pain her little soldier - little soldier, I’m not a child... let’s not forget) and please could they take pictures. Please.

The nurse does so.

As they flip over my eye I see Dr Benjamin wince. This is not good. There’s the cyst. EW…. He needs to drain it. That means slicing it open and letting the blood ooze out. That means sticking a needle into my eye to numb it before they drain it. Be warned. I had a picture taken. It ‘s about to appear below.

So… he slices in and the blood start dripping into my eye and his cotton bud. It didn’t hurt but it was more the trauma of having someone digging in my eye that freaked me out. A quick pat on the head – I’ll never get married to Dr Benjamin if he’s patting my head – and we’re done. I’m a bit emotional. I mean. The man just sliced into my eye.

I have to get more medicine. Pay up again and I leave. I’m driving home. I’m driving home after having had an eye operation… why? Because I’m too damn proud to ask anyone for help.

Normal people. Well. They would have rung up a friend and asked for a lift to the doctor’s. Me? I can cope alone. I’m fine. So. What happens? I’m in the car and I’m crying and crying. Boo hoo. Self pity.

I call Tam. She doesn’t pick up the phone so I leave a pathetic message about how sad I am… more self pity. But maybe justified.

Someone I managed to drive home. I’m lying on the bed. With the dogs. Boo hoo. Booo hoo. I’m weeping blood. I really am. But at least I guess I’m cleaning my eye.

Nico gets home… he wants to know why I didn’t call him to come and get me. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t want to be a bother. Jesus I can be a martyr sometimes. I just had an eye operation and I didn’t want to be a burden. What a loser…

The next day…

The eye’s settled a bit but I’m still in glasses. My eye. It hurts… This isn’t good. But… it’s gone down so much. I look less like I’ve been battered. I can’t believe how quickly it’s beginning to settle. I need to get my head together because I’m doing an article for Angelino magazine. My first one. I’m so excited. Whoop! My first US magazine piece.

It’s with an actress. I went to see her film the other day – she’s in a new Jim Jarmusch film. NP walked out of the screening she hated it that much. Me? I just, well, didn’t really get it. Bit airy fairy for me. NP left before the final ten minutes. That’s when it all happened. The only bit of action. Other than that – what an awful film. I mean. Really. Urgh.

The actress is all ethereal. We’re talking on the phone. She’s in a car and it’s noisy but she says I’ve got a nice voice. I feel special. That was nice of her. She seems nice. Artsy. Into good deeds. Does her bit for charity. It all goes well. Now I’ve got to write it up and hope that my style works for a US audience. Ulp.

Two days later…

My eye is getting even better. I can’t believe how well I’m healing. This is fantastic. My friend RJ is in town and we’re going out with NP, GF and PS. A bunch of Brits. We’re meeting up with my friend AdG, who’s also GF’s landlady. The venue? Some bar in Santa Monica.

I have no idea what’s going on here. We had to pay to go in and … well… It’s a COUGAR PIT. They’re all over RJ. He’s a married man. And… if they’re not Cougars I think they’re prostitutes. There are also a lot of Thai Ladies in here dancing with older men. The music’s nice enough but I have no idea what’s going on here. I’m bemused. We’re the youngest people here and we look out of place. We look normal and everyone here is either a freak, a geek or a pro.

There are some women really jiggling bits of their bodies. Noooooo. They look so old I’m scared that their tits are going to fall off. Or some part of their body. This really isn’t pleasant.

The band come on stage. Now they look normal and I see a few more ‘normal’ people. They’re with the band. We exchange glances across the dance floor – what is this place? RJ and I start pissing ourselves laughing. This is wrong. Wrong. I disappear and go to the bathroom. A He/She is taking her sweet time. By the time I’ve left the bathroom, a cougar is shimmying in front of RJ and GF’s turned down the advances of an older Thai lady. It seems I missed all the action. Or perhaps they were waiting for me to leave before they pounced on the boys?

I have no idea what’s going on here but it’s about 1am and it’s time to leave. So time to leave.

Oooooh. The next day. It’s up at 10am for my first LA premiere. Yep. A premiere in the morning. LH is taking me to Monsters vs Aliens. As it’s a kids’ film it’s in the morning. The venue is in Universal Studios and in we swoosh in LH’s swooshy car.

She has some clients in the film so we get to sit with them all. Oh yeah. Here I am. I’ve arrived. Hi. I’m a nanny. Look at me. Look at me getting my LA validation from a bunch of people who don’t know me but I must be important because I’m at a premiere, not because I’ve done anything of any particular merit whatsoever… I nod at people who feel inclined to nod back because I’m sitting in the VIP section of the cinema. And then… I’m quiet. I’ve had my moment. I slip on my 3-D glasses and settle down to wait for the film. And… It was fun. Next time (next time?) I might even talk to someone…

The one where I go to court... again

COURT. Again. Friday the 13th. Of course. Of course I’m in court on the 13th. This time it’s to get my arraignment. I just have to turn up and plead ‘not guilty’ to turning left by going through a red light (okay, I did it) and then get my actually trial date. They have me on video but I’m going to fight it. I have to pay my bail - $430. This is kind of scary. I don’t like this at all. I know I’m guilty. I mean. It’s on camera. I did it. I went over by a FRACTION of a second but… doesn’t matter. I’ve been caught. As ever. I’m always bloody caught. So here I am again in the Beverly Hills Court House.

They have metal detectors here. Your bag gets searched and, of course, nothing’s ever simple, it seems that my asthma inhaler looks like a weapon so I have to tip my bag out. A flurry of tampons comes out. Great. I mean. Fine. I’m a woman. But do we really need to see tampons? Do we? Really? I’m dying. And I’m late for court now because they keep putting my bag through. I start wheezing. I can do this at will. So they have to give me my inhaler. I imply something about I might die if I don’t get my inhaler. They hand it all back to me and I’m allowed to go up to the court…

I sit there and wait. Do I want to change my plea? No. Not guilty. And I’m dismissed. This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Not guilty. Oh well. My voice shook a little as I said it. But I looked the judge in the eye. Yeah. That’ll show her… Yeah. That’s me. Hard as nails and not guilty.

Off to LH’s to correct her script. I love the script and I’m impressed she got it done so quickly, and now I’m just making sure that the I’s are dotted and the t’s crossed… I’ve got to write my own script but I’m failing badly. I keep meaning to do a ‘backfat’ script about all of the stuff that’s happened to me but I haven’t… I need to give myself a serious kick up the arse.

It’s TN’s 30th tonight… so it’s Sushi at Taro with a bunch of us. A nice evening. Simple. Food. Friends. Picture included.

Dinner at Café Med and the discussion is mainly about a snuggie. I decide I have to have a snuggie. We all have to have snuggies. Or maybe it’s a snuggy. The snuggie? A blanket with arms so you can wear it out. Genius. As are the adverts. People dressed up in the blue snuggie – it looks slightly cultish – and watching football. US style. Or roasting marshmallows. And everyone looks so happy – a blanket with sleeves. Brilliant. JM’s ordering me one online. I can’t wait. I want everyone to get one and then I all want us to go out as a group in our blue snuggies. Everyone will want one. It’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes… people will just follow as long as we pretend that it’s the new thing to wear. A snuggy. I’ll have to find a picture. I don’t believe Americans really wear them. I think the advertisers are lying to us. Either way. It’s genius.

The next night – girls’ night. LH and her mother JH, along with JM and MK. We’re off to the Chateau. Whoop. We’re at our table. I feel like I’m eating for everyone. I feel like I’m eating a lot. Oink.

Someone pulls up at our table. They greet LH. Very warm. Oh. Hang on. It’s Justin Long. LH and Justin talk. It’s all friendly enough. He nods his hellos. We reply. And we all just carry on talking as LH and him catch up. I’m sadly excited. I like Justin Long – I’ve just seen ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’. He heads back to his table, which turns out to be next to us. Some skinny birds join him so I switch off. We leave. JM says something about the skinny birds. Huh? Turns out the skinny birds were Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore and I totally missed it. Doh. I really thought I’d be better at star spotting than that. Rubbish.

Friday, June 26, 2009

The one where I'm at a party in the Valley...

Brit breakfast at Ceconni’s this week. They do it every Tuesday morning. It's a nice idea. My friends EL and CY organise it. Simple in its conception. Get a facebook group: Brits in LA. And organise events. For people who've just moved over it's a great way to meet people. I've been feeling a bit lost at times - obviously - & my social circle is horribly small.

So... we've got a bunch of Brits eating egg and toast for lots of dollars… It was refreshing to hear some familiar accents and chill out with them. I started talking to one girl... I didn't really guess who she was and then she gave me her full name. Shit. I know more about her than she'd care to really know. She's an ex-client of a friend of mine and... well... Oh dear oh dear. Strange how things work out. I kept my mouth shut. Well. You would really but I was bursting. Bursting.

As for me… It's strange being at one of these events. I'm not sure what to tell people what I do. Being a nanny just isn't cool. It's not really part of the Hollywood way... though I think it'll be good. As in. I get paid to play with a child four days a week and I get to write the other three. Apart from the fact that the child 'hates me' (she will love me, oh yes she will), it's such an easy job by comparison to the one I was doing before. However, I'm getting an anxiety complex about just what I'm doing again. I mean. Really. A nanny? What happened? A NANNY? My friends back home are finding this turn of events interesting. A joke even. After all, I've never considered myself a natural with children. It's a learning curve. A fucking steep one.

Elsewhere... I have an anniversary this week. So I’m celebrating. Oh yes. I can’t wait. But first… TN’s turning 30! It’s her fault I’m in LA. I moved out here because she got me the job with Mr X and now she’s having a birthday – a joint one with her housemate. They’re getting a band. The theme is 1930s… and everyone’s making an effort. She lives down in the Valley. I'm still trying to work out why the Valley has such a crappy reputation. Suburban. Tedious. I don't get it. People here have space. People here are happy. People here have big pools. I like the Valley. I didn't when I moved here. I think that's Clueless's fault. That film became my point of reference with LA and now, now that I'm actually living here... It's nothing like that. I say that. I feel clueless half of the time though.

The party

Brilliant. So many people. A proper party and the amount of English accents? A lot. My friend from school (and home) NP is still here and she’s there. It’s just chock a block. So nice to forget about things for a while and just enjoy a party. The booze is flowing. The food is bountiful. And the backdrop? A big pool in TN’s garden in the valley. Ridiculously LA. Especially everyone getting into the hot tub later on.

NM brought a Hello Kitty piñata - it was hoisted to the outdoor BBQ roof. You wouldn't get that in London. Would you?

Okay. This party. This feels glam and fun. Not that London’s not… but this just feels like we’re really in LA right now. A big pool, it's freezing in London and we're all outside watching the BBQ. Good. Watching the pool. Good. Watching people smiling. No one's in a corner being miserable. Everyone seems happy to be here.

Post-party

No gossip. No scandal. Today’s my celebration day but TN’s too hungover to come meet me. I’m in Café Primo with friends: MP, ED, MK, JM, LH, AdG, SS and BM. Dim sum earlier with Nico and Randy before meeting RS and JM and then onto Primo. A really nice evening. A shame that TN couldn’t make it as then that would have been all of my LA friends right now all in one place… which would have been really special. But. Still. I’m so happy to be here. After all the shit I've been going through, this is nice. I'm thinking about my upcoming duo of court dates but... for now. This is okay. I've got some good people around me and JM as my lawyer. It'll be fine.

I’m still a nanny however. I need to do something about that at some stage…

Thursday, June 25, 2009

The one where I lead a Jew-fest...

Yep. Those are shoes hanging from a wire. I spotted them in Santa Monica one day and took a picture. I don't know why. It's just one of those things. Someone obviously playing a prank. Strange though. But.. more importantly... look at the colour of the sky. Oh yeah. Blue. LA. You've got to love it.

Things are picking up with the kid. She said she liked me this week. Oh good. Progress. It’s also a Jewish festival this week so I’ve arranged to ‘celebrate it’. DV and SS are taking me to their friends on the first night. DV’s very sweet – she’s telling everyone that I need a job AND a place to live. And a husband. Don’t forget the husband! Still, it’s a nice meal. I tell everyone about being shot. They all feel sorry for me. This one’s going to run and run. I can tell.

The next night we’re at LH’s house with her family and I’m leading the meal… nerve-wracking. I miss my family a little. I’ve not celebrated the festival without at least ONE family member so this is a first. I’m also not a rabbi, so leading is interesting. But… I’m doing it. The abridged version anyway.

I tell the 'jokes' my father would have told. I tell the stories from the bible. You know what? I can do this? I can Jew it up. Brilliant. I had no idea. But. Well. It stands to reason considering where I'm from.

Work’s ticking along nicely… the park deal works out well for me. I just take her there and bosh… she plays. The only deal is… it’s taking time for the other mothers (and fathers) to accept me. I’m not the kid’s mother. Parents don’t talk to nannies. Not de rigeur. The English accent helps. A bit. Apparently it’s a bit classy. Or something.

So… my kid’s playing with another kid and I try and talk to the parent. It’s not going too well. You can but try. So… it’s back to my blackberry instead as I plot my next move to take over the world. Or at least Hollywood.

Step one? Actually write something. Step two? Self pity be gone. The best thing about LA is that you don’t have to be defined by what you do. The trouble is, I don’t really like that. So… there’s a waiter at dinner. But he’s really an actor. He’s not defined by his table waiting… but I think… he’s not an actor? Is he? Is he? But he says he is. He believes he is. So. I can call myself a writer. I’m just having a fallow period. And that’s okay. I can deal with that.

I’m due back in Court this week… JM’s taking me. This time I’ve been caught on camera. Going left through a red light. Guilty as charged. I’m on a video. So… now what? We’ve got a defence. We’ll see…

The one where I went to my first BAFTA LA event...

Job of the morning? Take Norton to the vet. Before going to work with the child – she’s beginning to like me. A bit. Not much though. I took her to the park. She played with other children. I got to sit and play with my blackberry. Result.

Five hours later, I’m off heading to my first BAFTA LA mixer. I’ve been accepted as ‘a newcomer’ to BAFTA LA. So… it’s off to Red Rock to meet the crew. I met my ‘mentor’ PH. He was lovely. Then he went home and I actually fell apart. I couldn’t socialise. I felt worthless. I’ve not written a script in three years. I’ve not written a book in four years. And I’m now a nanny. And I’m old. Everyone else there was all shiny and excited. Actors. Actors. And a few budding directors. And me. The nanny. I fell apart. I missed smoking. I stood on the balcony at Red Rock and burst into tears like a loser. I couldn’t chat.

It wasn't that anyone was unfriendly. It was me. Totally me. Raddled with insecurities. I've got nothing to offer right now. I'm not feeling shiny and fresh. I'm feeling tired and low. Really negative. Who'd want to meet that? I'm trying to fake it to make it. I'm failing. Deep breath...

I went inside and tried. I spoke to some people. Told them all about being shot. Then. That was it. I went back outside and hyperventilated. I have no idea what’s going on here. I’m usually so good at these types of events. I think it’s because I’m a nanny. Maybe. I feel like I’ve nothing to give to this party and watch as the others schmooze all the ‘right people’.

I go over to JV. I know her. And I decide to make my excuses to leave. I burst into tears again. OH THE SHAME. She very sweetly introduces me to some people but I can’t hack it. I run away. This really isn’t like me. Maybe taking a job as a nanny wasn’t such a good idea after all if my self worth is going to be this low. Plus… the kid hates me. What the fuck have I done?

I left the party, drove home and snuggled with the dogs. Eeek. The LA dream wasn’t realised today! Time to take stock of what's going on here and do something about it methinks as this crying creature is not where or what I want to be!

The one where I get a new job...

Okay… So I have a job. It starts tomorrow. I’m a nanny. A nanny. What a joke. I haven’t been a nanny since… well. I was an au pair one summer in Tuscany. I was pretty good at it but then I got Salmonella poisoning and ended up getting into a fight with the kids’ father at 3am as we fought for the loo – he had it too. We all had it. Disaster. Plus side? I lost 13lbs. I wonder if I can get Salmonella again? Bonus.

Anyway. I’m a nanny now. This should be interesting. I was a Sunday School teacher for nearly ten years so I know I can do this… Trouble was, I used to get stoned until 5am in the classroom the night before and then teach the kids five hours later with the sweet sweet smell of ganja floating around the classroom. Mellow kids though.

I went to Café Luxxe to do some writing. After all, that’s what I came to LA to do. I ended up just poncing about though. Something I do most days… Must write a script though - am thinking of writing BACKFAT - a 'fictional' tale of my first few months in LA...

THE NEXT DAY:

So. The kid. I’ve been given a brief. Apparently the previous caretaker spoiled the kid rotten. She’s three, nearly four - the kid that is. When she misbehaved, she was allowed to do whatever she wanted just to stop her crying and playing up. She was bribed with sweets. So… when her parents got her back she’d just flip out. She’s been told I’m from Nanny 911. British accent and all. I’m here to sort her out. Eeeek. I have to be tough. Tough tough tough.

Day one: Screams. Not wanted to leave her mother. Glaring. Anger. This is going well. However, I will continue to be tough. She will love me in the end. Right now. She hates me. She wants xxxxxxx. Her previous caretaker. How do I know this? Because she’s screaming for her. SCREAMING. I can’t bare it. How do parents do this? I’m keeping calm though. Tough love. This is going to be really hard. Her mother’s been great, telling me not to worry if she screams and cries: it’s okay. Just let her. However, she’s now screaming. And to think, I really want children. Oh. What’s this? She hates me again? Oh good. This is going well. I’m so thrilled. I have a child who hates me. Someone remind me why I left London again?

Still. Day off tomorrow and I’m off to Disneyland! No one’s sad in Disneyland! It’s “the happiest place in the world”. That’s what I’ve been told anyway.

The next day...

It’s JH’s birthday and we’re off to the wonderful world of Disney. I can’t wait. An early start and we’re meeting at MJB’s house. Splitting up into two cars and heading to Anaheim. The Donald Duck carpark awaits…

I’m asleep for the drive. Yay for big back seats. And awake for Disney… Everyone else had a free pass. They’d used their Disney contacts. Everyone but me. Damn! Doh! I could have too! My new boss works for ABC. God I’m thick.

Someone in the queue offers to sell me one of their tickets for $30 (It’s $59 or so to get in). Quick as a flash, Disney security are on to us. No touting or we’ll get banned from the wonderful world of Disney. Ooops. MJB and JV give me $20 dollars each to split the cost. Phew. I’m in.

Or so we thought. There we were walking up Main Street and… we’ve been stopped by Disney security again. What’s this? MJB’s been pulled aside. Apparently they’ve had a number of complaints about his T-Shirt (we’ve been in the park ten minutes by this stage). He’s told to remove it. The offence? It says: “I fucked the girl in Hanson”. Apparently it’s the “fucked” that’s the problem. Not great. Not great at all. We thought it was funny but MJB thought he’d be for it so he brought a spare. So… after a false start. We’re off in Disney. All the rides. All of them. And no one’s fighting. We’re all getting on despite the long lines for the rides. Well. Apparently it’s usually longer – it was about 45 mins or so but can be HOURS. Note to self… next time do the fast pass route. Much better.- be organised about it. And bring your own food.

Apparently I caused a scandal at one of the food outlets. I wanted to ‘sample’ an onion ring. I didn’t want a whole portion. Just a sample. I said I was from the Uk (true) and wanted to try one (true) but they were having none of it. Apparently, no one’s ever asked that before. Losers. Why not? I’ve survived for weeks on end with no money going on samples. Just go to posh places and look presentable. Free food. Whoop. Not at Disney. Not at the happiest place in the world. A long day was topped off with fireworks. Maybe I should bring the kid here…. Either way. Good research for watching adults interacting with children. Result? Most people are crap. The answer seems to be cram child with sugar and then wonder why they freak out. Doh.

Fell asleep again on the way home.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

The one after I walked away...

9am. Moorpark. 10am. Someone is offering me a job. 20 hours a week. For just $50 less than I was making with Mr X after tax AND it’s set hours. AND I’m not working for Mr X. I suggest to my potential new employer that we should talk more about it as I’ve got a press junket to race to but I say I’ll call her later. A job. Good. We’ll talk over the weekend.

I’ve got a press junket as well at the moment. I'm trying hard to concentrate. I'm all in the Mr X ex zone. Double whammy AND I'm still the acting west coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. And... I'm free. I'm free. I've not felt this happy in a long time. God I'm lucky. And I've got NG's dogs. I love these dogs. They're the best.

10.30am. I’m at the Kings Road café for brunch with NP, PS and GF. I’m there first and bump into my friend AD, who’s writing there. Nice to see her. The food’s good. I can enjoy it and I’m excited about having left Mr X. I’m free of Mr X. Yay. Bye bye Mr X. We all celebrate. I might actually have a life now.

I spend the day running around. And, later on, meet up with NP and PS again. They're friends from London and It’s good to have them around as they’re out every night so I always know there’s something I can do, even if I’m in a weird headspace at the moment.

I might have quit my job but I’m still nervous. Still terrified. I’ve got the Telegraph gig at the moment and that’s taking up a lot of my time but it’s still hard. Ho hum. And breathe. And breathe. It’ll be okay in the end. I hope.

I’m still dealing with Mr X stuff. Despite him telling me I had the week off. I have the blackberry you see (I’ll be getting rid of it on Friday) and so I’m getting all kinds of requests. He said I’d stopped working for him immediately but… it seems not. There's a lot of stuff to do and clear up before I walk away. I think I might miss the drama though. Just a little bit. The cache of ‘working on a film’.

The next day

I'm at a press junket. This one's a fun one. Lots of TV shows. I love TV. I'm a TV expert.

10am. The show Cupid. It’s an interview with Bobby Cannavale. I remember him as the gay one with Will on Will and Grace. I love this. It’s back to basic Catullus. Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior. Ah Latin. I miss Latin. Anyway, I know that I am privileged to meet/interview these people but… I’m free of Mr X. That’s all I’m thinking. Oh. Hang on. The blackberry just went off. Fuck. Fuck. Ignore. I can ignore. I do.

10.30am. It’s Samantha Who? Christina Applegate’s up. Meanwhile... The other journalists? They’re all friends from the circuit, some of whom I know... But... there are some I just don't know – one of them basically asked who the hell I was and what experience did I have? Huh? I’ve been doing this for years. Years! Ha.

We cross the road – we’ve left the Renassiance Hotel on Highland and are heading to the Jimmy Kimmel studio. It’s cold in there. That’s some aircon.

Jimmy comes out. He’s fun. Someone stands up, they’re trying to get his attention when they ask a question. Chest puffed out, hair being twirled… He's a professional. He skirts around the questions with wit and panache. We’re done by noon and troop back to the hotel for lunch.

By 2pm I’m out of there. I’ve got Telegraph stories to write.

The next day after that...

Bye bye Mr X. Bye bye. This is really it. 11am and I’m at the film studio. Though. Hang on. What’s this. The fucking arseholes who broke into my car stole my studio parking pass! Fuckers! Fuckers! I can’t believe it!

I head to Studio anyway. Gutted. Of course. I loved that car park pass. Seeing my name on an official Hollywood studio pass made me so happy. It's silly the things that made me happy but that was one of them. I see Ms J and we sort things out. It's all about what happens to Mr X now. I actually feel bad. I think I might miss him. No. Really. The handover is nearly complete now. When I leave I feel free. Freeer than I have done in so long. Because I know that that is it. I no longer have the blackberry. That's it. Whoever has the blackberry has the responsibility and now I'm done. I’m terrified. Of course. But I don’t want to deal with this high level of stress. It’s not for me. Not anymore. Not today. I would be so miserable.

I’m due to meet NP at 1pm at Fred Segal but I’ve just had a call from the casting office. Could I go in and man the phones. Could I ever.

DT still hasn’t rung. I do hope I do have a job!

I’m all over the shop with NP and her friend. I can’t focus. I’m thinking about work. I’m worried. I have no time. Tick tok. Time is so running out. Running out on me. I can’t deal with it. I’m just exhausted. I can’t meet new people. I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I’m so all over the place. No one really gets just what’s going on in my head. It’s not a pretty place right now. It’s like there are spiders crawling inside my brain. I’m listening to the angry voices – they’re telling me I’m an idiot. That I should have stayed with my job. That I should have gone to Pittsburgh. That I’m a loser for not going to Pittsburgh.

NP and friend are talking to me, I’m talking at them. I’m so in self I just can’t hear anything and I have only just stopped myself from crying. I’m at the edge. People keep going how is LA? IS it great? Well… I don’t know.

I’ve been shot, been living out of a suitcase for four months, got in a five car pile up, decided to have a crush on the world’s most unavailable man and feel crushed, my flat back home’s been flooded (did I mention that yet? Yes, my Earls Court home is under water), I’ve gained 30 pounds in weight, I’ve walked off my job, I’m tired all the time, my mother’s upset with me because I never stay in touch, I’m trying to keep it together, I feel like a failure, I don’t know what I’m doing with my life…

So. What do I answer? I just want to cry today. I really do.

On the plus side. Today. I’ve met some incredible women. Incredible people. People have shown me such kindness and love. I have a roof over my head. I have friends. I have a car. I have food (too much obviously). And the sun’s shining. That makes up for so much.

I just have trouble when people want to know how my life’s going. They’ve just arrived. So full of hope and enthusiasm and I feel slightly jaded. Or more than slightly jaded. Spent. I need my old enthusiasm back. I was so happy when I arrived… But… that’s achievable. I can feel good. I have the choice.

Anyway. So poor NP's friend. And NP. They’re getting ‘shit noam’. However, NP's friend used to be an assistant so gets it. I relax. Good. She gets it. I don’t have to be anything other than me right now. Thank fuck.

I race off to the casting office and do the phone work as the fitties start arriving for their auditions. All I’m doing is answering the phone. Easy. Scary. As I don’t want to fuck up. But easy.

And… that night. It was off to the Dresden with PS, GF, NP and NO's friend. They’re all heading to the desert but I’ve got the press junket at the weekend. I need to be here for that. The Dresden was nice. I think I relaxed a bit. Only a bit mind.

I had the salmon. I won’t do that again. It was too much for me. Too much food. I’m eating like a piggy.

I wanted to go out afterwards. It seemed too early but it was off to bed for me. Probably best. I only seem to get into trouble these days.

The one where it's finally over...

I’m in the car, ready to go on my way and… I realise. Hang on. My GPS has been taken. I suddenly remember when I got into the car that my perfume was on the seat, which was weird. And… hang on. My UK cell phone which I left in the car has also been taken. What? I’ve been broken into. I can’t believe it. What is up with my luck? I’m so not having it easy in this city. Seriously.

Yesterday I smashed up my computer. I haven't even started on the fact that my car was surrounded by Coyotes the other day. Yep. Coyotes. They were growling at Max (who was in the car coming back from the vet). I've been shot. I also failed to mention I was in a car accident as well. A five car pile up. That was completely terrifying. Oy. I've had two court appearances due to two traffic offences. Okay, so I got off one and I'm due in court for the other to get an arraignment. Great. And now... my car's been broken into.

I cancel my phone. I realise that all my numbers have gone. I’m glad Mr X’s in New Mexico on a location scout. Now I can deal with my stuff. . Hooray. But now I have to deal with my shit. MY SHIT. Aaaargh. All this stuff. Why can’t things be easy? I just don’t know. I also have to fix my computer.

I put out a plea on facebook for a new blackberry and a new computer. Someone’s got a blackberry I can buy. Perfect. $65 and I’ll pick it up at lunch time. Then… a computer place so I head there. I need a new computer. I stop at a radio shack to get a GPS. They’ve run out. I get back to the car and I’ve got a ticket. A bloody ticket. I can’t stand it. When will things go right?

I get to the computer place and they have them at a reasonable cost but I have no money. Instead I get a new lead and a new battery. That appears to work. I can’t believe I got a ticket though.

I race over to see Jonathan and he clones my blackberry. HA! Now I have Johnny Depp’s email. I know. It’s sad. Very sad. But I want that email. I'm ready to leave gavin. I

I still can’t believe that my car’s been broken into. Jesus.

I find out that there’s a GPS for sale in Westwood at RadioShack so I head over there. The parking’s a nightmare. Nightmare. I get there. I’m so close to tears but I get the GPS. It’s only money. Only money.

I ring MW. And he calls me back. He makes me feel better and it’s all good. I like having people like that who cheer me up. Make me feel better. Who laugh at me. With me. It’s all good.

I’m all over the shop. I can’t wait for bed. I look in the boot. The thieves took my hair straighteners. They were brand new. And... some Serge Lutyens perfume (brand new, $120 - they have no idea what they've taken!) and... poker chips. They really went to town... they popped my damn boot. I'm livid.

Bed awaits. I’m going walking with ED in the morning. That’ll clear my head and tomorrow I face Mr X and tell him I’m leaving him. Bye bye Mr X. Bye bye.

The next day...

8.30am. ED’s outside the door with her two dogs. She’s dragging me up Runyon. She’s lithe, fit and beautiful with two big dogs. This should be interesting.

We get to Runyon, I can’t help but notice people deliberately steering their dogs in our direction. She was skipping along while I, on the other hand, was sweating. Sweating like a dawg. But, the dogs themselves seemed fine. Nothing wrong with them. We went down the hill and then ED knew this ‘shortcut’. It involved a sheer rock face and we ended up pushing the dogs over the rock. I had to scramble. Not dignified. ED gleamed as she skipped up the hill while I felt distinctly sweaty. Ew.

We make it home and now… now I’m nervous. Not long before I set out and see Mr X. We’re meeting at 1pm. At the house. A fifty mile trip there to tell him I don’t want to be with him anymore. It’s been FOUR months. That’s it. Seems longer. I think I'm going to be sick.

I take the slightly longer route to Mr X’s. Las Virgines. Love that road. I feel slightly sick.

I arrive at Mr X’s – he’s on the phone. I decide to retry calling Spike TV. I go outside as he’s on the phone and sit in the sun. Mr X calls me in.

“What’s going on?”

Er. Nothing.

He sits down, we have some general chitchat and then…

“Noam… do you want to go to Pittsburgh?”

me: “No. Pittsburgh’s not my dream.”

Mr X: “Good.”

So. That’s that. It’s over. We talk. He decides to tell me that I’m not a good assistant. I’m too over qualified. Everyone has been telling him that, while I’m nice, I don’t want to be an assistant. They ‘could all tell’. Apparently it was obvious to everyone. The thing is I really wanted this to work out. I like him. I really do. As a person. His talent is immense. His vision is incredible. I believe in him. I do. But I've really struggled just getting straight off a plane and into this world. I feel I've failed and I have nothing left to give. I know, deep down, I really didn't try this last month. I did, let's say 100% but this job needs %120. That extra mile.

The problem is that when I arrived in LA, I knew no one so was happy to turn my life and my will over to the power of Mr X. But, four months in, I've begun to get my own social life and am on a different path. One that doesn't want to go to Pittsburgh.

We decide that it’s over. I’m off. I don’t have to do this anymore. He says that I can have til the end of the week but I’m not working for him anymore. In fact, he wants me out of the house straight away. Just out of his sight. He's disappointed in me. I can see that. And I'm really sad now. Maybe I should have stayed. Maybe I should have worked this out and seen it through.

So… by 1.20pm I’m released from duty. Free. Naturally he had a few things to say – that I didn’t do things immediately - I really did. I really did. That things weren’t done fast enough. That I should have gone to South Bay that evening the moment he said go pick up his notepad. So… now I see my error while working for Mr X. I can't be a robot with no life, someone who wants to live and breathe the business while being his slave. Not me. No thanks.

He started comparing me to Ms J and that’s when I really felt sick inside – talking about Ms J’s enthusiasm and her drive. Thing is, Ms J’s been doing this ten years, this is her life. It’s not mine. She knows what to expect and where things can go. I just feel too old right now. Useless. Mr X starts telling me about how Ms J maintained her enthusiasm, even at 4.30am. While me? I was tired. I was a no-show.

Is it really meant to be this hard? Really? Truly? Are all assistants meant to be run ragged? Leaving them with no feeling of self worth?

By 1.45 I’m back on the PCH heading home. I’ve never felt such liberation. Maybe after school, perhaps? When it was all over. I felt free then too. And a bit teary. But right now, I’ve never felt so free. I’m just past Zuma and on the phone to MK when I consider exactly what I’ve done. What the fuck have I done? I pull over to look at the sea.

“I’m FREE! FREE!”

So now what? That’s the problem. I have nothing set up. No life. No scripts. No nothing. I’m stuffed. I’m working for the Telegraph though, still, as their interim LA/West Coast correspondent. Still.. I’m a bit scared.

No. More. Mr X.

No more tenderwipes, no more zuma, no more shouting, no more drama, no more failure, no more verizon, no more blackberry, no more texts and emails at 6am or 1am, no more studio, no more yoga, no more spruzzo, no more ex-wife, no more girlfriend, no more BLS, no more diva, no more executives, no more housekeeper, no more pool man, no more gardener, no more broadbeach, no more hows, no more bk, no more Mr H, no more film, no more km, no more me, no more DTV, no more UFC, no more MMA, no more TR, no more PR, no more mexico, no more FG, no more cigars, no more vitamins, no more Malibu vitamin barn, no more drafts, no more shooting schedules, no more ADs, no more line producers, no more parking issues, no 100 round trips, no more pay packets, no more finance departments, no more VV, no more paramount, no more BMW, no more oil changes, no more tension, NO MORE MR X!!!!

I’m absolutely terrified.

I drive back a scenic route. I just don’t know what to do with my life now.

I’m in the palisades and stop in at a shop. Can’t buy a thing as I have no money but I look.

I’m due to be a press junket now. So I race across Hollywood and check into the hotel. Valet. Race upstairs.

Wrong hotel. I should be at Hollywood and Highland not La Cienega and Beverly. Doh. It’s the junket and there’s a dinner later that evening. I register and then head to the internet café. I’ve got work to do for the Telegraph. A bunch of writing and I have to get online.

At 6.30 I’m at the mandatory dinner. My head’s not there. Having just quit my job I just can’t handle it. I listen to the speeches, say hello to TB from London and then, bump into my old friend from Mexico, EM and then… I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

My head. My head is fucked.

I meet up with the Brits over in West Hollywood. I’m scared. But PMc introduces me to a few people – perhaps they can help me. I go to dinner and wonder just what’s going on here. I need to write. That’s what I need to do. But I need to eat. I really need money. And I need a home. REALLY need a home.

I go home elated yet deflated. For the first time I’ve been to LA I can turn my blackberry off now.

Shit. The Blackberry. I've got to give it back.

What have I done? What am I doing?

I've not been this scared about my future for a while. I've always had a plan. Always. And now? A leap into the unknown and I'm terrified.