Making Mov(ie)s in LA

In college I wrote a short story, which was a huge success in my 14 person creative writing class. A few years later and now my director brother, Eli, has decided to make it into a short film while he is in film school. We are teaming up as a dynamic brother/sister duo to tackle this project and this weekend we held auditions.

Despite this being a student film, I wanted to make everything as professional as I could. We held the auditions at Eli’s school, The Art Institute, and were given a room used by the culinary department for the two-day casting. This made my first order of professionalism to be taking down the posters of how to slice meat. It would have been uncomfortable for the actors to stand in front of a backdrop of sliced animal products, as if they themselves are a piece of meat. Which is exactly what they were: a vulnerable carcass waiting for us to tear them and their acting apart. Just kidding, that didn’t happen. My highly overused declaration of “that was awesome!” made sure everyone’s confidence got a little boost.

The next order of professionalism was to take notes during the auditions. This was abandoned upon reviewing my notes after three auditions and seeing, “purple shirt”, “she’s from Seattle and that’s ALWAYS cool”, and a doodle of a brick wall that took up the majority of the top right corner of the paper, as the only things I had written down. I decided to go a different route, which became staring at the actors internally critiquing every line of the script, the very words I had written, to the point that I asked myself why I ever thought I could write a memo let alone a script.

Professionalism all together was forgotten by the end of the day when I threw up the “303” hand sign, (a gang sign of confused, rich, white kids in Colorado) to our last actress as she entered the room. I knew she was from Colorado but wasn’t sure if she was going to be familiar with the sign. What can I tell ya, this business is a gamble.

Auditions were fun. It was interesting being the one that people were trying to get a “job” from instead of the other way around. I was able to turn my back on my usual game of masking my resentment for not having a job by enthusiastically interacting with complete strangers.

This is the first time Eli and I have worked on a movie together in years. We’ve come a long way since the candid moments caught on tape of me publicly undermining his artistic vision or blatantly showing my unhappiness with the shoot through unpredictable facial expressions while filming. Unfortunately he’s a much bigger deal now so I can’t undermine him at all times. Although I probably still will. I will post a link to this film when it’s all finished and you can all laugh, cry or forgo the link completely and continue to follow me through written word alone. How primal of you.

Celebrity Treatment

When you move to a new city you have to start everything from scratch. That means new grocery stores (what is this Vons nonsense and where is Safeway?), new easily accessible restaurants (hello Pollo Loco, goodbye Noodles and Company) and new routes to find all of these things.

I dislike having to circle around a grocery store several times before I establish the layout. Who doesn’t put bread by the deli?? I dislike hearing my body tell me it only wants Noodles and Company’s macaroni and cheese but having to settle for the Loco Value Menu. And getting to these places is a separate story (perhaps even blog post) entirely. I have done U-turns, casually turned around in driveways and even parked my car to pursue finding my destination on foot, all to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. This almost always results in me being either 15 minutes late, 25 minutes early or profusely sweating by the time I arrive.

But one of the biggest challenges I face here in LA is finding a new hair salon. Now, I have quite possibly the easiest hair to cut. It dries in roughly 4 minutes, saving my stylist from dealing with the peskiness of thick haired clients and there is no curl to tame. Working with my hair is a lot like cutting perfectly cooked spaghetti.

But no matter how clear the directions to cutting my hair are; there is still anxiety that arises with a new salon. I found a salon close to my place through google maps (how else does one find a salon in a new city?) and the fear that I experienced for the well being and future of my hair took years off my life. The stylist told me he was going to give me the “Beverly Hills Cut” and because I am embracing all that comes with this city, I agreed. But when he pulled all of my hair forward into a ponytail at my forehead like a unicorn, I began to wonder if the “Beverly Hills Cut” was a hazing tactic to all new LA residents, an initiation of sorts.

As I watched him cut at my hair, I gripped the armrests of the chair and reminded myself that he is a professional. I could tell by his laminated certificate jammed into the corner of the mirror. When he commented on how quiet I was being, I tried to explain, but I was too paralyzed with fear to muster anything more than a smile. He took that as a blessing to continue and I sat for several more minutes, unsure of what my hair would look like when this ponytail in front of my face came down.

Luckily for me, and all of you, this story has a happy ending. My hair looked great. I don’t think it looked “Beverly Hills” great, it looked a lot like “Boulder” great, but I was just pleased to have hair at all. I strutted my stuff out of the salon knowing that when people asked me what kind of cut my hair was, I could confidently say, “Beverly Hills”. Unfortunately that's not a thing. If anyone had asked, in the first 22 years of my life, "what kind of cut is that?" I would have answered, "hair" and walked away. But now that I have an answer, I can't wait to be asked! Ah, California, you are so different.

You Know Who You Look Like...

I like to pride myself on my ability to find similarities between my friends and celebrities. This is really tricky because it is not always flattering to tell someone they look like Stephanie Pratt (a rehab graduate and former reality TV star). I often find myself assuring her that I meant post-plastic surgery, or pre-plastic surgery depending on the celebrity and/or friend…

Some people just don’t understand that the comparison means that you look like that celebrity; you don’t act like that celebrity. Just because I say you look like Angelina Jolie does not mean you’re a homewrecker who kisses her brother at the Oscars, take that generous compliment and go with it. Just because I say you look like Carrot Top it does not mean you make bad jokes, it just means you have red hair.

Just as I was getting sick of the negative backlash that came with my celebrity comparisons, I was on the receiving end of such a comparison and had an eye opening experience. I was compared to this "Freaks and Geeks" star:



Millie Kentner. A religious Mathlete, famous for her rendition of “Jesus is Just Alright With Me”. I was shocked by this comparison. I was nothing like Millie in high school, I was far too busy being a heathen and becoming famous for my rendition, “Cheap Vodka is Just Alright With Me” to be a Mathlete or perfect a flawless center part.

But as I continued to watch the show I could not help but see the comparison clearly. I did look like Millie (when I was 11). And I realized: celebrity comparisons are hilarious. As long as the resemblance is there in the slightest and you aren’t being compared to a member of the opposite sex (unless it’s Justin Beiber, because let’s be honest that comparison really works both ways) no one should be offended by a doppleganger.

I will not deny myself, or others, of my talents! Thank you family member, who was around during my awkward Millie phase, for pointing out this resemblance. For without you I might not have realized how important celebrity comparisons are to comedy.

It's A Dangerous Job But Somebody's Gotta Do It

Trying to get started in the entertainment industry is stressful. Because this industry is all about connections I’m terrified to mess up and ruin a contact. I have a deep-rooted fear that one screw up and I’m done with Hollywood. Or rather, Hollywood is done with me. So because I am terrified to make one mistake, I begin second guessing everything I come across. I recently went to pick up lunch for my boss and managed to add levels of stress to the build-your-own salad bar that should be reserved for bomb detonations.

He asked for “mixed greens” and “romaine” and I confidently recognized romaine lettuce and put it in the box. But when I came across lettuce labeled “spring mix” but no “mixed greens” label in sight, I panicked. I asked myself if “spring mix” and “mixed greens” were the same. Of course they are. I reached towards the tongs, but pulled back. Are they? I decided to make the rest of the salad and let the lettuce situation simmer in my mind for a few minutes. I soon came across the same issue with blue cheese and then again with hearts of palm. On any other day, in any other environment, I would be able to identify blue cheese and hearts of palm without a problem. But all of a sudden with the pressure and stress of my future bearing down on me, my mind decides to kick my ass.

I took a few deep breaths and went with my gut feeling. I put the blue cheese, hearts of palm and spring mix on top of the 1 ladle of ranch dressing specified by my boss. I closed the salad self-assuredly to go back to the office and stand in front of my boss in tortured silence to see if the salad is approved. When he didn’t see the salad dressing hidden under the ingredients that ruined my life for 45 minutes, I assured him it was there. But strained my memory to make sure I had, indeed, put the dressing on and wasn’t hallucinating during my stress-induced panic at the grocery store.

This does not just happen with salads, but since moving to Los Angeles, I do tend to over-think to the extreme during basic human activities. Such as: getting gas, putting a stamp on an envelope, and opening a gate. The most ridiculous part about my internal freak-outs is that there has never been a repercussion or sign of a repercussion that would lead me to act this way. My boss has been nothing but nice to me yet I find myself taking each task as if it could end the world. But on the other hand, maybe it is because I treat every task as if it could end the world that my boss has never yelled at me. Or maybe he has yelled at me and I have blocked it out as another way of dealing with my stress-induced panic. I guess we’ll never know……

Playing The Mature Part

When I moved into my one bedroom apartment in August there were several signs that my apartment complex housed a lot of college students; its close proximity to a city college, the model rooms furnished with two twin beds (despite being a complex of all one bedroom apartments), and the overwhelming number of popular skateboarding brand bumper stickers. It became all too clear that I was living in a dorm. At first I was excited about reliving my freshman year, I look back fondly on the unhealthy and borderline disgusting life I had in the dorms, but when my living situation started teetering towards fraternity life I was less than pleased.

One day I went to my car in the parking lot and found a seagull standing atop my car eating something. I walked towards my car hoping to scare it off to eat somewhere else and after a struggle and failure to lift its meal with it, the seagull flew away. As I came closer to my car, I found its food to be a half human eaten/half seagull eaten piece of fried chicken. Considering the seagull could not lift the chicken away with him in flight I came to the conclusion that some trickster had put the fried chicken on top of my car. I drove away with the fried chicken still on the roof hoping it would fall off with a quick turn, completely oblivious to the possibility of it streaking down my front windshield with one sudden stop. Thankfully this did not happen, but the last thing I wanted was Double Down grease all over my car so I took my ice scraper (useful in all climates) to push it off. In days following the fried chicken incident, I have seen a large rock on top of a Mini Cooper and three pizza boxes stacked on top of a Ford Explorer. I’m either dealing with fraternity-like pranks or a very strong and stealth seagull.

Doing laundry in the dorms freshman year was one of the worst possible experiences. If you were one minute late to change your load you would find some perv handling your delicates by throwing them wherever they pleased and leaving it to collect the mildew smell of wet laundry. Because I had forgotten about this frustration and because I thought I lived in an apartment complex not a dorm, I was surprised when someone stole some of my clothes out of the laundry room a few weeks ago. It is hard to pinpoint potential suspects because there was no pattern to their crime. They stole a pair of basketball shorts, a tank top, one sock and a Colorado Football shirt with my sorority’s letters on it (okay, the sock could have been a mistake on my part). I don’t understand why someone would want my sorority football shirt, I’m fairly certain I’m the only Colorado Alpha Phi in my apartment complex. And if I’m not I would smack that sister right in the mouth for stealing my t-shirt. Because that’s what sisters do.

Then there is the blaring music from my neighbors two doors down. I WOULD be able to hear each lyric clearly if it wasn’t for that neighbor’s broken Spanish accent trying to sing along. The only thing worse than having to hear someone else’s music is hearing them botch the lyrics to American classics. “American Pie” didn’t originally have a mariachi feel to it, did it?

With all of these adjustments of living in an apartment complex (I’ve only lived in houses previously), I can’t help but feel like an RA in this community. The boys living above me should not be playing Guitar Hero at 2am, some of us have to get up early for work. And by work I do mean free labor. And the girls living next to me should switch their reversible doormat from “partying” to “studying” a little more often—I’m becoming concerned about their grades.

There Is A Season-Turn, Turn, Turn

Having lived in Colorado my whole life, I have become very attached to seasons. And while Colorado is a little Schizophrenic, often times giving you warmer temperatures in February than May (hello snowfall night before my graduation), there is always a change in mood that I welcome with open arms. Like when the leaves start to turn colors and fall arrives I find myself wanting to speak in Old English because it reminds me of witches. While my friends use these pre-winter months to think of the best Halloween costume I work to suppress my desire to insert “twill” and “twas” into daily conversation. Some may argue that reverting to Old English is weird but I beg to differ. I call it authentic. There is no better way to say “time to put on a scarf for this crisp fall air” than “twill be chilly today”.
Or when the crispness of fall transitions into the next season of winter, one thing comes to mind: Christmas. Some might believe that I am, as a half-Jew, confused around this holiday season. But with any uncertainty that arises I allow my mood to naturally change with the season. Therefore I drop my Old English accent and give into my next seasonal habit: changing my facebook profile picture to that of me in a Santa dress made out of a Christmas tree skirt (with a theme party looming in the near future my freshman year at CU, I made a brave, crafty and affordable outfit). This change reminds me to be thankful. Especially for leggings because the long slit in the back of that Christmas tree skirt would not have left a lot to the imagination had I forgone them.
And with the warm temperatures of spring comes the inexplicable and uncontrollable need to find any reason to drink outside. I can’t explain these moods that come with the changing seasons, but they do and I’m not one to argue with the science of my body.
But since moving to California the lack of a distinct change in weather or season has completely thrown me for a loop. I don’t know when to spark up my Old English accent and I’m concerned Christmas will pass before I feel the innate need to change my facebook profile picture. And the consistent, warm temperatures make the outdoors inviting at all times, a solid concern for someone with a limited friend circle and therefore limited drinking buddies. But, alas, I have decided to take California as my own. And that means taking its flaws and confusions as well. Let’s just hope my natural instincts don’t become numb and dormant throughout this experience.

Disaster at 1 O'Clock

The other day I was on my lunch break and went to my regular lunch spot. My car. I’ve found a nice little place where I can park and look out at the ocean and eat a packed lunch (in this economy you have to tighten the belt where you can. Especially when you’re unemployed). Before you pass judgment on my eating in my car, remember that I work alone in a home office and don’t have anyone to grab food with. With that said, my lunch spot is usually a very peaceful place to escape the office, listen to my rap music that I’m far too nervous to play at work for fear that my boss’ children will hear, and enjoy a break. But today disaster struck.

An older man, I’d say 65, stood outside of my car and stared at me. He wasn’t directly outside of my window but close enough to make me sufficiently uncomfortable. I could feel him staring at me. I tried to busy myself with my iPod and air conditioning buttons, but that did not help.I think we all know the only appropriate time for one person to stare at another for a long period of time. And that is when a grown up stares at an infant (ages newborn-three years).

We are all guilty of watching a child struggle to scoot across the floor or open their sippy cup, smiling as they discover the world. And when said child turns and notices you staring at them, it is normal for you to smile, in wide-eyed shock, (like you haven’t been spying on them for hours) and hold your arms out, inviting them to waddle into your embrace. It’s almost rude to NOT stare at a child because then you seem cold hearted. Has anyone wondered if our staring at babies makes them uncomfortable? When they get to the age that their parents tell them that staring is impolite, do they wonder why their mother did pass this information along to complete strangers for the first three years of their life?

Yes, for some reason it is socially acceptable—neigh, expected—to stare at infants. But I’ll tell you what is not socially acceptable: the 65-year-old man staring at me while I eat lunch. It is also not socially acceptable to then, upon us locking eyes, proceeding to react with the wide-eyed, shocked grin that is reserved solely for babies. I responded to this by picking up my phone and fake calling my dad, which turned into real calling my dad because I’m bad at acting. Then I pulled away casually and drove several blocks forward to finish my Clif Bar. I suppose I should have been flattered, everyone aims to have the smooth, flawless skin of a child, and he just asserted the fact that I do have such skin. But as unsettling as the entire situation was the worst part is I need to find a new place to eat lunch.