Sunday, May 31, 2009

The one where I'm horribly sick...

Another day at the studio. I just have to sit there while Mr X runs around, there's nothing for me to do. There probably is but my heart is not in this right now. I'm so tired. So so tired. And so so confused. This time round it’s his BMW to deal with. The thing is it’s being repaired BUT he has to sign the waver allowing them to let him fix it.

Mr X is not happy. There’s a note pad he needs in his car. He wants it. He wants me to drive to South Bay to pick it up but I pointed out that there’s a man coming from BMW in South Bay and he’ll bring it with him. A proper assistant would drive to South Bay. In heavy traffic. Then drive to Zuma. In rush hour. God I'm shit at this job. I'm beginning to feel sorry for Mr X. He deserves someone who'll drop everything. The signs are there. I can't do this job properly.

At 12.30pm the man’s there. Mr X signs. He hands over the note pad. It’s the wrong one. Mr X goes apoplectic. I mean properly mental. I had fucked up. But how could they get the wrong one? What was I thinking? I should go down there immediately. I’m well pissed off. Well pissed off. I don’t want to drive all the way down there. This is ridiculous. Mr X storms off and goes to meet the DP. South Bay is calling... Shit. This is not a good day.

I call BMW. The notepad had fallen off the backseat in the crash. It was lodged under the front seat. No where in sight. No where. The pages had gone all over the place. Mike from BMW, thankfully, lives in West Hollywood so I don’t have to move to South Bay but Mr X’s not impressed. He wants me to go to South Bay. But… first… I have to get their lunch.

It’s a walk. A long one. But… off I trot. No worries. As I walk down there, I think about my life. What am I doing again? And why? I’m getting shouted at about a notepad. I’m getting covered, on a regular basis, with pumpkin spice venti lattes – I’m clumsy. What can I say? Why am I here? I’m a bag of nerves. I don’t know if I’m going to have a job next week. No one’s said anything. I think I might be trying to fuck up this job on purpose, just so I get let go before I quit. I don't know. But something's not gelling here. I'm not gelling. I'm shaking. Regularly. I'm making more and more mistakes because I'm so nervous. I'm scared - doing a job in fear is not good. I'm falling apart - I've not been like this since I was bullied at my first job on Manchester United Magazine. Fuck.

Mr X’s stressed about the film and I’m getting it in the neck. Literally. My neck is stiff and painful and I want this to end.

Anyway… I pick up the soups and salad and get back to the studio. Waddya know? It’s cold. So I’m just putting the soup in the microwave when Mr X comes flying out of the meeting room. “NOooooooooo. Noam! Noooooo.” Huh? “Don’t nuke the soup? What are you doing? I can’t drink it now.”

Oh shit.

Erm.

I apologise. Too little too late.

“But it was only 20 seconds.”

“Don’t you know how bad that is? You don’t microwave.”

Oh well. Shit. Bollocks. Noam fucks up again. Sigh.

I head upstairs. I’ve been made acting west coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. I’ve got stories to write. This is what I probably should be doing. Rather than being bawled out for microwaves and note pads.

I get the note pad that evening. I’m spent.

It’s the Toscars this evening. Brits in LA. We did a parody of ‘The Reader’. The posted picture is of Naketa, painting one of our props for the film. By the time I get there I’m so tired. I went to MacDonalds before hand to get a filet of fish. That’s how run down I was. My head is pounding. Migraine alert. Again. I just want to be sick.

I’m at Life. On Wilshire. And I really want to be sick. So badly. But there’s no where to go. My friends are arriving. I wish I could muster some energy. Something. The Telegraph get in touch. They want a story but there’s no wireless here. I do it on my blackberry. Ridiculous. I really want to be sick. Physically sick. My migraine is really bad. I've not had one in a while. The last was a few months ago when the girls were visiting. I was sick as a dog then and I'm feeling like being sick again... pounding. Pounding. Pain. Vision. Blurred.

I do the story. I smile with my friends. I’m close to a breakdown. I know it. I’m just on the verge of something and it’s not pretty…. Everyone leaves and I can go. My friends have gone. I’ve been a rubbish friend. I can’t focus. I’m trying hard not to cry. I don’t know what’s wrong anymore. I’m thinking about notepads and stupidity and bmw’s and the maccyd’s is churning inside me.

I get home at 11.45pm. I’m horribly. Unbearably sick and my head is ringing. RINGING. I can’t sleep because I’m in so much agony. I’ve not been this sad for some time…

Bollocks. I've been sick. I'm always ill when my head's pounding. Not good. Not good at all. I really feel like I'm messing my life up.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

The one where I get off in court for the first time...

The rest of America had today off. It’s President’s Day after all. IO’s boyfriend AS needed picking up from somewhere and then… it was off to meet Mr X at home in Zuma again. At least the drive is stunning. So stunning. Las Virgines. Can’t beat that. I’m at Mr X’s for hours. Doing stuff. You know. Stuff.

Mr X was meant to be in Mexico today. I was so looking forward to him going. TWO DAYS OFF. Yay! However, with everything looking a bit tits up, he’s here. In LA. I’m on the verge at the moment. On the verge. So miserable and I didn’t come to LA to be miserable. I shouldn't be miserable, I should be happy that I have a job. A job in the INDUSTRY. But I can't see that right now. I just know that I've been having nightmares where I'm attacked by buzzing blackberries. No. Seriously. They've been flying at me - attacking me - buzzing - and I can't stop the noise.

Oh piss. I got a text from Mr X. It’s nearly midnight. He wants me to pick him up at 8.30am tomorrow. BUT… I’m due in court. At 8.30am. I tell him that I’m in court. No response. I call. He’s on a call. There's an ongoing issue with the film... There’s a constant stress and I’m at the front line.

I order a car to pick him up – and email the studio to make sure that that would be okay. I tell Mr X about the car. In an email. He’s still not answering. It's now 1am. I wait. And wait. Nothing. So... I go to sleep.

The following morning (five hours later)

6am. The emails start. Why did I order a car? Why did I pick that time? Would he be paying? Okay a) he asked me to pick him up at 8.30 so I ordered the car at 8.30am. b) I checked with the studio. They’re paying. C) Aaaaaaargh. You’re getting looked after by the studio. But he’s angry. Why aren’t I there?

I explain that a) I’m in court. B) I sorted all this out last night. C) Aaaaaaargh. God I'm wrong for this job. My skin is nowhere near thick enough.

Okay. So…. Today I was in court. And… of course. I was late. Everything was against me. The lights. The traffic. The parking. The security detail at the court house. The lift. The crowds. Then… of course. I got the wrong court again. Sweating I raced in there. And they called out my name. My hand went up. I looked around the court. This time round, there didn’t seem to be the harder looking crims from earlier. Mostly pissed off professionals in business suits who’d turned left on a red light or something like that. And a woman who only speaks Ukranian. She’s got a translator with her. It’s all a bit comical but I can’t believe how loud my heart is. Boom. Boom. Boom.

A few people are getting off. I count the number of people compared to the cops. We’re on the left, the cops are on the right. If my cop’s a no show… I’m off the hook and get my $92 back. Boom. Boom. Boom. Someone’s cop has turned up. He changes his plea to not guilty. So. That’s the game. Okay. At least I saw that. And now me.

No cop! Whooooop! I’m free!

However, the relief doesn’t last long. It’s back to the studio to meet Mr X and get everyone’s lunch orders again.

It’s my age. I just, now, feel too old to do all this. This isn’t my life. But I now know that someone would kill to be there. It’s an entry level job. I’m trying. I really am. They’re talking about Pittsburgh. There’s no money to get me to Pittsburgh. So what am I to do? I should be leaving next week. If I’m going. Mr X and I need to talk. I’ve checked his emails. They’re still talking about an assistant… I can’t bear this any more. It's the uncertainty. Do I have a job? Or don't I? What's going on...? Do I want the job? Or don't I? I'm too scared to just leave.

I’m so clumsy when it comes to lunch orders. The place to pick up the food is about four blocks away and then some. And I have trouble holding things. The bags are heavy, my heart is heavier and, as ever, the iced tea is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’m on the verge of tears. I know it’s only getting food but to have this as my life. I want to romantise it and say that this is the best job ever now that I’m in LA. But… It’s not. I’m alone and I’m carrying food and I’m xx years old. This is the job of someone ten years younger and I’m struggling to cope with it all. I know I should be able to deal with it.

Anyway, they’re all in conference and I realise… it’s Tuesday. I want to go meet the Brits on Robertson. but I’m going to have to get Mr X home. That means driving him. And maybe even at 9pm. Right now I’m so filled with resentment that I don’t know where to turn or what to do. This is so the job of an assistant and I'm freaking out. this is not good. I'm a wreck by now. A wreck.

I’m on the phone to car hire companies – I need to get him to a car hire place but he won’t leave. I’m on the phone, I’m on the web. I’m trying so hard. I’m running out of time. Sweat. Sweat. Sweat.

Thank god for JJK. The line producer. He’s got a contact. They’re going to deliver a car to the studio. I could kiss him. I really could. Thankfully, the meeting at Lionsgate is over by 7ish. I’m free. I’m out of there. All I have to do is drive AT home. Yes. I’m also a driver now for his mates. We chat. He tells me not to go to Pittsburgh. That it would be a mistake. He’s so so right. He points out I’d probably have a fit and walk off set. In the middle of the night. I don’t need to do that. I just don’t need to go.

The next day

9am Moorpark. Tired. But no Mr X today. Then. At 1pm. It’s off to the LC. Mis C’s celebrating and I go to join them all for lunch afterwards but… I’ve got an appointment with Theresa at 3pm. Theresa is the psychic I saw in London JUST before I got the job out here. As in hours beforehand when I didn’t know what was going on.

Anyway… she’s all full of the joys of spring – yet angry. I have it all on a plate. My life. It’s all waiting for me, as long as I put in the effort. And that’s the hard part. Apparently my commitment cards are there. It’s all here for me. She couldn’t be more delighted. So… there we go. I’m going to be okay. It’s all going to work out for me. However, today I’m really tired. Really tired. I’m always exhausted working for Mr X. But… this I know. I’m not going to go to Pittsburgh. I have no desire to go there.

Anyway, I have a carpark pass for the studio so I’m there now doing some work for the Telegraph. I can be online there and do some work so that’s all good I’m enjoying that. I’m still, at present, the acting West Coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph and all I’m doing is churning out article after article. Just hoping that they remember to pay me. And soon. I need this money. I’ve had news from the UK. My flat has flooded (pictured above just before I left the UK with my stuff in storage).

A burst water pipe. I just can’t deal with this. It’s like another nail in the coffin of my already poor financial status. I’m just hoping that the insurance will deal with it but…. I just don’t know right now. I’m hoping that it’ll be okay but we’ll see. We’ll see. I have tenants but the rent has been eaten up from day one and that’s so depressing. I’m so frustrated with all this. I’ve not made a cent. I've put up a photo of the flat, just before I moved out. God I'm tired.

fuck

Thursday, May 28, 2009

The one where I make my first (of many) court appearances

Ooops. I'm due in court today. So... I get up early. But… of course. Even though it’s on the schedule, even though we talked about it the day before… Mr X’s calling. Demanding. He wants information. But… there’s nothing I can do. I’m due in fucking court. And I don't want to be late.

Anyway. I get to the court. Enter. Everyone looks a bit scary. And they’ve all got big evidence files or something. I’m there. A small red file I’ve done. I brought it myself. I'm in court, this time, for talking on my cell phone. If the cop doesn't show up, I'm off the hook and get my money back. There’s a proper judge. Proper people. And I’m sitting with the crims… because I’m a crim.

This doesn't look right though. This is a proper court. Proper judge. The police are scary in here. So are the people I'm sitting with. I have all my teeth and a full head of hair. I'm one of the few who has both. I'm a bit worried now. Something's not right. I definitely am not feeling this.

Anyway… my name’s not read out. I run out. I’m not listed. Huh? I race down the corridor. Aha. There's the traffic court. Nada. No name. Aren't I due in court? Today? No? Seems not. Seems I got the wrong day. All that for nothing. Doh. Quite how I'm going to get another morning free... I don't know. I'll be back in court in four days. Oh good.

I head over to the studio. And sit. Sit in another meeting. I know. I know. I should be grateful. I’m getting to be part of the movie making process. But… I’m not. The other girl sitting there. Keen as mustard. I'm falling apart. I'm tired all the time. My motivation is slipping away. This is not good. I'm trying really hard to be grateful. Really hard. But I'm dribbling with tiredness. Ulp.

So... Me? I’m off to the get the lunches. As ever… I don’t know what it is about Mr X’s fucking lattes. Spiced Pumpkin Latte. Venti. I end up spilling it all over myself. I’m always covered in the sickly orange goo. And it smells. It’s all over my car. It’s all over my clothes. I’m always covered in the shit.

And… then there’s the lunch runs. Getting food for seven people. And then someone, usually Mr X's brother, always insists on getting an iced tea or something. Does have any idea how difficult it is to balance seven items of food, soup and then… a tea? No. And that’s why Hollywood assistants are made of stern stuff. But me? I’m not made of stern stuff. I’m really suffering. I’m not sure what I’m doing any more.

FOLLOWING DAY....
I’m meeting the girls at Juniors for brunch. Turns out LH knows Mr X. Ish. Everyone knows everyone in this city. Small world. Anyway. The blackberry goes. It’s 12pm now. Mr X wants a table at the Buffalo Club this evening for four people. It’s a national holiday. I phone. You need a credit card deposit and it’s a set menu. AND…. It’s full to capacity. I push them and they say they can squeeze them in. Hooray!

I let Mr X know. He’s not interested. He wants Nobu now. Four people. National holiday. It’s all booked. I let Mr X know. Call back. Tell them it’s Mr X. I did. We’re still on the wait list. The Matre’D’s going to call me back. I wait. I’m not there at the brunch. I'm not present. I’m a mess. I just want him to get his table.

We leave Juniors.

I phone Nobu again. And again. Can they please fit him in? Later that day – I hear back. Mr X has his table. I let him know. He now wants a table outside at the back of the patio. They’re fully booked. There’s a party of 12 there. But they’ll put him at the patio. Brilliant. Hurrah! He goes there a lot so they know him...

Half an hour before the booking’s going to met. Mr X. He can’t make it. They’re going to be late. The table needs to go to 8pm. By this stage I’m at Tamara’s. It’s JS’s party tonight, but I’m dealing with it all. Nobu were lovely. Really lovely. I've not eaten there yet but they were great. I'm so happy they helped me.

I’ve been checking the emails recently. Mr X’s still talking about me going to Pittsburgh. Next week. I mean? What? Can’t he tell me first? He’s not made a decision but I’m fairly sure about mine – I don’t want to move to Pittsburgh. I really don’t. I want to stay. But we need to talk. Maybe I can stay. Maybe he’ll just go. I have no idea what’s going on with my life any more.

I’m off to JS’s. It’s in a dive bar, the place with the racist statue. A strange bunch. An Australian actress turns up but I didn’t talk to her. She wasn’t overly friendly and I couldn’t be bothered. I hate it. Still. At least I forgot about all the stuff I did today. I drove Tam home and got back around 4am. Shattered.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The one where I lose it...

Awful day. Awful. I overslept in the morning . That was probably my first mistake. I was due to meet MK but she’s not free until the afternoon. No matter, I’ll got to Luxxe and get MW to come join me. Bah. He’s busy. So. I’m on my own. I do some writing and then I’m at the studio by 2pm. J’s got her own office there now, so she's settled in. She knows what she's doing. She's secure and loving every moment of this gig. I honestly wish I felt the same. I don't know why I don't. I think it's just all a bit new for me right now. Still, I can deal with that. I’m trying to chill out. And calm. And calm. It’s all go.

Mr X’s meeting the AD’s, finally, after the last time when I ended up meeting them all - not ideal. So..... They're coming back in for their interviews but I’ve still got stuff going on for Mr X. Today’s task – downloading all the pictures from his blackberry and his phone onto his laptop. Not that easy. His Bluetooth isn’t working properly on his computer from his blackberry so I have to Bluetooth everything to my computer. And then the phone. I have to send each picture as a text message to my blackberry. THEN I have to email the pictures from my blackberry to my email account on my computer. THEN I have to download them onto a memory stick. Then put them on his computer. This takes about two hours. By now I’m hungry. I’ve gone to get lunch and now it’s still ongoing. It’s now 5pm. I’m not sure what to do next. I’m asked to do some meeting set ups. And then I’m not. And then I am.

Mr X's friend has arrived at the studio (he'll also be in the film) as he's going out for dinner tonight at JC's house. JC is a hotshot LA film man. His scripts are becoming the thing of legend. However, Mr X is far from ready. I’m busy googling liquor stores as Mr X wants cigars, wine and whiskey. By now I’ve had enough. But, I’m busy making sure that Mr X makes his marketing meeting and then he has to make his script meeting. The marketing meeting goes on, because a ten minute music meeting beforehand wasn’t ’10 minutes’ but 25 minutes. Everything’s going on. By 7pm he’s in the script meeting. I ask him if I can go. He says yes. I leave. I’m going to go out to dinner with PMc, SS and the other Brits.

I pull into the carpark off San Vincente near Melrose and I get an email: “In the future, I can’t have you leave until I’m done. Shit comes up every minute. Your day ends when mine does…”

My response: “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to go. I am happy to come back. Would you like me to? I can pick up the booze…”

His response: “I didn’t WANT you to go. You asked if you can leave.” I didn’t respond to that. We would got into he said, she said etc., In Hollywood you just do what you can. You don't argue. I should have stayed. That's how it works. A better assistant would have stayed. Just I'm starting to get a life out here and am trying to enjoy it. Mistake one. When you're an assistant you have no life. I keep forgetting. It really is the way things are here and I have entitlement issues. I just think I can do my own thing. I keep forgetting you need to pay your dues in this town and I have nothing in the bank.

So… I pulled into a liquor store on La Cienega and bought the whiskey and the wine before going to a Cuban cigar store on Sunset near Doheny. They're trying to get me to smoke the cigars with them - to try them out. I'm inside a humidor. Fuck. I haven't got a clue. I call Mr X. He doesn't have a clue. He tells me to ring his friends. I do. They don't have a clue. So... I'm in this cigar shop and these men know I don't have a clue. I buy these Panama made cigars. Apparently they use Cuban tobacco because Cuban-rolled cigars are illegal. The men in the shop look cracked off their nuts. They're smoking the cigars and trying to get me to join them. One of them has no teeth. Nice. He's insistent that I suck on his cigar. Oh please. PLEASE! Is this now my life? A toothless cigar addict coming on to me in a shop on Sunset. Brilliant. I'm so tired. So so tired. But... I get the cigars. As I get into my car, it's surrounded by police. Not for me. But just because I'm unlucky. I sit there. Cigars in one hand, whiskey bottle on the seat... Finally they move on and I can head back to the Studio.

By now, it’s 8.30. I’m driving back in tears. There are certain times in the month when I just lose it and ... well. It's that time again. I’ve had enough. I really have. All I know is that I wanted to be at a meeting and I’m tired. I've got stomach cramps. I’m in a lot of pain. I’m tired. I manage to get through to JM. She talks me off the proverbial ledge but I’m crying in the car. I can’t really stop. I’m just not having a good day. It’s been so long. With his emails at 6am this morning and then his snippy email about me leaving the Studio – what am I to do?

I get back to the studio… and I’m back in the meeting room. I’m not contributing but everyone else has their ‘bitch’ there. I bring in the beer. By 10pm, they’re hungry so I’m dispatched to get the pizzas. On my return… I finally get to go to the bathroom. I get there and… Ms J comes after me. Mr X’s looking for me. I can’t take it. Ms J really wants to be here, JJK’s assistant is making notes and me? I'm acting out a bit. It's all over my face. I know it. The sulky, resentful face. I’m just writing, doodling, crying and feeling sulky. I don't know what I should do in this meeting so I do nothing. I just sit there. Quietly. Trying to stay awake. I'm tired. I'm always tired. I'm always dreaming of blackberries. I wish I was better at this.

I can't believe I'm not enjoying this. This was my dream. My dream. In a studio. Working on a film. But they're ripping apart every scene, it sort of ruins the magic. Every single scene is being looked at and who’s needed in which scenes. I’m trying hard not to be resentful. But I am. This is Hollywood. Again, I have to remember. You lose your life when you become an assistant and I wasn't prepared for this. Ooops. If I were to do this all over it would be different. But. Right now. All I can think is that I'm tired. Horribly tired.

I’m so frustrated. I just want to go out and get loaded. Or something. I just don’t want to think. I feel sick now as well. I just had three slices of pizza. I never eat pizza. Mr X's is sitting next to me. He can’t stop yawning. I can’t stop sniveling. Roof rings. It’s about 11pm. I’m racing out of the room. He’s just finished at Burbank and it’s good to talk to him. He always, but always, turns up when I need him. His commonsense just makes me feel better. At half twelve, they’re still at it. I’m still sitting there. I just can’t stand it. Mr X’s going strong. He's excited. Pure energy is driving him. Surely? I mean, this guy was up at 6am. I know because I got the emails... His energy is kind of impressive - I think it comes from a place of raw passion. I don't know. Whatever it is, it's sort of amazing that he can fire himself up.

Mr X’s brother yawning. And Ms J and I are emailing each other. I just want to crawl under the table and sleep. I wonder if I should join in. Right now, I have no idea what’s going on still and that’s hard to deal with. I don’t think I want to go to Pittsburgh now. Four months of getting tea. Four months of fucking up no doubt. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I need to write. I need to sleep. I know I’m not going to get out of this room by 1am. Which means home at 2am. Which means exhaustion. Utter exhaustion. I’ve had it. HAD IT! I shouldn’t have had the pizza. That was me reacting to the situation. Eating shit. That’s my fuck it these days. I can’t drink. I can’t smoke. I can’t do drugs… I'm just stuck in this board room. So..... I’ll have some fucking pizza motherfucka. I'm feeling sick.

I get an email from someone in the room: “Why the fuck are you here.” I explain: “I’m Mr X’s bitch. Everyone else has their bitch here…. My day ends when Mr X’s day ends.” I’m so lucky. on the one hand. I really am. I have a job. I'm sitting in a studio. This is the dream. I want to be in gratitude. But. Right now. I’m just angry. This is all about learning. I guess.

Now… I’m freezing. The air con is on full blast so I scope out the office and find some hooded tops on someone's desk. They're freebies connected with Mr X's film so I don't feel too bad about stealing one. I'll tell them in the morning - or bring it back. I'm so cold right now. I rip into the plastic bags and put one on. Thank fuck it fits. I feel a bit warmer now but I can feel a cold coming on and I’m shivering due to cold and exhaustion. I’m also filled with resentment that I have to be in this room. Ms J’s so pumped. She's loving this. Her excitement and enthusiasm, even at 3am, is amazing. Me. I'm going downhill fast. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. Ms J’s all over it. “I know a marine in Pittsburgh”… “I know a line person who can run point ” I don't know anyone. I tried to redeem myself at, at 3.30am, sort of joined in and sounded like I was part of the meeting. I was slightly exhausted though… okay. More than slightly. We got out of the office at 4.02am. I’m in a daze. All over the place but I race… RACE home and then, at 4.15am… I get the call from Ms J.

Mr X’s had a car accident. He’s popped his tyre. He’s at the Beverly Hills Motel – could I drive him home? Noooooooooo. Firstly - he's okay. Which is good. But he needs to get home. He's stranded at the motel and it's now 4.30am. She says she’ll do it. She’s in total uber mode and I can’t cope. Fuck it. Let her go. But. No. This is my job. So... I call him. He tells me he’s on the phone to his ex wife. He’s going there instead. But I have to pick him up tomorrow morning. I suddenly remember we’re due in Burbank at 10am. That means a 130 mile round trip for a site that’s only 15 minutes from Nico’s. I burst into tears again. I’m so tired. Ms J’s all: “I love this… I live for this…” This is why I make films…blah blah blah. And I’m all – oh god. Is this my life? I'm so not being grateful. I'm just thinking - i'm tired. Horribly tired.

Mr X emails. He tell me to go to bed and pick him up in Zuma at 2pm. Technically a lie in but that's never the way. I collapse into bed at 5am. Two hours later my phone goes off. It’s Ms J emailing. It stops. At 7.50am… Ms J again. At 8.15am… Ms J again. By 9am I’m on the phone to the car hire company about Mr X’s car sorting it out. I just want to sleep. Where did my sleep go? Oh yeah. It didn't. I didn't get any cocking sleep. Two hours from 5.15-7.15am. That was it. I wanted to prove I could be a good assistant in a crisis.

Wednesday

So. Yes. Yesterday blurred into today. By 9am I’m on the phone to the car hire company trying to get the car fixed, picked up… something. Ms J has the keys to the car. Her intern will be at the office at 12 and will drop the keys off then. SO annoying. So, I’m on the phone to Budget, after no sleep remember, sorting out a new car and I really wanted to have lunch with MK and JM before the 1pm. No chance. I've got to sort this out.

I crawl out of bed. Nico’s having his own drama with work but he’s in fighting mode. I collapsed onto the sofa. The dogs, god I love the dogs, snuggled in next to me as I had a little cry of self pity. When Nico’s off the phone, he gave me some tough love and reminded me that this is my job. This is Hollywood. This is what people do. And I need to apologise for my behaviour – in that I left early. Make amends. All that kind of thing. Sigh.

I'm driving down Laurel Canyon. There's a man with a sign: No Job. No Food. No Home. But Grateful... or something like that. I burst into tears. Again. I really am emotion today. The reason for the weeping? Because I have so much to be grateful for. I, at least today, have a job. A job in the film industry. People would kill for this. And I'm weeping like a brat. Jeeeesus. The trampy man with the sign gave me a lovely smile. He just seemed so happy, that made me cry again. (Someone later pointed out he was probably on crack or something but I think that's just unkind - maybe he was just happy). There are always men with signs on Laurel at Sunset. I always wonder if they are on rotation because they seem to have days when they're there. I've not seen Mr Gratitude for a while now. I wonder if he's still alive.

I head down to Robertson at 12pm and have a vague chomp on some seitan pieces of chewy nonsense with JM before briefly greeting some friends and then… it’s off in the car to pick up Mr X.

I’m due there at 2pm. As I race down the road I’m calling Budget, I’m sorting out the car, trying to deal with the insurance… the full works.

At 2.01pm I’m there. First things first. Time to make my apology/ammends: “I’m really sorry if you felt that my wanting to leave early yesterday was, somehow, disrespectful. I’ve never been to meetings before so I thought I wasn’t needed… I really wasn’t trying to be rude.” I must have looked pathetic because he raced over and gave me a hug. Which was nice of him. I mean. I've had no sleep so I look like I've been punched around a bit and... So. It’s over. Time to get on with the day. Sometimes he's just brilliant. Just dynamic and brilliant. Like last night when he was talking about his film. Brilliant. And, right now... he's being brilliant. So warm. So kind. So caring.

We get the car and then it’s off to the studio. Ms J’s still being intense but I must not let it rile me. I just need to do my job. And by that, that’s work for Mr X. However, she’s made all these appointments and when I send them to Mr X he goes ape. They’re in the morning. He has YOGA every morning. I didn’t know. I’d have remembered that. Damn. I look like an idiot. I should have checked these. But I'm the one who let Ms J make the meetings. Why? Because I’m a bit of a pussy about all this and it was easier to let her just get on with it. So. They all change. I need to work on my boundaries – she’s walking around the studio now going “I love this”…. “I love this”…. I’m walking around going “Oh god, now what?” Rabbit in headlight scenario.

Still, the problem on the film was sorted today.. So they’re making a movie. I still don’t know if I’m a part of it though. Just get on with the job.

So… Mr X’s in a meeting and wanted to be pulled out. I went over and he said five more minutes. I returned and… Ms J’s outside the room waiting for Mr X's brother. She told me not to go in. When Mr X finally exits he goes “Why didn’t you get me out?” Jesus. I'm never going to win!

More meetings. More meetings. I sit outside keeping an eye on the time. Mr X leaves to meet his daughter at 5.15. Great. I can leave soon. “YOUR day ends when MINE does.” So… after doing some scheduling work… I’m free.

Off to meet MK. We’re going to talk about my script but by the time I get to Swingers I’m just too tired. And so’s she. So, it’s a salad and a chat and then… off home. After watching TV on the sofa… that’s it. I’m off to bed. I can’t take much more. And so much for tomorrow off. I’m due at Mr X’s by 2pm.

There is no word to explain how tired I am right now. Done. Done in. And ready to cry. What a pussy.

The one where I see Billy Dee

No word from Mr X yet. I just know it's going to happen.

I drove down to the Luxxe Café in Santa Monica. I’m not sure where it is but I know it’s on Montana. I park up on Montana and text my friend MW. I met him at a screen writing party, I recognised him from London. I used to see him writing at Century - I gave him a nickname. Grumpy Chops. But... he's in LA now and he's cheery. No more grumpy chops. So. Yes. I'm trying to find Luxe.

Then, I look up! I’m there. It’s raining though. Pouring. So… I stay in the car. It’s too cold. MW tells me he’s in here and I’m not. As the rain breaks I head over to the café. On the plus side… MK (a friend who helps me walk the dogs) has told me she loves my pilot episode and we’re going to meet up and work on it together. Brilliant. I get to the Luxxe Café but I can only stay an hour. I have to race to Zuma. Mr X’s calling…

This time I’m prepared, I order his food and then double check – yep. It’s a tuna sub with caesar salad. Good old Spruzzo in Zuma. I bought one for me too. Why not. I’m hungry. I get there and it’s all systems go. We’re waiting to hear if the issue on the film has been sorted or not. It's a stressful time. For him, more than me. But I get affected by it all. We're in some kind of holding zone waiting to see if it's going to happen or not.

So. I'm at the house. His remote control’s not working. I need to call direct tv. His housekeeper wants a gossip. There’s admin work to do. Everyone wants a slice of Mr X right now. But we’ve got some work to get on with. We go through the meetings, the emails and general life stuff. It’s all a bit hectic. But it’s fine. The DP turns up and I’m dispatched to the supermarket and starbucks… Venti pumpkin spice latte, a latte for the DP, logs for the fire, blueberries, fresh orange juice, cheddar cheese – shredded and organic, and organic eggs.

I drive back to the house. Oh poo. The drinks have spilled all over the seat and floor. My car reeks of coffee. Back to Starbucks. I have to drive more SLOWLY then stuff like this wouldn't happen. It's hard when you have to be places quickly. Things get dropped.

When I get back, the housekeeper takes a look at my purchases. I got the wrong cheese. He likes something else. Jeeeeeesuz. Oh well. It’s cheese. It’s organic. I’m not fucking perfect. She loves to have a little dig. I’m trying not to let it rile me. Once everyone’s fed and watered I’m ready to shoot.

I’m back on the road again. My phone rings. It’s some manager. He’s got a client for the film. He won’t shut up. I get rid of him by asking him to send an email, which I forward on to Tamara and Mr X. Neither of them has a clue why they should bother with this 45-year-old individual. There’s no role for him. I emailed them both back: “Perhaps you could get him in the ring and Xxxxx could beat the crap out of him and when he asks why he got such a crap role you can explain it’s because his manager bugged your assistant.” He’s not getting a part. Especially after the manager phoned after the email. Then phoned JS. Then phoned me. Then got in touch with the casting crew. Noooooo. You're being too pushy. No one likes a pushy manager. The casting crew know what to do, the team know what they're doing and, by now, even I know what I'm doing.

I really wanted to see the sun set at Greystone Park but I’m too late. So… instead. I head to the Beverly Hills Hotel and set up camp waiting for JM. It’s our Monday night new tea ritual before we head up to LH’s. I’m a bit excited. Billy Dee’s in the house. STAR WARS!! BILLY DEE!!!! I say nothing but am very excited now. BILLY DEE! Whooop. Now that’s a Hollywood spot. I know. I’ve seen more famous, more wealthy but.. come on… BILLY DEE! By the time I head home, Nico’s on the phone. Life's a bit stressful on the home front too but we end up watching a car chase on the 101. It lasts two hours. A Bentley… we turn the tv to mute… the choppers are right above us. I think he shot himself in the end. I don’t know. I gave up and went to bed. I’ve got to meet Mr X in the morning back at the studio and then meet MK to work on my pilot. I'm tired but... it could be worse. A lot worse.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

The one where I get the hire car

8.30am. I’m up and getting ready to drive to Mr X’s. Sigh. God this is tedious but I’m happy I have a job and I’m praying it’s not raining too hard. My bedroom’s been leaking… So. I shower and it’s off the 50 miles to head to Mr X’s place.

I’ve learned a few skills being an assistant. You have to be able to text, google and drive at the same time. As well as talk on the phone. My hands free means that I’m able to do all that on the freeway. Sometimes I scare myself trying to use both hands so I can do an exclamation mark. No one realises just how dextrous I am. I really am becoming a pro but my ability with the blackberry is beginning to scare me. One day it’s going to end badly. I’m trying to pull over and text but sometimes … well… it’s stupid. Let’s face it. I’m being stupid. It is a skill though. The ability with the blackberry – not the stupidity.

Anyway, I’m booking the car. Mr X’s chosen one. It’s not in the shop yet but it will be by 11am. Great. I stop on the way and get Mr X’s coffee: A venti, spiced pumpkin latte. I know his coffee now. I’m getting there. I know he likes blueberries. I know he has to have planters peanuts. I know he won’t eat store made sushi. I know that he likes tuna salad sub sandwiches and a Caesar salad from spruzzo in Malibu. I know that he likes coconut blended green teas from Urth. Slowly but surely I’m knowing far too much. Sigh. When booking flights, he has to be in the aisle. At the front. Never at the back. When booking hotels he needs a king size bed. And high up. As high as possible. Never get a stretch limo. Always get a saloon car to pick him up. The juice has to be freshly squeezed. Always get his airmiles. Keep a pad in your bag. Write down EVERYTHING. Never miss anything out. Let him finish his sentences. Don’t interrupt. Don’t bother getting crap sweet food. He won’t eat it. Ever. Oh and he only likes writing in blue pens. And they really have to be roller ball blue pens, not felt tip – but blue. He likes blue. I had no idea. But see... I'm learning a lot.

On arrival… both Mr X and his daughter are in pyjamas. No where near ready. I turn into Mary Poppins and start getting bossy. “Come on. Chop chop. Let’s get you changed. We’ve got a car to pick up.” I swoop around the house bossing them into their respective bedrooms to get changed and ready to go out and then… once they’re done… we all climb into my tiny car. Heard when Mr X is a tall man and i havea small car.

As we’re on the PCH… there's a phonecall and it's regarding the film. It's drama. It's fascinating to hear Mr X at work. While Mr X is dealing with this fire, he gets another call on the line, someone's been lying to him. And this isn't good. There are tearful voices at the other end of the phone. Mr X is on flying form but this isn't good at all. The lies are being exposed and it's not good. Mr X is dealing with it. I note that he deals with stress in the real world amazingly well. He's on it. He's calling the shots. No fear just straight down the line straight talking. You'd want him on your side in a fight. I’m just driving but we’ve arrived at Budget. Mr X's daughter, bless her, has asked my permission to lie down on the backseat while we’re in the carpark.

I get Mr X’s driver’s license and credit card and set up the paperwork. He’s not off the phone. I get him to sign the documents. He could be signing anything. He’s still on the phone as I go back and forth, I check the car for any nicks, I get him to sign it all, and he then points out that they’re taking around $xxxx from his card - it’s just a deposit…. However, now it’s all signed off. I tell his daughter to get up and move her into the other car. Mr X gets out, still on the phone and he gets into his car and drives off. Job done. Finally. I hope that’s it. I really do. I wanted a weekend. Mr X drives off, ear still glued to the phone.

I race over to see Nicole and do some work at her house from 1-3. Then… it’s a Brits in LA meeting. We’re doing ‘The Reader’ for the Toscars. The Toscars. A bunch of English people in LA and we’ve split into teams – each one of us has been given a film in consideration for best film at the Oscars and has to do a 10 minute (no more) parody of the Oscar film. Lucky us, we get naked Kate and concentration camp guards. Brilliant. Not. But maybe. We’re full of ideas and before you know it… it’s 5pm.

However, on arriving there, my mind’s all over the place. I’ve been screaming at Fedex as they have still failed to deliver Mr X’s girlfriend's birthday present. I’m freaking out because he wanted it to arrive there by Friday and we paid for it to be an over night. Oh well. What’s a girl to do? I’m screaming at Fedex. I get so ratty by other people’s incompetence. Sigh.

Home. And then I’ve got a bit of time to meet Tamara for dinner…

8.30pm – Spanish kitchen. K from London’s there. A – I’s fiancée from London is also there. And K’s client and Tam’s friend M is at the table. He’s an actor, Welsh and successful. Dinner’s nice. Two other friends of Tam’s join us – two more boys but they’re over with A. At 10pm I get a text from Nico: “on the way back with bird. Can u straighten up the room”. He’s pulled. Oh god. When can I go home? The last thing I want to see is Nico making out. So… despite dinner being over I’m insistent we go on. M’s gone home. He’s tired. But Roof just called – he’s at the Chateau.

Right. We’re off. And off we go. By the time I get there. R’s text arrives. “About to go and there’s no where to sit.” K and I make it in time to sit with him before he goes. BUT he had Ruby with him. That was nice. Ruby who drove me to the hospital when I was shot. So it was good to see her under slightly better circumstances… By the time Tamara and A arrived, Roof had gone but he saw them on the stairs and at least said hello as Tam hadn’t met him yet. So… we killed time there until midnight and I got the all clear from home. He’d taken said bird home and was now going out for the evening. Rampant bugger. I dropped K off and headed off to bed.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The one where I get stuck at CAA...

No Dublin for Mr X after all. Instead, he’s got a marketing meeting at the studio at 10.30am. He wants me to meet him there again to give him his shoes. Yes. His shoes. He had me take them off his hands to get them polished for the Daddy/Daughter dance in Malibu on Saturday.

My head was all over the place... I had an early walk up Runyon this morning (picture posted). I went over to the studio offices. No Mr X. Nothing. Weird. He's not picking up his phone either. Double weird. No reponse to an email either. Triple weird. I hope he's okay. He always answers something.

Meanwhile, his girlfriend is calling. "Where’s her package?" Fuck. Bloody Fedex. Turns out there was a mechanical fault with the plane. The package couldn’t arrive. I scream at them, fedex, that I’m going to lose my job if it doesn’t arrive by Saturday. They say they’ll do that. But now they’re saying it’s the wrong zipcode. I’d missed off a one. Nightmare. I’m in trouble now. And it's Fedex's fault. Not mine. Not mine at all. I want her to get her present. It's her birthday and Fedex have been horribly unhelpful. Aaaargh.

Anyway… I’m at the studio. Having parked on the street – I get in and… the two boys on reception couldn’t be more friendly. I’ve been accepted. Go me.

So. It’s straight into the conference room where JK – the film’s new line producer is waiting for Mr X to interview ADs. I put my brown bag on the table. The bag contains Mr X's shoes. Yes. The shoes. They are still with me. We chat. He’s lovely. I have to say. Really nice.

In walks the first candidate. Initial impression. Nope. But what do I know?

Anyway, Mr X is messaging me. Finally. He's okay. Phew. But... he's at CAA. JK is looking at me - I can see it in the eyes. "What the fuck is going on?". Mr X is meant to be there. With JK. And, right now, I'm in the room with the ADs instead. Aaaargh. This is fucked up.

And then comes the question. “Where’s Mr X? Will be here soon?” Now. What they don’t know is that there's something going on behind the scenes and Mr X is dealing with it. He's at CAA to have a shakedown. But I can't tell JK that. I can't tell anyone that. Hmmm. This is tricky. Instead, I try and keep to the truth:

"I'm terribly sorry. But... Mr X's locked in another meeting that's run on."

Despite this, the potential AD has not left the room. He's still talking. And the second guy's turned up for his interview. I need AD1 out so I can tell JK what's going on. Thankfully, the studio exec on the film turns up to explain the situation to everyone. It’s now 2.15pm and AD1 still isn’t leaving the room. C'mon. Out out out. We've got things to do. AD2 needs to come in. Finally AD1 leaves and we can get the next one in.

Time for damage limitation however and I’m on my blackberry calling AD agents and the other potential candidates - I'm trying to go ‘abort… abort’. Mr X not being here means coming in for an interview would be a waste of time. Thing is, one of them is nearly at the studio – he just drove in from miles away. Ooops. Still, I managed to reach them all – despite the fact that most of them were already waiting in the lobby. The film’s got a SAG waiver so I guess with the fear surrounding films at the moment, knowing that this one’s going to go ahead means that it’s a job and who doesn’t want a job right now?

I go back into the interview room and this… this is where it got interesting for me. JK’s only been on the film for four days – me? Four months. Time has really flown by. So… suddenly I’m part of the interview process. I’m trying hard to just look official. I manage to do a wicked doodle. And then, I get asked the question - “And what does Mr X think of xxxxxx.” I managed to bluff an answer. After all. I’m a professional. Before you know it, I’m sitting in with the candidates. I send J a message - she'd love this. She'd also know what to do. Still. I'm not doing a bad job. People are looking at me when they give their answers – what the fuck? I have no idea what’s going on. Damage limitation. that's all I'm thinking of right now.

My blackberry’s off again. It’s Mr X. He wants me to meet him with the shoes at CAA. Shitter. I look like crap. At least I’m in all black. No one ever looks truly dreadful in all black… but… it’s been raining. And I’ve been caught in it. I’m not looking my best. It has to be said. I decide to see through the interviews with JK. A chance to just blend in and become a part of the process. He’s also the one hiring and firing at the moment. I ask him if he can find out if I’ve got a job – or not. Am I Pittsburgh bound…? Who the fuck knows right now. He appreciated that I might want to know so he said he’d look into it. Right now, all I need to do is my job and do it to the best of my ability… that’s all I can do.

I’m off to CAA. The famous CAA. I’m approaching CAA. Fuck me it’s BIG.

I park up at the shopping centre and arrive at the agency (still with the shoes in a brown paper bag) and ask for Mr X’s agent's office. I have to wait in the lobby. Everyone there looks important. They’re all waiting… And… eventually… down comes R. I finally get to meet Mr X’s agents's asst. Or… xxxxxxxxxasst@caa.com. She’s never had a name. Just that. We go up to the office. It’s a corner office. Everyone’s very busy. Very groomed. I’m ushered in and there’s Mr X.

He’s still on the phone. I give him the shoes. He nods. He’s still on the phone to the studio. He’s been on with them for about three hours now. I’m told to sit. And wait. And I get to meet The agent. But he’s on the phone. Everyone’s very busy. Mr X gets up. “I’m going to xxxx’s office.” And he leaves me there. Alone. I feel like a twat. A twat with a pair of polished black shoes. It’s now that I see the agency system at work.

“Get me xxxxxx [important big Hollywood name] on one.” – agent

“he’s in casting.” – agent assist

“get him” – agent

There’s a pause.

We’re emailing while the agent is talking to his assistant.

“Shit. It’s non-stop isn’t it,” I write to the assistant.

“Yep. I’m sure it’s the same with you,” replies assistant.

I have no idea what to write now. She's busy. So busy. So I stop writing. He looks like he might throw a hissy fit. I think she's joking.

Meawhile the 'banter' in the office is still going:

“Get me xxxx xxxx’s [a-list actor] number,” Agent.

“xxxxxx [big name] on one,” Assistant.

“I’m too busy. Get me xxxxxxx. I’m never going to get through this fucking list tonight,” Agent
.
“xxxxxx [bigger name] on one,” Assistant.

“Where’s Xxxxxx’s [A-list actor] number? Someone’s got it. Ask around. Put it out there….” Agent

And then he picks up the phone.

“Hey,” he says to me as I’m trying to sink into the chair opposite him as I wait for Mr X. Trying to be part of the furniture. I'm just sitting in his office. Trying to blend.

“Yeah…” I says nonchalantly.

“You want some candy?” Agent.

Huh? The man’s offering me candy. I don’t eat sugar. But I don’t want to turn down his candy. I won’t have the candy. But I like candy. I want the candy. This could be a moment to bond. I’ll take the candy. Yes. Maybe this is our moment.

“It’s the best you’ve ever had,” agent.

I slope up to his desk. What is this? What is going on? Are we friends now?

“Go on. Have both. Take it. Take it,” Agent says.

He is the typical agent. You want him in your court. He’s better than Ari Gold in Entourage because he’s real. He’s a proper proper agent. I love it. I hate it. I love it. I’m at the desk noshing on his candy. I can’t stop now. I put it down. He’s telling me to take it. I tell him to stop pushing his candy on me. He needs some. I tell him to take his candy. This is getting weird now. I’m in an office discussing candy and sugar while Mr X is fighting for his film in another room.

A man comes into the room. He introduces himself. I just tell him I’m Noam. He thinks I’m important and then the agent tells him I’m Mr X’s assistant. I don’t know who he is. I email the assistant to try and find out who he is. Anyway, we start discussing Gerry Butler’s shagability. I don’t know if this is appropriate or not as I don’t know who he is. Anyway. We have some fun. I like him. He’s funny. I don’t know if he’s important or not. All I know is that we’ve delayed his appointment with the agent for three hours as Mr X’s been holed up at CAA.

Mr X’s back. He’s had enough – he wants to leave. His agent wants answers. Mr X’s spent though so we leave. As we go some wannabe shark of an agent comes over. He’s all over Mr X. Tedious. I’m still trotting behind. Eventually we leave. I’m out of CAA. Mr X has managed to get someone to look after his car right outside the door. It's pouring. Mr X drives me to my car. He wishes me a nice weekend – he’s off to spend time with his daughter and I’m off to get ready for the Grammy party I’m going to tonight at the Paramount lot.

9pm. I’m dressed. I’m ready. I’m knackered and I’m going to go to a party on my own. Then.. Tamara rings. A friend’s in town and they’re meeting up with A.N. Other UK actor at Firefly for a night out. Oh well. I wish I could go but…

I’m driving in the rain. It’s kinda scary and then I get the call from Mr X. It’s 9.30pm. He’s had an accident on the PCH. A boulder hit his car and it spun. He's okay, thankfully, but the car is not. He wants me to drive to Zuma tomorrow for 10am to take him to his hire car. Oh poo. That means an early night tonight rather than enjoy the Grammy party. I suck at this job. I'm thinking about me. I don't want to drive 50 miles to his place to drive him five miles up the road. Oh well. I have to do this. And hire his car. And... do it with a smile.

I arrive at the Paramount lot. I’m on my own at a party. It’s kind of weird. I’m dressed up. For me. A dress. Make up. Fresh hair. And I’m emailing xxxxx from the studio that invited me. She’s by the cheese. I’m by the cheese. Wrong cheese. There are two cheese tables. I’m at the better one. She’s English and friendly. So we hang out. Before you know it I bump into someone I know. JVDF. A friend of E’s. He’s with someone who worked at Dazed in London. So she knows some of my former Time Out and City friends. Small world… small world. And I don’t look like a loser. See? I know people.

By midnight, however… I’m bored. I don’t know enough people to make this worthwhile really. I’m tired and bored. I got kudos points for being spotted saying hello to Adam (aka DJ AM). I didn’t realise he was DJ AM. I don’t know who that is but I know that he’s Adam. Nice guy. He knows Nico. Of course. Who doesn't?

I leave. It’s 12.15am. And who’s arriving? Nico. He’s greeting everyone. Like a king among minions. I'm done. I’m off. That’s it. And I’ve got to drive to Malibu in the morning.

2am. I’m online. I’m looking at local car hire places in Malibu. I’m compiling a list. A long list. Which I’m emailing to Mr X: “Please look at his before I arrive tomorrow so I can book it while driving over to yours in the morning.”

I've got to get up in six hours. Ew. This is not going to be pretty.

The one where I have to get the vitamins...

9am. Moorpark. I can’t really concentrate. I’m still tired and the shit’s hitting the fan with Mr X. There's an issue. Something's not been signed off. It's become a drama and it's affecting Mr X, me, well everyone really. No one's happy. Thankfully it's not my fault but it means all the small stuff can't fall apart. If it does - it's a disaster... DISASTER.

Anyway. I have to drive 20 miles to pick up some posters from the Production office. J’s being really intense. "So.. you’ve got til XXXX. Okay? And then the job's over. Got that. Over." Yes. I've got that. Even though Mr X hasn't told me that he's going to Pittsburgh - no one has apart from J - I know that I'm about to be fired. That's the message. "Mr X moves to Pittsburgh in a few months. Then you’ll lose your job." That's kind of scary. I'm about to lose my job but no one's told me. I explain I find her enthusiasm for the project really intimidating (but without saying intimidating) because I don’t even know if I’m being involved after the next month or so or if I care. I don’t want to care, or get into it, because I may be out so what's the point? But… right now. I don’t know what I want. Do I really want to move to Pittsburgh for three months? Four months? My heart is here. It really is. Anyway. I leave. I can't take it any more. I need a visit to the Java Detour.

Shit. I had to race to Malibu. Race. And… on the way. The phone was going. Mr X. I had to go to the studio to get a Rocky DVD, so I called ahead to get Mr X’s lunch from Spruzzo in Zuma, then I phoned the video store at Heathercliff to get them to put aside Rambo (for work not pleasure reasons I hasten to add). It's all go.

Strange note at the Pavillion at Heathercliff: "Paparazzi fuck off". Basically. But not quite that blunt. However. I saw no one famous. No one at all. Then… it’s off to Spruzzo to get the lunch. It’s ready. Pricey for a tuna salad and a sandwich but there we go. It’s still not stopping as now… it’s off to the dry cleaners. Now this. This is proper assistant work. The running. The journey up the path to the house was a disaster. Struggling under ten items of clothing, a laptop, the necklaces I’d picked up the day before, the lunch and a myriad of other random things for Mr X I tottered up the path.

Mr X was home, he was sitting with his brilliant DP as they went through the script. Kind of fascinating but I couldn't really concentrate as I was preparing the lunch… well. I put it on a plate and sat there, quietly, checking my emails while they talked about the project. It was like they were storyboarding each scene. I didn’t know that happened. Very intense stuff. I checked my emails, printed off some job applications and poof – was out the door. Or so I thought. No. There was still more to do.

I had to get Mr X’s vitamins. I took a picture of the bottles I needed and wrote down the names and brands of the five bottles I had to deal with. It was non-stop. At the vitamin barn the bill came to $180 or so. Mr X’s card (or my version of it) was declined. And declined. And declined. This happened before. I was buying his wine and it got declined and I’ve got nothing in the bank so can’t pay for this at all. I phone the credit card company - it was a mistake. I'm sorted out. I get back to the house. Apparently I didn't get all the vitamins. Mr X wasn't not happy. But I did. I did. I took a picture. He'd forgotten to get out one of the bottles. However, despite the photographic evidence, which I didn't show, remember the boss is always right and I was at fault. I bit the bullet, said nothing, and went back to the store.

Course they didn't have this particular brand at the store. So... it was another couple of miles to the Pacific Greens Store on the PCH to get this bottle of gloop. Great. Thankfully my mileage is getting reimbursed by the studio and, hell, there are worse places to be driving around. The PCH is a pleasure. Not, however, when you hit traffic, but, at least there's an ocean to gaze at.

Everything goes right by the time it’s the evening. I joined a bunch of English girls to play Netball. Netball. It’s been nearly 20 years since I managed to pivot and play. It was exhausting but I loved it. Loved it. The basketball players on the other court were confused. And, for a while, we had an audience but it was nice to do something active that I enjoyed. I even managed to play goal shooter for the second half (first half wing attack) and scored some goals. Obviously I want to play again. Now. Right this minute. But I’m going to have to wait two weeks. Still. At least I’ve tried to do something active.

Throughout the game though I could hear my crackberry. It’s Mr X. He might have to go to London tomorrow or Dublin. But Europe to sort out the issue that was going wrong… It’s all falling apart. The film’s all falling apart – everything. He had to cancel the dinner I’d set up with a composer. I don’t know what Mr X’s doing but I know he’s online and I know he’s stressing out. I need to sleep. We've got a lot to sort out in the morning. The buzzing has stopped. I think even Mr X needs a break.

Following day
I’m due at studio at 10.30 after Mr X’s marketing meeting. The email’s haven’t stopped. He’s due to fly out this afternoon. Dublin here he comes. Part of me just wants him to let it go. After all, as I've been told, I've got a month left. A month. And then I'm being let go.

I’m sitting outside the exec producer’s office chatting to her assistant – but he won’t chat. He’s wearing a headset. He’s busy. He’s getting ahead. He’s not standing for it. He’s going to make it in Hollywood…. So… I retreat to another desk and do some writing while I wait. It’s been two hours now. I’m going nowhere. Mr X comes out. He’s had enough. I’m to go walking with him. We go to his car where he has a cigarette. He’s not a happy bunny. He hands me his girlfriend’s birthday present.

Either way – as I suspected – he’s not had time to get her a card so I’m dispatched to CVS to buy some greeting cards. Thing is, part of me KNEW he wouldn't have time to get a card, this is stuff a great assistant (which I'm not yet, let's be honest here) would have anticipated. But I did anticipate this and I didn't do anything. Now that's not good. It's the little things that really make this job work and I did fuck up a bit there. Oh well. If I ever get a gig like this again, I'm on this... I really will be.

However, more mini dramas for me. I get to the studio car park and... horror of horrors, I've lost my parking ticket. It’s $30… and they don’t validate at the studio anymore. Or do they? I must cut quite a pathetic figure as the exec’s producer slips me some validation passes and even the two queens on the front desk are sympathetic.

I race to CVS. The choices of cards are AWFUL. What does one buy? The dilemma was this: I’m buying a card that Mr X has allegedly bought for his girlfriend. It’s a tough call. I pick the only three blank cards rather than the one with the dog on it which says something about smelling old. Which was funny. But highly inappropriate. I don’t think this is a time for humour. I race back in the rain and am back in the office at the studio with gifts for the two pretty boys at the front desk. Chocolate. Hershey’s kisses. Always a good idea to bring presents for gate keepers at any corporation. I think they were touched.

Anyway, I’m in the corner when the blackberry buzzes. Mr X’s hungry. He wants me to go and get food but I throw this one back at the other assistant. Surely his boss needs to eat too. They send an intern out. Yay! Result! Ideally I need a car parking pass. As this to-ing and fro-ing is getting expensive for the studio and they like to keep things cheap.

Meanwhile, I’m having a poke around the office. DVD box sets. Mmmmmm. I spot Mad Men. I’ve always wanted to watch that. I contemplate ‘borrowing it’ but that would be wrong. Instead I email the other assistant of the other exec producer and ask her if I can have a box set. Two minutes later it’s in my lap. Meanwhile… I’m still sitting outside the office. I’m having fun. I’m online. I’m on facebook. I’m busy. Doing my thing. I get out of the studio at 2pm. They’re all eating away and I thought I wouldn’t be there for lunch so… I realise I’m free to go.

I have Mr X duties. Collect the girlfriend’s necklace and the card and then off to the fedex office. I had posters to send to his father – of Mr X's old film – he promised to send 20 of them to his dad for a charity. It was a nightmare. I haven’t had the balls to say there were only 19. That was all they had. That was it. The poor assistant at CAA worked her arse off to get them as it was. I sent the girlfriend’s necklace next day delivery, while the posters should arrive there by Monday. Done. Dusted. Over. Or so I thought… that came back to bite me in the arse.

Anyway… the rain was bad on the way back to West Hollywood. So… it took me two hours to get to Trader Joe’s and buy some food. By the time I got back, it was 6pm. I was tired. I fell asleep on the sofa. With the dogs. When I woke up, Nico had gone, it was cold and I crawled into bed totally missing the party I’d been invited to at Bar Marmont. I wish I’d gone now. R was there. Nico was there. And a host of other people I know in LA. Damn. Oh well. I was far far too tired and the weather, to be honest, frightened me a bit. The rains coming down were thick and fast. I’d had enough. Bed called.

Monday, May 18, 2009

The one where I don't have a phone signal...

The morning - spent that reading the book proof of 'Anvil: The Story of Anvil' up at SG's. SG is correcting the book proof and I'm reading. I actually laughed out loud (or snickered) a few times. Two hours later. I’m done. I’ve read it. It's as good as the film.

I met up with JB later. She took me to one of the worst dive bars I’ve been to since I arrived in LA. Brilliant. I have to go back! The exterior looked like a Swiss Chalet. The interior stunk of beers and men. It was Super Bowl day and the place stuck of super bowel. Awful. Swaying men. Fucked off their nuts. It was called Ye Olde xxxxxxx. I wish I could remember. Anyway, an hour later JB and I were off to Dom’s Pizza in Los Feliz to meet her friends. The backfat story came back on to the table and one of the guys knew someone at the LA Weekly. Now they want to do a story. Back fat’s taking off.

During dinner… Mr X was emailing. A lot. The meeting at the major studio at 1pm tomorrow - that we’d spent all weekend sorting out – he can’t make it. He said he could never make it. Oh poo. The studio isn't happy. It’s the evening and we’re talking about tomorrow. The emails from Mr X are coming thick and fast. THICK AND FAST. I’m panicking. But I’m also at dinner and this looks so rude. My solution? I email back. “Can I call you in an hour… I’m on a date.” His response? “On a date? Turn the blackberry off and let’s talk in the morning.” See. He’s reasonable. Anyway… an hour later I get the email… “I can make 1pm.” All sorted. And I got to have a nice dinner with some new people.

The next day - 7.30am - I'm up. And... by 10am... I'm at L's place trying to sell ad space for his brochure. I’ve never sold anything before BUT I need to do some extra work. I just don’t know what’s going on and I like working. I need to do as many things as I can in my life. I don’t want to go home. That’s my motivating factor here. I’m not ready. I’ve just heard from Grazia Australia – they want to buy Backfat saved my life. Meanwhile... I'm at L's making phonecalls and sending emails. I’m not a natural saleswoman. I thought I might be but I feel self conscious. I’ve never tried selling things. Urgh. By 2pm I’ve had it. I can’t sell ice to Eskimos and I can’t sell ad space in a magazine. But I tried. And I’ll keep trying.

I’ve arranged to meet M to walk Norton up and down Runyon. I’m going to lose my fucking Muffin Top if it’s the last thing I do. So much for ‘no diet’ – it’s LA. I can’t settle with this damn muffin top even though it saved my life, well done them but now their job has been done. Time to move on. M and I walk. It’s good. There are a lot of dogs. Crazy people. And dogs. I’m just in an area with a signal and my phone goes crazy.

OH! Typical. The moment I'm out of range... It seems that Mr X's GPS doesn’t work and he’s lost in LA. I’m on Runyon with MK. He’s going slightly crazy. The numbers don’t work. Nothing works. And I can’t do anything. My Blackberry is going in and out… Instead I call J at the production company to guide him to his meeting. I can’t believe I’m getting so stressed out about this. I'm actually freaking out. The company have given us the wrong contact numbers. And why doesn't Mr X's GPS work? I'm going to have to fix that with BMW as soon as possible. Thank god for Ms J. She guides Mr X around LA thanks to google maps and a trusty computer.

As ms J's guiding Mr X to his meeting, the pair of us continue our walk. Home and it’s time to shower. Time’s running out. I’m due at JM’s house at half six. The two of us head to the Beverley Hills Hotel. I’ve not been there since I moved here. I’d forgotten how much I love luxury. “Hello Miss Friedlander…” “Can we help you Miss Friedlander?” I feel like a princess. The gardens of the hotel are lush and filled with bungalows, the exterior floor isn’t grass, gravel or concrete but carpet. Carpet? But then it so rarely rains here. Anyway, after an overpriced peppermint tea (however they did bring tacos with guacamole, sour cream and salsa – dinner!). All’s well.

Then. Bing. Another email from Mr X. The film might be falling apart so we’re trying to fix up meeting after meeting. It's getting later but we've got to sort this out tonight. So it's email after email after email. London's waking up. No sleep tonight.

THE NEXT MORNING

By 8am I’m at Runyon Canyon with Norton. Off for a walk. I’m due to meet E, D and C. They’re starting at the bottom, I’m at the top. 8.30am. No sign of them. Nothing. And I’ve got no signal. Turns out there was no parking and D and C did the walk in record time. I, meanwhile, was huffing and puffing up the hill. The muffin top must go is now my mantra. I’m exhausted. Sweaty. And due in Zuma by 9.30am to pick up a check. That’s it. Just a check. The reason? Mr X’s girlfriend is being given a gift. It's stunning.

So… I’m racing to Zuma to pick up a cheque to pay the woman making the gift because Mr X won't do a bank transfer... is this something not done in America? Thankfully it’s a stunning drive. I do Las Virgines and at least I get to look at the incredible scenery. There’s NOTHING to beat this. NOTHING. So I’m grateful for that. By 11.45am, I've been to the house, driving to the woman's house in Westwood, picked up the gift and now I'm on my way to West Hollywood to drop someting off at the casting office.

I park up and there’s MG, who works at the casting office. She’s with two men. I don’t know who they are. Though... one of them looks kind of familiar. As I get into the office, R’s in the meeting with one of the men. Fuck me if it isn’t Kenneth Brannagh. I love Sir Ken. Love him. How many times can I walk up and down outside the office to look at Sir Ken. I can’t. But I love him. Time to go before I totally humiliate myself. Off to the Java detour where I finally do some writing and then, being a glorious day, MK comes to meet me and we sit outside. God I love the sun here. It makes being here so much better. I’m due to meet SG this afternoon before he goes so I’m head back up to Nico’s to walk the other dog.

I’ve decided I hate the two words ‘Heads Up’. I use them. Everyone uses them… “Just to give you the heads up” so… ‘heads up… it’s going to be rough’ etc., I can’t stand it. But. I’ve taken to using them. Anyway, J calls. She’s got a heads up for me. So… it seems, according to J, that they’re moving to Pittsburgh in two weeks. So I’ll be losing my job in two weeks. What the fuck? And no one’s told me? I hate all this mixing up of stuff. All I can do is my job but it would be nice to know. I don’t know if I want to go to Pittsburgh or not. I really don’t. I want to stay here.

Anyway. That’s my head’s up. J, meanwhile, is getting so involved in everything. Fingers in pies. Not just in them but jammed in. Hard. She’s ramming her fingers in there with abandon. She wants a producer role on this film, and Mr X's brother’s fighting for her… I want to work on this film too but I'm exhausted. Part of me feels like sod the lot of you - especially now that I've heard that I might be off the project anyway... But maybe I will be. Just no one’s telling me and I’m being a pussy and can’t confront.

At 4.45pm I’m up at SG’s house. His assistant’s there and they’re putting the final touches on the extras for the Anvil DVD. They’re brilliant. I mean just brilliant. I love this film and truly believe it’s going to explode. I’m bursting with pride before heading home when the masseuse arrives and totter back down the hill.

By 8.30pm I'm out with the English crew on Robertson. I’m sitting round trying to concentrate when my blackberry’s buzzing. It’s 8.30pm. “Noam. Call me.” I ignore it. My phone rings (silently). I ignore it. It’s Mr X. “Noam. Call me at the house.” My phone buzzes. “Noam. Call.” I leave the meeting. I’d trying to hard to meditate. I eventually leave. I can’t lose patience here. He’s my boss. Remember - you do anything and everything he asks. Personal time is NOT an option.

The problem? Just some clarification. There are emails coming in from the studio and J. They're thick and fast. Marketing meetings, meetings about the films, meetings with people and it's just on going and on going. It's exhausting. Everyone wants a slice of Mr X. Everyone. I'm trying to protect him, he's still writing a draft of the film and there's a lot going on. A lot. I'm trying hard to keep it together and make sure everyone gets what they need and that he gets what he needs. And what he needs is no one to disturb him. I'm just getting a handle on this job. Basically... your life is over. End of.

I’m all over the shop. I’m tired. I join P, S and friends for dinner. I’m still reeling. I can’t concentrate. I get home. I’m tired tired tired. Time for bed.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

The one where there's a 3-D flying midget...

Am still in love with Nico's dogs. Here's Norton. But... enough animal worship. The main problem today is my back. My aching back.

My back is agony. AGONY… but I have a chiropractor’s appointment at 1.30pm. Thank god for lovely Mr R – I met him through a friend. He’s letting me have his insurance appointment as I’ve no cash. I’m in so much pain.

I failed to mention that just one day ago I met my chiropractor when she was training in the park (but had no money) and she cricked me on a park bench. I needed more however. I’m all out of shape. Bent out of shape. That’s what I am.

But… I have to pick up Mr A, Mr X's co-writer on his current, in Venice to get him to the casting. I head over to Venice but I’m an hour early so decide to walk down the beach. God it’s depressing. I know. I should feel that hippy vibe and celebrate the ocean and beach and all that bollocks. But… I don’t. I really don’t. It’s shit. There’s a vibe of ‘waster’ going on. People just getting smacked up. There are a lot of crazies and I find it all a bit intimidating. I like being around a buzz – the buzz of people getting on with their lives. This feels like somewhere where people have given up. Chill man. That kind of vibe. The kind of vibe when I was at university and people were just doing nothing. NOTHING. I kind of envy their easy does it attitude and devil may care mentality but it’s not me. Not me at all. I think that this is where I could end up. IN a sleeping back, covered with pigeons and on the beach if I don’t pull my finger out and soon. Jesus. What a thought. Time to pull that finger.

So… I pick up Mr A. He says he’ll read my scripts anytime. And we have a nice chat. I’m worried the project we're working on is going to fall apart. I want it to work out for Mr X you see. I am fond of him. But I'm also terrified of what will happen if it all goes tits up. I'll be out of a job, sure, but that's not really the worse thing. It's him - this is his life. It's all getting a bit real now.

Anyway, I drop off Mr A and head off to be rearranged. Fuck. It hurt. Then... it was back again to the casting. The actresses are coming thick and fast. People from films, Lost, House, you name it… While I’m chatting to the girls in the casting office, I see these actors drift past and head off to see Mr X. My job? Get the tea. So. This is my life. If it was a film, you’d have the swinging camera shot across glamorous LA and then… a girl carrying eight cups from Urth Café, plus a chicken soup tottering back to the casting office. See that? That’s me. I gave up an entire life and career to move to LA. And now? I’m a soup carrier. I’m 3X (yep, I'm too ashamed to admit my age). And I’m a tea lady. I really hope everyone back home is terribly proud of me. See. This is what I left a national newspaper for. Yay me. But... I have to remember... everything takes time. I just moved here and I've not even finished a draft of my new script. Perhaps I should actually do the action before whinging about the 'oh fuck what happened' scenario.

At the end of the day, Tam and I go off to see a film. My boss was going to send me out on an unpalitable errand for him apparently but, thankfully, someone else did it. A relief if I'm honest. This was one job that might have been a job too far. Yay. Result. And as I'm going out with one of Mr X's colleagues, I'm kind of off the hook for a bit. Double result.

So… off to Sherman Oaks to the Arclight to see the Uninvited. Not bad for a horror. We’re so geed up we decide to see my Bloody Valentine 3D. There are some smacked up people in the audience. They want to steal the 3D glasses. Jeeeeeesus. Best bit of the film? Tamara's scared of 'little people' (dwarves and midgets). I know this. We all know this. So the 3-D midget that gets murdered and flung out at the audience provided me with some hysterical laughter as Tam was freaking out. Brilliant. However. It's not worth the money after that. Just give me the millions spent on this and I'll pee all over it too. That might work better as a concept.

The film was made by a lot of the people who are working on the project I've been working on so it was nice to see the credits and go…. Oooooh. The film? Shit. Utter shit. And 3D glasses are annoying. By the time we leave it’s 2am. We can’t find Tam’s car. But… I know it’s there. Somewhere. After a lengthy search. Result. And… by 3am. I’m home. Ready for another day in LA LA.

The one where I wheeze up Franklin...

I saw a strange thing today. So... I took a picture. It will mean nothing to anyone else really. But it's a license plate. With my dead dad's initials. I probably should be taking pictures at xam as I go home but I was excited... I want that plate.

In the meantime... I'm so tired. So. So. Very tired.

My own fault. If I choose to get into a hot tub at 2am and stay there for two hours and then drive home then I'm going to be shattered. Especially when I've got Mr X stuff to do in the morning. I wade through his schedule. It's quiet today. In fact, it's been quiet for a while.

The pool heater is working. Check. The TV remote is working. Check. The new scripts have been delivered. Check. Basically, Mr X has gone into isolation as he's finishing the final final shooting draft of his script. He doesn't want to be disturbed so the only thing I have to deal with, really, is answering the phone to the myriad of people who want a slice of him. This. This I can cope with.

By now I know who's important and who's not. Head of agency/important agent - check. Wannabe actor who met him in Chicago and would like to be seen for his next film - check. I know the difference. I'm dealing with the casting crew and team Mr X. Would that it were always this easy. Would that he were always writing because this calm is good. I'm breathing again. Thinking: "I'm going to be okay". There are stresses, naturally, with studios and actors and other people but... right now. Mr X and I are okay. We're not seeing each other. As long as a) his house doesn't flood or b) the pool heater keeps working and c) other household issues tick along. I'm going to be okay.

I know this day will come.

In the meantime, I've arranged to meet some guy. He's a friend of a friend in town. The friend, a girl, is keen for me to meet this guy. Why? I'm suspicious of course. Is this some kind of date? Is he even aware of this? I know nothing about him but his name. But. I know what it's like being new in town, or visiting, an English accent is, for me anyway, a welcome sound.

I've been invited to a party at Mr P and Ms S (who had invited me for Christmas very kindly - yay them) so I suggest we meet there.

Anyway, I suddenly realise I don’t have time to go home and change. Shit. I race to the Beverly Centre. I need to buy something killer. I’ve got no make up either. I race through. RACE. Then… I find this lovely woman and go: “Help. You’ve got 15 minutes to dress me. I need something killer.” Bless her, she comes up trumps. I leave. Head to Mac. They do my make up.

By 7.45pm I’m at Judy’s place doing my hair. I get a call from Ms S… “Are you still coming? We’re about to sit down to dinner.” DINNER? I thought it was a party. You know. Party? Shit! Dinner. Yum. Lots of thoughts. Food good. But ... Er. I can’t bring my 'date' to a dinner. I send him a text. Apologising. Can I take him for lunch tomorrow? Maybe? Shit. He says no worries. I’ve never met him but he seems cool.

But now… it’s 8pm. I’ve arrived at Ms S and Mr P. All made up. All wearing a dress. Over my jeans. It’s a v. casual occasion - I thought it was a ... you get the point. Oh well. My friend Mr S’s there. Thank god. I love Mr S. Probably a bit too much. As in. I think he’s great. Funny and clever. Possibly one of the few people in LA whom I think is cleverer than me. The evening is spent flirting with him. I go back to his house after dinner carrying a pinkberry. He shows me a clip of his new film on the laptop and then… I leave. I mean. I don’t know what to do. This is what happens to me when I like someone. I do a runner. So. Bosh. I fled down the hill back to mine.

The next day I'm meeting the girls for breakfast at Mel’s Diner in the Valley. I feel like I’m chasing my tail. No sooner do I arrive and then I have to turn around. I’m meeting the guy I blew off last night at Pain Le Quotidien. He’s there with his little (very little) brother. Random.

Anyway… he asks if I’d like to do something after lunch. Sure. But he suggests HIKING? Jews don’t hike. Ever. Anyway… I have some trainers in the car and we dump off his brother back home and off we set off for Franklin. I’m wheezing up the hill. WHEEZING. I am just not fit. Not fit at all. We get on well. But, still, this whole wheezing, unfit thing just isn’t working out for me at all. Still, at least I got to see another canyon. I want to return. I'm not sure about this meeting new peole and then wheezing up a hill with them. It's not good for the ego. I've not been off cigarettes for long but... who am I trying to kid? I wasn't that fit anyway.

We head back to our respective homes along Mulholland. Beep beep.

Of course. I knew I was getting too comfortable.

It's Mr X.

Tomorrow is another day.

The one where I return to the racist bar

I’m on my way to Mr X’s. We have a 12pm meet. It’s 10.30. I’m early. I’m nearly there. Bosh. I'm whizzing through the back roads, down Las Virgines, my favourite drive in the world and...

I get a call.

Cancelled. Arse. I’m not happy. But what to do... That's the way it is.

I've got to leave Roof's place too. It's over. It was amazing while it lasted but... so now I've moved into Nico’s place. I’m living out of a suitcase but I love the location. I’m in the Hills. I feel like I’ve arrived. I love his dogs too. Despite the constant fear I feel about my job, I feel I can cope if these dogs are around.

Meanwhile... Tamara invited me over to her friend's house party. Amazing house. Amazing. Up on Lookout Mountain. I was more thrilled because a friend from home turned up. I can't tell you how exciting it was to see someone from home. Someone who's known me since I was eight. I got to show her my bullet wound - she's a doctor. She has no fear. And it was so nice to show her an amazing house. Incredible. The view. The interior. A proper ‘fuck me’ moment. Now that's a house.

I've also been getting crank calls. The details aren't really necessary to put up here but they're relentless and kind of creepy. I'm fairly sure I know where they're from. I try and ignore them. However, they're ongoing and I have to be at Mr X's tomorrow and I'm not getting much sleep as I'm thinking about these calls. I'm not sure quite what to do about them.

Some other friends are in town this week and, the following night, we go out to the bar with the racist statue...

The girls are back from Vegas, where they've been for the past few days. I'm jealous. I was too broke to join them on their jaunt.

We go bowling in the evening. I’ve only been bowling once before. I don’t like not being good at things but I give it my best shot. It's confirmed. I'm shit. Utter shit. I just don't really know what I'm doing and... if I'm not brilliant from the off... what's the point? And. I'm not brilliant. However I tried my best and I'm glad when it's suggested we head to the dive bar with the racist Aunt Jemima statue where Mr J and Ms I do some line dancing.

I'm exhausted as we head back to Mr J’s and… by 3am… it’s hot tub time. Lucky old Ms J. It’s him and six girls. I drive home through Mulholland at 4.30am. I’m shattered. I’m terrified the dogs are going to go mental as I creep in but their tails are wagging. It’s all good.

It's even better than good because Mr X hasn't really been around again. I'm always doing stuff for him... the schedule, the work... the works even but today I've been off the hook. Yay!


Wednesday, May 13, 2009

The one with the product that no longer exists...

I have to be in Zuma by 9am. Mr X needs something picked up. I’m on the road. All 88 miles of a round trip. I've included a picture I took while driving my hire car. Yep. That's the road going to Zuma. The PCH. I just love it. LOVE IT. The ocean all the way. I’m going to pick up something from Malibu. The trouble is this 'thing' doesn't exist anymore. The company's in liquidation... And that's what I find out as I arrive. My first thought? shit.

It’s very hard explaining to someone that certain things don’t exist anymore. So… I’m looking for a solution. That’s the key to being an assistant here. Sure. There’s a problem but find a solution. If they’re reasonable they’ll listen. If they’re not they’re a wanker so fuck ‘em. Mr X is reasonable. But… I still find the whole confrontation aspect scary.

Having to say ‘they don’t have what you want’ or ‘they can’t do what you want them to do’ is not easy. People don’t get it. But such is life. This is what happens here. Everyone’s on the greasy pole and they all have a sense of entitlement. Even me. But… I’m the bottom of the food chain. And that’s so hard to deal with. Still… I have a bit of power.

Mr X also wants a DS Lite for his daughter for Xmas. In a special pink colour. I’ve checked on line. They don’t exist. They were limited edition last year. Now what? I’ve googled. I’ve ebayed. I’ve phoned Japan. Stress. Will she be happy with another colour? I do hope so.

While driving from Malibu to Zuma I'm trying to sort out his phone. I've been on the phone for 40 cocking minutes. And… the upshot. I’m not authorised on his account. I ring up again and pretend to be Mr X. I put on an US accent. I try to be a man. It’s just humiliating. I pretend I'm a man with a cold - I'm shocking. The US accent, the man accent... it's gone horribly wrong for me.

Mr X's writing partner, Mr A, hears me walking around the house pretending to be Mr X. He’s ashamed on my behalf. He’s never heard anything so pathetic in all his years. And… obviously… they still won’t talk to me.

I track Mr X down in the bathroom to get the authorisation. I hate the beaurocracy here. I have the keys to his life. I know everything about him from SS number to passwords (which I’ve set up) but I can’t get phone information. A joke. A fucking joke. By 10.30am this is still going on and I’m ready to stab someone. Anyway… eventually I head back to West Hollywood. Furious. FURIOUS. But I can’t lose it because I’m doing a job for him and he needs his phone working. In the end it’s all about money and payments. There wasn’t even a fault on the line. Another day in Hollywood land. Another person's cock up rather than mine but... this isn't important right now.

Back on the homestead...

Someone’s coming over to Roof’s place to give it the onceover. Is it clean enough? His lease is up on December 31st. I’ve tried to keep it clean. I’ve fallen in love with the place. It feels like home. I feel sorry for his neighbour though. Andrea. When I told him Roof had gone he looked at me as if I’d put a knife through his heart. He wanted Roof’s email, which I refused to give, I said he could give me his. He went off in a huff and I never heard from him again.

Later that day, I head to the police station. I’ve filled in my ‘victims assistance claim’ and I want some answers. No one’s terribly helpful. I’m at the station asking for help. No one really wants to know. Don’t get shot in the Wilshire District. That’s my tip. I wait about half an hour and then, finally, someone comes out. They’re a bit sympathetic. Just a bit. I want to cry but I remember I’ve got to go to Roof’s place to wait for his running machine to turn up. It turns up but they won’t take it downstairs. It’s 480 pounds and they can’t deal with it. I tried cleavage. Nothing. I tried a cash bribe. Nothing. They just left. Shit. I promised Roof I’d take care of it but they just wouldn’t play ball. I feel awful. Damn. Now what? Maybe I am a crap assistant after all?

The one where I go to Camp Freddy

No one's really been in touch since the shooting. I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself and miss home a bit today. I don't really know that many people so I feel a bit isolated. Which is fairly normal.

I'm due at Mr X's at 9am. Zuma. I have to send a bunch of actors some emails as Mr X. I have to get their personal emails. So I've been calling and emailing agents in London and LA to get their details. It isn't easy. They don't want to give them out. But I try and try. I eventually get about 90% of the actor's details. And I send out the emails. Some of them reply immediately. I try not to read their responses but... you know. I'm human. Everyone's being so lovely. Even though they didn't get the lead role. I want to be friends with them all but they don't even know I exist.

A drive back to LA and...

That’s it with my 'friend'. I’m driving back from Bunnie Lane in Zuma and I get the call. He’s angry. Apparently he’s being tough with me because ‘if he’d been tougher with Heath, he’d still be alive.” Anyway. He’s so angry. He asked me to review a friend’s book in the Telegraph for him. When I said I couldn’t he went crazy. I’m so upset. He’s flipped. Flipped. I get the email. The phone call. And then the threats. That’s it. Three years of friendship down the pan because he’s angry. The comments need not be repeated. So... I’m really hurt. I call Jennifer. While doing that I get a vile message on my answer phone. I’m shaking by the end. I call him back. I want to sort this out. But… nothing. I’m dead to him. An hour later I’m dropped on facebook. That’s social death. You know it’s over when you’re dropped on facebook. I cry a bit. I check facebook again. I've now been blocked. Now that's real anger.

Quite a week really - shot in the back one day, stabbed in the back the other. He was one of the most brilliant men I'd ever met, wonderful brain, sharp intellect but...

This has not been a good time. My job is a disaster and now my friendships are turning to shit. Ah well. What's doesn't kill you etc., etc.,

On the plus side, I'm going to the Camp Freddy show with my friend Ms J. Her husband's in the band. What fun! I mean! fun! They get rockers on stage with them to jam and it was just great. The guy from Linkin Park doing Paradise City. Chester? That's what I think his name was. Chester maybe? Yep. And on it went. I mean... I know I'm not into music and all these people are wasted on me but it was amazing!

There were some incredible artists up there - Slash among them. He was just incredible. Here's a snippit from an online article:

"I have seen the future of rock & roll, and its name is Camp Freddy. Compared to the past of rock & roll, the future of rock & roll is a little older, a bit more intimate, but still wildly and undeniably cool. Camp Freddy describe themselves as "not a band" but "also way more than a jam session." More descriptively they are called an "Occasional Happening" and "a freak of Hollywood nature." The happening freaks in question are -- at their core - guitarist Dave Navarro (Jane's Addiction), drummer Matt Sorum (The Cult, Guns 'N Roses/Velvet Revolver), Billy Morrison (The Cult), Chris Chaney (session great and tours with Alanis Morrisette and Jane's Addiction) with charismatic and charming frontman Donovan Leitch, son of another fine singer you should know who went simply by that first name.

"Based on Wednesday's show, Camp Freddy is an extremely welcoming place -- a packed crowd at the Roxy saw a constant stream of guests and fellow travelers take the stage including Slash, Steve Jones, Mark McGrath and Chester Bennington of Linkin Park, among others, running through an intoxicating blend of classic rock and punk standards. A singer named Franky Perez sang the hell out of "Highway To Hell," Chester Bennington made "Mountains" by Jane's Addiction even more majestic and McGrath did a very credible "EMI" with Steve Jones sitting in. And Slash played "Paradise City" and seemed happy to be with a band that actually appeared to like one another. "*** END OF ARTICLE EXTRACT


I got to go backstage... It turns out I'm a celebrity in my own right. I'm the British girl that got shot! The lead singer, Donovan... turns out that Ruby, who drove me to the hospital, was on her way to meet Donovan that day. It's brilliant. Truly brilliant. I didn't even think about Mr X ONCE. Not ONCE.

However... Mr X's not happy. Not happy at all. He gave me a hard time... My work, apparently, has dropped off this week. I think for obvious reasons - things haven't been great. No. But then I was shot at the start of the week so I've been a bit slow to get things together. Mr X's not too sympathetic. He wants his pool fixed. The guy I spoke to when I was getting gassed hasn't fixed it yet. Despite me phoning him. Repeatedly. I'm really upset. I don't think I'm best suited to this. I want another job. It's only been six weeks and I'm so unhappy. I'm just trying to get on with it but there are other jobs.

In the meantime I'm loving my own three-bedroomed place. Roof pops by occasionally but it's basically mine.

I still haven't told my mother about being shot. Ulp. She's going to find out at some stage... my credit card bills are going back to London so she'll see 'Cedars Sinai' on my bill. She's not stupid. She'll work it out. Piss.