1) People in LA have much larger lips then anywhere else in the world: I don't know which consortium of plastic surgeons were responsible for perpetuating the myth that somehow bigger lips equate to "foxy time sexiness", but I'd sure like to beat them about the head with a surgically enhanced wang. And while I was beating them so little globs of Botox mixed seamlessly with the large pools of blood that flowed freely from all of their orifices, I'd ask:
"Why, prey tell, did you make Meg Ryan so nasty looking? I mean, she was hot, no HAUT, before, but now?
Ol' Fish Lip McRyan looks like the last stripper at the club circa 4am. The kind that offers coupons because of the plainly obvious ravages years of unchecked venereal disease and drug abuse have taken on her once merely unattractive body.
2) A Dream Deferred Is A Dream Denied, But If You're Living In LA, It's Reasonable To Deny That Dream If You're 40 And Still Trying To Network And Write Spec Scripts For "The Suite Life Of Zack and Cody":
LA is the land of the broken; long haired 55 year olds producing sequels to horror movies you never heard about in the first place, handing out business cards to 20-somethings hungry for fame while writing scripts about "A Cop On The Edge" or "A CIA Agent Who Must Go Undercover With A Nerdy High School Student", and who, undoubtedly, will be handing out their business cards to the next generation of shitty writers when they're 55. It's the cycle of life; the snake eating its' tail. Vomit.
3) Literally Nobody Walks in LA:
Sure, that might be a catchy New Wave song by three hit wonder MISSING PERSONS, but it's also a poignant aphorism. I think I am the only person who dares walk more then the distance from the restaurant to the valet here. Valet means "personal man-servant" and I believe that pretty much sums up Angelenos attitude towards a lot of things. People here need everything done for them to such an extent that they will pay a "man-servant" 5 dollars to park their car, rather then waste one to two minutes of their precious time finding parking around the corner.
I have literally seen cars go around and around looking for a parking space right in front of a restaurant instead of simply parking around the corner. Perhaps people frightened of walking. Maybe mothers tell their children bedtime stories of the evil "Walk Monster" who eats your soul and rapes your first born if you dare "park around the corner, like a sodomite!"
Now, I admit, after two years of living here, I have adopted some of the lazier habits of the native Angeleno (lardass erectus). I drive places I could easily walk to, I eat hamburgers (I have never seen so many burger joints!), and dip my french fries in Mayo. My legs have become a wobbly gelatinous mess and I can barely make it more then a mile without running out of breath. Occasionally, I sweat when I eat and more often then not I cry while I breathe.
But I still like to go for a nice hour long walk daily; if the air wasn't so polluted, it would be a refreshing jaunt down barren, lifeless streets. I stare at the people in their cars who stare back, their faces saying "what is wrong with that guy? Is he homeless? Mentally deranged? Did his car break down?" A cop pulled me over and made me wear a scarlet W on my chest. W FOR WALKER! Sigh. What's a Northeasterner to do?
4) Frienemies! Or, How to Make Friends and Influence Hollywood!
Everyone is "frienemies" in this town. You're friends with someone (friends meaning a "coffee meeting" twice a year), provided they can get you somewhere in the film industry. The second that person is successful, you're their BEST FRIEND, because after all; you've been friends for so long that you've met for coffee at least twice. The second you realize that person ISN'T successful, emails don't get answered, calls don't get returned, and scripts are dismissed without being read.
Take, for example, a former teacher of mine. I frequently discussed my career path with him, but after a year or so past graduation (and a year or so of me doing PA work), he didn't return my phone calls, answer my emails or talk about me in polite company.
Now, at some point, my film got accepted into the very prestigious Tribeca Film Festival, and figured that I would give him a ring and let him know. I knew he didn't want to talk to me (I had called him two weeks prior and never heard back) and I didn't want to be in an uncomfortable conversation, so I called him on a Saturday afternoon on his office phone, figuring he wouldn't pick up. I figured wrong.
He picked up after two rings.
Teacher: Hello?
Matt: Hey, it's Matt Manson.
Teacher (extremely disappointed): Oh, hi Matt. What do you want?
Matt: I just wanted to let you know that my film got accepted into the Tribeca Film Festival.
Teacher: What?
Matt: My film got into Tribeca!
Teacher: Oh My GOD! Matt's that's terrific news! Did you get my e-mail?!? I didn't have your number and that's why haven't called you! But I e-mailed! Did you get it?
Matt: No.
Teacher: That's strange, because I sent it! I always knew your movie would be a success!!!
There were a few laughable things about that exchange:
1) He was obviously lying, knew I knew he was lying, but just assumed that he could get away with it, because he was saying something nice.
2) Specifically, he lied about sending an email and was lying about knowing my movie "would be a success". He had told me after a screening a few months before that, "if you worked really hard on reediting your film, you might end up with an OK short".
But, there you go. LA! People come out of the woodworks the second they sniff the rancid, putrid stank of success.
After I won an award at Tribeca and was signing a contract with my then-manager, I had a friend I hadn't spoken to in 5 years call me up and ask to grab a drink at a bar. I told him to meet me at 7pm.
He showed up at 8:45pm and may have been wearing his clothes from the night before. This is literally how the conversation went:
Him: Yo! Sorry I was so late, I've been on a coke bender all day. I haven't slept in a week.
Me: Uhm, that's OK. How are you doing?
Him: Yeah, I'm fine. So, can you get me a job or what?
Needless to say, that guy ended up directing a feature film before me. I would hasten to say that has more to do with the "friendship building" power of cocaine in Hollywood than anything else.
So I finish my free water (the concept of PAYING for water is still pretty ridiculous) and throw the cup away. I pass a group of mustachioed hipsters "taking a meeting" in a Starbucks, discussing film and their upcoming projects; one had a script called "Miss Matched" about someone with the last named Matched.
I vomited in my mouth a little, took a deep sigh and headed back to my apartment, which I pretended was in New York City.
LA is the land of the broken; long haired 55 year olds producing sequels to horror movies you never heard about in the first place, handing out business cards to 20-somethings hungry for fame while writing scripts about "A Cop On The Edge" or "A CIA Agent Who Must Go Undercover With A Nerdy High School Student", and who, undoubtedly, will be handing out their business cards to the next generation of shitty writers when they're 55. It's the cycle of life; the snake eating its' tail. Vomit.
3) Literally Nobody Walks in LA:
Sure, that might be a catchy New Wave song by three hit wonder MISSING PERSONS, but it's also a poignant aphorism. I think I am the only person who dares walk more then the distance from the restaurant to the valet here. Valet means "personal man-servant" and I believe that pretty much sums up Angelenos attitude towards a lot of things. People here need everything done for them to such an extent that they will pay a "man-servant" 5 dollars to park their car, rather then waste one to two minutes of their precious time finding parking around the corner.
I have literally seen cars go around and around looking for a parking space right in front of a restaurant instead of simply parking around the corner. Perhaps people frightened of walking. Maybe mothers tell their children bedtime stories of the evil "Walk Monster" who eats your soul and rapes your first born if you dare "park around the corner, like a sodomite!"
Now, I admit, after two years of living here, I have adopted some of the lazier habits of the native Angeleno (lardass erectus). I drive places I could easily walk to, I eat hamburgers (I have never seen so many burger joints!), and dip my french fries in Mayo. My legs have become a wobbly gelatinous mess and I can barely make it more then a mile without running out of breath. Occasionally, I sweat when I eat and more often then not I cry while I breathe.
But I still like to go for a nice hour long walk daily; if the air wasn't so polluted, it would be a refreshing jaunt down barren, lifeless streets. I stare at the people in their cars who stare back, their faces saying "what is wrong with that guy? Is he homeless? Mentally deranged? Did his car break down?" A cop pulled me over and made me wear a scarlet W on my chest. W FOR WALKER! Sigh. What's a Northeasterner to do?
4) Frienemies! Or, How to Make Friends and Influence Hollywood!
Everyone is "frienemies" in this town. You're friends with someone (friends meaning a "coffee meeting" twice a year), provided they can get you somewhere in the film industry. The second that person is successful, you're their BEST FRIEND, because after all; you've been friends for so long that you've met for coffee at least twice. The second you realize that person ISN'T successful, emails don't get answered, calls don't get returned, and scripts are dismissed without being read.
Take, for example, a former teacher of mine. I frequently discussed my career path with him, but after a year or so past graduation (and a year or so of me doing PA work), he didn't return my phone calls, answer my emails or talk about me in polite company.
Now, at some point, my film got accepted into the very prestigious Tribeca Film Festival, and figured that I would give him a ring and let him know. I knew he didn't want to talk to me (I had called him two weeks prior and never heard back) and I didn't want to be in an uncomfortable conversation, so I called him on a Saturday afternoon on his office phone, figuring he wouldn't pick up. I figured wrong.
He picked up after two rings.
Teacher: Hello?
Matt: Hey, it's Matt Manson.
Teacher (extremely disappointed): Oh, hi Matt. What do you want?
Matt: I just wanted to let you know that my film got accepted into the Tribeca Film Festival.
Teacher: What?
Matt: My film got into Tribeca!
Teacher: Oh My GOD! Matt's that's terrific news! Did you get my e-mail?!? I didn't have your number and that's why haven't called you! But I e-mailed! Did you get it?
Matt: No.
Teacher: That's strange, because I sent it! I always knew your movie would be a success!!!
There were a few laughable things about that exchange:
1) He was obviously lying, knew I knew he was lying, but just assumed that he could get away with it, because he was saying something nice.
2) Specifically, he lied about sending an email and was lying about knowing my movie "would be a success". He had told me after a screening a few months before that, "if you worked really hard on reediting your film, you might end up with an OK short".
But, there you go. LA! People come out of the woodworks the second they sniff the rancid, putrid stank of success.
After I won an award at Tribeca and was signing a contract with my then-manager, I had a friend I hadn't spoken to in 5 years call me up and ask to grab a drink at a bar. I told him to meet me at 7pm.
He showed up at 8:45pm and may have been wearing his clothes from the night before. This is literally how the conversation went:
Him: Yo! Sorry I was so late, I've been on a coke bender all day. I haven't slept in a week.
Me: Uhm, that's OK. How are you doing?
Him: Yeah, I'm fine. So, can you get me a job or what?
Needless to say, that guy ended up directing a feature film before me. I would hasten to say that has more to do with the "friendship building" power of cocaine in Hollywood than anything else.
So I finish my free water (the concept of PAYING for water is still pretty ridiculous) and throw the cup away. I pass a group of mustachioed hipsters "taking a meeting" in a Starbucks, discussing film and their upcoming projects; one had a script called "Miss Matched" about someone with the last named Matched.
I vomited in my mouth a little, took a deep sigh and headed back to my apartment, which I pretended was in New York City.
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