In the film 'Swingers' (which, incidentally, every one of Scott’s aspiring actor/writer/director friends seem to worship as the pinnacle of filmmaking prowess), Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau are shown, dressed in smart suits, drinking cocktails and picking up women at hip Hollywood nightspot, the Dresden. I like the Dresden. It’s a beautiful, unpretentious, bar with friendly doormen and delicious drinks. It’s small and almost neighbourhoody, a rare find in big, bad, anonymous Hollywood. Plus I can walk there from my house, which is always a bonus.
A few weeks ago, Scott and his good friend Richard walked down to the Dresden for a few quiet drinks. After taking only a few sips, the boys were disturbed by two men making a BIG SHOW of entering the unpretentious and non-showy bar. Dressed in smart black suits and sauntering Bar-ward were none other than Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau. They proceeded to take their drinks back to the exact same table that they had sat at in ‘Swingers’, and to have a nice drunken evening.
The questions is, is this action totally cool, or the saddest thing in the world, a symbol of all that is wrong with the state of celebrity in the modern world?
On the side of cool is the fact that it’s nice that these two men, although now proper Hollywood stars, are still hanging out at the same bar they (presumably – this is based on the assumption that they wrote Swingers based on real-life experiences) patronized when they are nobodies. How cool that they’re not letting fame change them.
On the side of depressing, there’s the fact that the actions of the two men could be seen as shouting:‘Hi everyone. We’re moviestars. Look at us. Did you see the film Swingers? Just in case you don’t remember it, we’re going to spend our Saturday night reenacting one of our favourite scenes. Then everyone will look at us! We’ll get to spend a whole evening pretending that our real lives are as cool and funny as those of the guys we played in a movie”.
One final anecdote before you make your decision. A week after the above events, my friend Daphne bumped into none other than Vince Vaughn at a gig that her friend’s band were headlining. Vince has no connection to this band, he’d just turned up to see the show. Daphne is watching the show from backstage. Halfway through the set, Vince wanders backstage, and demands that the owner/manager of the venue get the band to play a cover of some specific song, so that he, Vince Vaughn (a moviestar, in case the owner/manager hadn’t realised) can get on stage and sing with them.
The band are in no way excited about this plan. Ok, so having a moviestar sing with them might get them some publicity, but this is there first gig at a large venue, and they want people to remember their songs, not the fact that some movie star sang with them. There’s also the fact that none of them know if VV can actually, you know, sing well. Plus, they’re more than a little miffed about the fact that someone they’ve never met is ordering them around just because he’s famous.
Fame wins out, and the moviestar sings. After the show, VV comes up to Miss Daphne, a big smile on his face. ‘Next time you’re in a movie’, she says, ‘I’m going to come on set and demand that I stand in front of the camera and read a page of your lines. Because that’s what you’ve just done to the band’.
I love Daphne. There may be a lack of smart, opinionated girls in this town, but the few there are, they’re among the best in the world.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
First Act
Since moving to Hollywood, I have been full of an amused-yet-horrifed pride that I am part of just 10% of the Hollwood population who is not either an actor or a wannabe actor. This may seem like a horrific stereotype, but I have met, literally, two people who have not at some point acted. I guess it makes seense, what with entertainment being the main industry. After all, if one lived in a fishing village, a large proportion of the population might reasonably be expected to make their living fishing.
I have just spent the morning as a paid actress.
Yes, this seems improbable to me to. I gave up drama at age 14, suffering from stage fright. I am not blonde and 17 and pretty (the norm for actresses here). I have no desire to act. What the hell is happening to me? Am I becoming Californicated?
Here's how it happened. Yesterday morning, Scott phoned me from work, told me that they needed an English actor/actress to do a voiceover for some cell-phone network that someone in his office building had the advertising account for. He said I should send in an audition tape, just for a laugh, if I had any spare time.
They send me a script, and question me on the phone about my acting experience. Which is obviously non-existent. I go downstairs to Jessie's and we spend all of 5 minutes recording me reading the script.
I was therefore somewhat surprised to discover they loved my "disinterested manner" (sadly, i thought I'd been doing upbeat) and that I had the job. So today I spent 45 minutes in a recording studio and was rewarded with $500. (To add some context to this, my rent is $600 a month.) That sounds like a lot of money for very little work, but I see it as being fair compensation for the hours of fear-induced nausea I endured this morning.
In the end, I actually really enjoyed the experience. Putting on a sexy voice and trying out different tones and inflections as directed. Sadly, they haven't actually paid me yet, as they didn't know how to cope with the fact that I wasn't SAG (screen actors guild) and didn't have an agent. They actually thought I was a real London girl come to LA to be a movie star. I'm not sure whether this is what I want people to think of me? Have I lost my integrity? Did I ever have any?
I doubt I shall be repeating this experience. When it comes down to it, I've always really hated the sound of my own voice, and even spending a morning being referred to as "the talent" (and what girl doesn't love that?) can't make up for that.
I have just spent the morning as a paid actress.
Yes, this seems improbable to me to. I gave up drama at age 14, suffering from stage fright. I am not blonde and 17 and pretty (the norm for actresses here). I have no desire to act. What the hell is happening to me? Am I becoming Californicated?
Here's how it happened. Yesterday morning, Scott phoned me from work, told me that they needed an English actor/actress to do a voiceover for some cell-phone network that someone in his office building had the advertising account for. He said I should send in an audition tape, just for a laugh, if I had any spare time.
They send me a script, and question me on the phone about my acting experience. Which is obviously non-existent. I go downstairs to Jessie's and we spend all of 5 minutes recording me reading the script.
I was therefore somewhat surprised to discover they loved my "disinterested manner" (sadly, i thought I'd been doing upbeat) and that I had the job. So today I spent 45 minutes in a recording studio and was rewarded with $500. (To add some context to this, my rent is $600 a month.) That sounds like a lot of money for very little work, but I see it as being fair compensation for the hours of fear-induced nausea I endured this morning.
In the end, I actually really enjoyed the experience. Putting on a sexy voice and trying out different tones and inflections as directed. Sadly, they haven't actually paid me yet, as they didn't know how to cope with the fact that I wasn't SAG (screen actors guild) and didn't have an agent. They actually thought I was a real London girl come to LA to be a movie star. I'm not sure whether this is what I want people to think of me? Have I lost my integrity? Did I ever have any?
I doubt I shall be repeating this experience. When it comes down to it, I've always really hated the sound of my own voice, and even spending a morning being referred to as "the talent" (and what girl doesn't love that?) can't make up for that.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Cost of Living
Although I am deeply saddened by the passing of Butch the cat, the situation was almost so much worse. We almost had two of our four cats die this week. Sorry for writing two cat posts in one day, I guess I am a crazy cat lady at heart.
We returned home form a weekend away to find that Squeaker the cat had developed a golf-ball sized lump on her rump. Various theories were raised as to how this had happened, the most popular being a stealth attack by mean-cat Loki that had gotten infected. This theory was vehemently denied by Elizabeth, owner of Loki, who, sweet as she is, seems incapable of realizing what a bastard her cat is.
Squeaker is clearly in a bad way. She’s hot to touch, lethargic, unhappy. So, we do what has to be done; Jessie and I trek over to Burbank to take her to the cat hospital.
They are very nice folks in Bastet cat hospital. They stroke Squeaks gently and shave the affected area. After a brief examination they pronounce that it is indeed an abscess caused by a fight. They leave Jess and I to fill in forms while they calculate how much the treatment will cost. Due to my not having a driving license to transcribe some number from, Jess fills her details in on one half of the form. We are now, officially, life-partners (and have since received welcome cards through the post from Bastet cat hospital addressing us as such).
The vet returns, and tells us that the required surgery will cost $800, and that there’s a large chance that Squeaker will die of the infection if we leave her untreated. After a brief discussion, Jess and I realize we have no choice but to refuse the surgery, and instead spend $50 on some antibiotics.
We sound callous, I know, but we literally do not have $800 to spare. I know this makes us irresponsible cat-owners but bear in mind these are cats we took in when their old owner died and his ‘friends’, after promising to look after them, abandoned them in our garden. And, yes, we should probably get pet-insurance to cover these eventualities, and one day if I actually earn some money, I will do just that. Bear in mind I only managed to finally afford health insurance for me a month ago.
So, Jess and I decide to take the DIY life in the ghetto option. We roll up the rug in my living room, pull out some clean towels and sterilize a scalpel with hydrogen peroxide. We attach a desk lamp to the table and point in down. Our operating room is ready.
We realize we could do with some more help with holding the patient, seeing as how we have no anesthetic at our disposal. A quick scout around the compound make it clear that, while sympathetic, everyone else is too grossed out to be any use to us (this includes Scott).
We wrap Squeaks up tightly in towels to constrict her movement. Her wailing is upsetting, but we have no choice. Jess makes the incision, and we begin to squeeze the puss out.
It is a stinky job, it has to be said, yellow pus with green and black touches. It’s pretty hard to make sure it’s all out whilst trying to also hold down a cat and keep everything sterile.
10 minutes and we’re done. Squeaker rushes away and we wash our hands more thoroughly than ever in our lives. 5 minutes later Squeaker returns and rubs up against me purring. She seems like herself again.
A month on and she’s fine. I maintain that our 10 minute surgery was actually a lot less invasive and distressing for her than being knocked out for hours and staying overnight in a strange vet’s would’ve been. Jess and I are quite annoyingly proud of our achievement, and get rather annoyed when we tell people about the death of Butch, and they presume that it must’ve been the cat we operated on that died. It’s nice that people have so much faith in us.
There are two things that I think are very LA about this story. Firstly, the fact that someone was going to charge us $800 for something we could do ourselves, with absolutely no training, within ten minutes. Secondly, that once we’d finished the surgery and sat back for a celebratory drink, Jess and I turned to each other to share identical thoughts – why on earth didn’t we film that?
We returned home form a weekend away to find that Squeaker the cat had developed a golf-ball sized lump on her rump. Various theories were raised as to how this had happened, the most popular being a stealth attack by mean-cat Loki that had gotten infected. This theory was vehemently denied by Elizabeth, owner of Loki, who, sweet as she is, seems incapable of realizing what a bastard her cat is.
Squeaker is clearly in a bad way. She’s hot to touch, lethargic, unhappy. So, we do what has to be done; Jessie and I trek over to Burbank to take her to the cat hospital.
They are very nice folks in Bastet cat hospital. They stroke Squeaks gently and shave the affected area. After a brief examination they pronounce that it is indeed an abscess caused by a fight. They leave Jess and I to fill in forms while they calculate how much the treatment will cost. Due to my not having a driving license to transcribe some number from, Jess fills her details in on one half of the form. We are now, officially, life-partners (and have since received welcome cards through the post from Bastet cat hospital addressing us as such).
The vet returns, and tells us that the required surgery will cost $800, and that there’s a large chance that Squeaker will die of the infection if we leave her untreated. After a brief discussion, Jess and I realize we have no choice but to refuse the surgery, and instead spend $50 on some antibiotics.
We sound callous, I know, but we literally do not have $800 to spare. I know this makes us irresponsible cat-owners but bear in mind these are cats we took in when their old owner died and his ‘friends’, after promising to look after them, abandoned them in our garden. And, yes, we should probably get pet-insurance to cover these eventualities, and one day if I actually earn some money, I will do just that. Bear in mind I only managed to finally afford health insurance for me a month ago.
So, Jess and I decide to take the DIY life in the ghetto option. We roll up the rug in my living room, pull out some clean towels and sterilize a scalpel with hydrogen peroxide. We attach a desk lamp to the table and point in down. Our operating room is ready.
We realize we could do with some more help with holding the patient, seeing as how we have no anesthetic at our disposal. A quick scout around the compound make it clear that, while sympathetic, everyone else is too grossed out to be any use to us (this includes Scott).
We wrap Squeaks up tightly in towels to constrict her movement. Her wailing is upsetting, but we have no choice. Jess makes the incision, and we begin to squeeze the puss out.
It is a stinky job, it has to be said, yellow pus with green and black touches. It’s pretty hard to make sure it’s all out whilst trying to also hold down a cat and keep everything sterile.
10 minutes and we’re done. Squeaker rushes away and we wash our hands more thoroughly than ever in our lives. 5 minutes later Squeaker returns and rubs up against me purring. She seems like herself again.
A month on and she’s fine. I maintain that our 10 minute surgery was actually a lot less invasive and distressing for her than being knocked out for hours and staying overnight in a strange vet’s would’ve been. Jess and I are quite annoyingly proud of our achievement, and get rather annoyed when we tell people about the death of Butch, and they presume that it must’ve been the cat we operated on that died. It’s nice that people have so much faith in us.
There are two things that I think are very LA about this story. Firstly, the fact that someone was going to charge us $800 for something we could do ourselves, with absolutely no training, within ten minutes. Secondly, that once we’d finished the surgery and sat back for a celebratory drink, Jess and I turned to each other to share identical thoughts – why on earth didn’t we film that?
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
I haven't posted for months. Likelihood is no-one reads this anymore. However, I'm having one of those periods where I feel that I should be noting down life's little adventures so that I can laugh at them when I'm old and feeble. Therefore I am making a pledge to make at least three entries a week in here. I've deliberalty made this statement public so that it will be humiliating if I renege on it.
Let's see how long this new-found enthusiasm lasts...
Let's see how long this new-found enthusiasm lasts...
In Memoriam
I have sad news to report; Butch the cat is no longer with us.
Although an extensive search of the neighbourhood has revealed no body, the fact that Butch has never been known to miss a meal in his life means that we are assuming that he is no longer in the land of the living.
Oh Butch, most comedy of all the Serrano cats. You who were given exactly the same amount of food as the others, yet were somehow about three times their size. I will miss the way you waddled around hesitantly and, blind in one eye, bumped into almost everything.
I will remember how you shunned sofas and cushions and all other soft things. You, dear Butch, were a true man cat who sat solely on hard things. Yours was a world of pizza boxes and glass tables and edges of desks and, your favourite place of all, the toolbox. Was it cruel of me to laugh when you inevitably fell asleep and tumbled off the edge of whatever hard thing you had sat on. Why did you never sit in the centre of the desk? This I can never ask you.
Although he was cross at the time, Scott now looks lovingly at the huge scratches you made on the scooter seat. Being a mancat, you loved leather (and even fake leather). When we ride the scooter we will think of you.
It’s Fluffer who misses you most though. It was beyond sweet how the two of you used to sleep cuddled up together on the plastic chairs (rock hard of course) outside the house. We may have teased you for being gay lovers (we're clearly not as liberal as we claim to be), but deep down we respected how devoted you were to each other. It’s been two weeks since you left, and every night Fluffer is still howling desperately up at the stars for at least a couple of hours. He’s the only cat sleeping outside now. We would let him sleep upstairs with us but, you know, he has that spraying problem.
Oh Butch, we will miss you. If you were to come back, I’d even forgive you for the time you shat on the rug and then spent 10 minutes sitting on your own poo while I desperately searched the apartment for the source of the stink. It was a clever move on your part to try and hide the evidence of your wrong-doing although, you know what Butch, it was probably you that suffered most by having to sit on your own shit.
I know that Lloyd, your original (and also deceased) owner, would have liked you to have been buried in the bizarre pet cemetery he constructed at the bottom of our garden (a collection of terracotta plant pots full of cement and bones and each topped – wedding cake-like - with a metallic representation of the deceased, an even mix of cats and what look bizarrely like dragons). I’m sorry that we can’t give you this honour, dearest Butch, but know that you will stay in our hearts and minds forever.
Josh, who at five is Serrano’s youngest resident, thinks that dead cats become stars that he can gaze up at in the night sky. I like that image a lot Butch. I think you would’ve too.
Although an extensive search of the neighbourhood has revealed no body, the fact that Butch has never been known to miss a meal in his life means that we are assuming that he is no longer in the land of the living.
Oh Butch, most comedy of all the Serrano cats. You who were given exactly the same amount of food as the others, yet were somehow about three times their size. I will miss the way you waddled around hesitantly and, blind in one eye, bumped into almost everything.
I will remember how you shunned sofas and cushions and all other soft things. You, dear Butch, were a true man cat who sat solely on hard things. Yours was a world of pizza boxes and glass tables and edges of desks and, your favourite place of all, the toolbox. Was it cruel of me to laugh when you inevitably fell asleep and tumbled off the edge of whatever hard thing you had sat on. Why did you never sit in the centre of the desk? This I can never ask you.
Although he was cross at the time, Scott now looks lovingly at the huge scratches you made on the scooter seat. Being a mancat, you loved leather (and even fake leather). When we ride the scooter we will think of you.
It’s Fluffer who misses you most though. It was beyond sweet how the two of you used to sleep cuddled up together on the plastic chairs (rock hard of course) outside the house. We may have teased you for being gay lovers (we're clearly not as liberal as we claim to be), but deep down we respected how devoted you were to each other. It’s been two weeks since you left, and every night Fluffer is still howling desperately up at the stars for at least a couple of hours. He’s the only cat sleeping outside now. We would let him sleep upstairs with us but, you know, he has that spraying problem.
Oh Butch, we will miss you. If you were to come back, I’d even forgive you for the time you shat on the rug and then spent 10 minutes sitting on your own poo while I desperately searched the apartment for the source of the stink. It was a clever move on your part to try and hide the evidence of your wrong-doing although, you know what Butch, it was probably you that suffered most by having to sit on your own shit.
I know that Lloyd, your original (and also deceased) owner, would have liked you to have been buried in the bizarre pet cemetery he constructed at the bottom of our garden (a collection of terracotta plant pots full of cement and bones and each topped – wedding cake-like - with a metallic representation of the deceased, an even mix of cats and what look bizarrely like dragons). I’m sorry that we can’t give you this honour, dearest Butch, but know that you will stay in our hearts and minds forever.
Josh, who at five is Serrano’s youngest resident, thinks that dead cats become stars that he can gaze up at in the night sky. I like that image a lot Butch. I think you would’ve too.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Gratitude
Just wanted to add a quick update to my "adventures with moviestar" rantings two posts ago.
Jessie went away to stay on the actor's ranch to edit together the footage. I missed her, but felt kind of lucky that I wasn't the one dealing with the crazieness alone. Don't get me wrong, it was all very exciting (in a surreal way), but after a few weeks of it one needs a break in order to retain some grip on one's sanity.
Anyway, the upshot is that Miss Jessica returned to the compound last week bearing gifts. Two beautiful pairs of earrings, one for each of us, as a thank you present for the work we had done.
Although this is a lovely gesture, and it feels great to be appreciated, I am a little confused. I understand why Jessie was singled out for jewellery (she organised the whole shoot), but why me? There were 20 or so people on set. Why am I the only other one to be given a present. And why has the actor decided to start referring to me as Philadelphia? Before you think he may have some secret crush, I should inform you that I am categorically too old to fit into the actors preferred age range?
I think I amused him. Now I just have to figure out whether this is a good or bad thing...
Oh, I have so many stories to tell of the past few weeks, and so little time to tell them before they slip away from memory. There is the story of how a rich and spoilt O.C. boy (the place, not the show before you get really excited) thought he could seduce me while both his girlfriend and my husband were in the room. There is my new discovery of the official (according to a whole host of L.A. wanabees) way by which you can make yourself a more talented artiste. There is the story how this weekend, Scott's favourite movie came alive for him. The story of the competitive spin the bottle tournament. Most recently, there are the stories of how I, a white girl, managed to get involved in the Hollywood Black Film Festival.
Which story should I tell?
Jessie went away to stay on the actor's ranch to edit together the footage. I missed her, but felt kind of lucky that I wasn't the one dealing with the crazieness alone. Don't get me wrong, it was all very exciting (in a surreal way), but after a few weeks of it one needs a break in order to retain some grip on one's sanity.
Anyway, the upshot is that Miss Jessica returned to the compound last week bearing gifts. Two beautiful pairs of earrings, one for each of us, as a thank you present for the work we had done.
Although this is a lovely gesture, and it feels great to be appreciated, I am a little confused. I understand why Jessie was singled out for jewellery (she organised the whole shoot), but why me? There were 20 or so people on set. Why am I the only other one to be given a present. And why has the actor decided to start referring to me as Philadelphia? Before you think he may have some secret crush, I should inform you that I am categorically too old to fit into the actors preferred age range?
I think I amused him. Now I just have to figure out whether this is a good or bad thing...
Oh, I have so many stories to tell of the past few weeks, and so little time to tell them before they slip away from memory. There is the story of how a rich and spoilt O.C. boy (the place, not the show before you get really excited) thought he could seduce me while both his girlfriend and my husband were in the room. There is my new discovery of the official (according to a whole host of L.A. wanabees) way by which you can make yourself a more talented artiste. There is the story how this weekend, Scott's favourite movie came alive for him. The story of the competitive spin the bottle tournament. Most recently, there are the stories of how I, a white girl, managed to get involved in the Hollywood Black Film Festival.
Which story should I tell?
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Service
In contrast to my last exciting gossippy entry about up-close encounters with movie stars, today I am going to write about the fascinating (at least to me) subject of differences between the U.S. and U.K. service industries. Oh yes, I can feel the excitement levels rising in you.
As everyone throughout the western world is aware, the U.S service is industry is guaranteed to fill all your needs with a smile.
At first I found it odd that it's not really the done thing to browse through clothes shops. I love browsing, and feel a bit like a suspected shoplifter when someone trails me as soon as I enter the store, reminding me constantly that they're here to help me with anything I could possibly need. On the other hand, I found it really useful on Friday, when shopping for new jeans, that the girl at Miss Sixty could direct me instantly to the products in the store that fit my requirements (dark, skinny and low-cut). She checked on me in the changing room, found out which pair was best so far, then refined her search around the store based on that. I ended up with the most perfectly-fitting pair of jeans I have ever owned.
On the other hand, it really annoys me that in all L.A. restaurants (including some pretty fancy places) the serving staff start clearing away your plates as soon as you finish a course - before waiting for everyone else on your table to finish theirs. It's horrible. If you're the slow one you feel painfully bad for keeping everyone else waiting. If you're the fast one you feel bad for disrupting your tablemates dinner by having some waitress lean over and probably drop crumbs of your food onto their plates. Why do they do this? Is there a shortage of plates in LA, meaning that kitchens need to get them back and washed a.s.a.p? Is it a tactic for shaming slow eaters into chewing more quickly? Or are restaurants just trying to prove how attentive they are to your every service need by watching you like a hawk and sweeping in to take your plate away? If so, do they not realise that what I want more than fast service is a nice meal with my friends where everyone feels good at the end. This level of attentive service does not make one feel comfortable; it makes you feel like you are a nuisance, merely a source of income to be fed and dispatched as soon as possible. It does not a pleasant dining experience make.
Then there are just the weird differences between life here and life in the motherland. At the supermarket in California (and probably the rest of the U.S.), there are two checkout girls/guys for every customer. One to add up the cost of the groceries (and to check your ID if you buy wine even though you are 26, and you have shopped at this store at least twice a week for the past 6 months), the other to pack your bags for you. That's right, chainstore supermarkets employ people to pack your bags for you. Scott laughed when I told him that we did this for ourselves in the UK, even in the upmarket stores. Strangely, this two people at the checkout lark seems to make the line go slower, not faster, as they tend to chat to each other. Probably makes their jobs a little less dull and shitty though.
Yet pop next door to get some fast food and you will discover that you fall into a world of pain and scornful looks if you fail to tidy away every bit of your meal and its packaging from the table when you leave. They don't employ people to clean the tables, apparently, and it's a huge social faux pas to leave your table dirty.
Smart U.S. innovation: supermarket loyalty cards (like a Tesco's clubcard or something) aren't actually cards, but a small bit of plastic that you attach to your keyring. They give you about 6 when you sign up, so all your family can collect points on the same account. They're light to carry around, hard to lose and use less plastic. Why does England not have such things? Or has this happened since I've been gone?
UPDATE: I have been informed that these have existed in the U.K. for ages and I have just been an idiot and never noticed. I clearly pay much more attention to grocery shopping in the states than I ever did back at home...
Oh dear god. I think I might've just written the most boring journal entry in the world. It's okay, the next one'll be more exciting. I still have to write about the Griffith Park fire (last fortnight's near-death experience) which should be slightly more entertaining for anyone who actually reads this...
As everyone throughout the western world is aware, the U.S service is industry is guaranteed to fill all your needs with a smile.
At first I found it odd that it's not really the done thing to browse through clothes shops. I love browsing, and feel a bit like a suspected shoplifter when someone trails me as soon as I enter the store, reminding me constantly that they're here to help me with anything I could possibly need. On the other hand, I found it really useful on Friday, when shopping for new jeans, that the girl at Miss Sixty could direct me instantly to the products in the store that fit my requirements (dark, skinny and low-cut). She checked on me in the changing room, found out which pair was best so far, then refined her search around the store based on that. I ended up with the most perfectly-fitting pair of jeans I have ever owned.
On the other hand, it really annoys me that in all L.A. restaurants (including some pretty fancy places) the serving staff start clearing away your plates as soon as you finish a course - before waiting for everyone else on your table to finish theirs. It's horrible. If you're the slow one you feel painfully bad for keeping everyone else waiting. If you're the fast one you feel bad for disrupting your tablemates dinner by having some waitress lean over and probably drop crumbs of your food onto their plates. Why do they do this? Is there a shortage of plates in LA, meaning that kitchens need to get them back and washed a.s.a.p? Is it a tactic for shaming slow eaters into chewing more quickly? Or are restaurants just trying to prove how attentive they are to your every service need by watching you like a hawk and sweeping in to take your plate away? If so, do they not realise that what I want more than fast service is a nice meal with my friends where everyone feels good at the end. This level of attentive service does not make one feel comfortable; it makes you feel like you are a nuisance, merely a source of income to be fed and dispatched as soon as possible. It does not a pleasant dining experience make.
Then there are just the weird differences between life here and life in the motherland. At the supermarket in California (and probably the rest of the U.S.), there are two checkout girls/guys for every customer. One to add up the cost of the groceries (and to check your ID if you buy wine even though you are 26, and you have shopped at this store at least twice a week for the past 6 months), the other to pack your bags for you. That's right, chainstore supermarkets employ people to pack your bags for you. Scott laughed when I told him that we did this for ourselves in the UK, even in the upmarket stores. Strangely, this two people at the checkout lark seems to make the line go slower, not faster, as they tend to chat to each other. Probably makes their jobs a little less dull and shitty though.
Yet pop next door to get some fast food and you will discover that you fall into a world of pain and scornful looks if you fail to tidy away every bit of your meal and its packaging from the table when you leave. They don't employ people to clean the tables, apparently, and it's a huge social faux pas to leave your table dirty.
Smart U.S. innovation: supermarket loyalty cards (like a Tesco's clubcard or something) aren't actually cards, but a small bit of plastic that you attach to your keyring. They give you about 6 when you sign up, so all your family can collect points on the same account. They're light to carry around, hard to lose and use less plastic. Why does England not have such things? Or has this happened since I've been gone?
UPDATE: I have been informed that these have existed in the U.K. for ages and I have just been an idiot and never noticed. I clearly pay much more attention to grocery shopping in the states than I ever did back at home...
Oh dear god. I think I might've just written the most boring journal entry in the world. It's okay, the next one'll be more exciting. I still have to write about the Griffith Park fire (last fortnight's near-death experience) which should be slightly more entertaining for anyone who actually reads this...
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
So Hollywood
All of this is true. Only the names has been omitted, to protect my future career prospects...
So, last week I worked my first freelance Hollywood job and, gosh, it was an experience.
On Wednesday night I’m sitting out on the front porch with Laura-from-downstairs when she receives a phone call from her boss (an eminent film producer) asking her if she would like a week-long job organising a one day film shoot for a rather famous film star. The film star in question is very busy, and wants to shoot a monologue the next Tuesday. The purpose of this shoot is for him to perform said monologue made-up to look like a famous author from the last century. It is his passion to make a feature film based on this author’s life story, and he is trying to convince the money men firstly that he can perform as this person, and secondly that the make-up can be applied convincingly. (The author cuts a rather older and uglier figure than the actor.)
Laura takes on the rather daunting job of organising the entire shoot from scratch in a week, and promptly employs me as her second-in-command. Things happen fast in Hollywoodland.
The next day I get to meet with the actor over breakfast. It is slightly painful to have ones first proper meeting with a bona fide Hollywood star take place at seven in the morning when you haven't had time to put any makeup on. Jessie and I sit with him in his trailer and try to get him to make some decisions. He's a strange creature. Has a reputation for being difficult. Saying that he was lovely to Laura and I during the week of preproduction - one of the smartest, funniest most charismatic people I have ever met. Obsessed with the author, which can only be a good thing. He quickly becomes familiar with Laura and I, thinks nothing of parading around in his underpants in front of us whilst in his trailer. Later he demonstrates "how annoying it is when people don't respect your personal space" by stroking my arm for 5 minutes.
Then, on shoot day, he went completely mental on us. Turns out that the reason he has this "reputation", is that he's a hard-core method actor of the old school. Now, as the elderly author he is portraying was an alcoholic misogynist forced to whore himself on lecture tours so as to have enough money to eat, this made for a rather unpleasant atmosphere for the women on set, especially the ones who had to tell him what to do (Jessie and I). At one point he shouted "women, I'm surrounded by bloody women" in his character’s southern drawl, before throwing a whole load of notecards at Elizabeth (our sweet and innocent 23 year old production assistant and downstairs neighbour, who hadn't met the actor before, and hence just concluded that he was the most horrid man in the world).
But, the day soon turned even more bizarre. The actor had emphasized Laura and I during preprod that he was v. clean living. No tobacco or alcohol ever, only eats raw foods. Fine we say, we can accommodate all that within this tiny 5 days preprod period, even though the author he is playing was an alcoholic cigar smoker and Laura and I have to organise EVERY single aspect of the whole shoot between us in a week, and for v little money.
The whiskey is simple - I buy a crystal tumbler from a thrift store and fill it with a blend of decaf ice tea that the actor approves of. The cigar becomes the bane of my existence. After enthusiastically agreeing to get the actor a tobacco-free cigar, we soon learn that such things do not actually exist (which makes sense when you think about the fact that a cigar is wrapped up in one giant tobacco leaf). I call up head shops, I have in-depth discussions with custom cigar making companies but, no, tobacco-free cigars do not exist.
We consider going back to the actor and telling him this. But we don't want to do that. The actor is trusting us to put together this shoot, and we've already learnt that he's the kind of guy who doesn't need to know exactly how everything is done, he just wants it done.
Anyway. So, with many years of cigarette rolling experience behind me, I endeavour to construct my own tobacco-free cigars (who could have guessed that all those nights of drunkenly rolling cigarettes would come in useful one day). They take about an hour to make each, but they are so beautiful. I slowly and carefully hollow out regular cigars with tweezers and kebab skewers, then refill them with herbal tobacco from herbal cigarettes. To compensate for the smoke from the tobacco leaf that still forms the wrapper, I manage to find a way to squeeze three cigarette filters into one end. Gina tries to help, but just destroys things. Turns out that herbal cigar making is a highly skilled profession. The night before the shoot I get Scott to test a cigar, as he is the most smoke-hating person I know. He tries one. Not only does it smoke properly, but he announces that it in no way makes him feel ill. Result!
Now for the juicy part. We get on set and get busy with prep. Laura's answering a million phone calls and dealing with crew, I'm hurridly writing out the prompt cards that the actor "forgot" that he said he wanted to do himself, as well as putting up our set and arranging the props (as it's a tiny crew I'd also been promoted to head of art department - which I actually really enjoyed). The actor is having his makeup put on. Everything is good and calm, except for Laura, who is super-stressed because, although everything on shoot is going fine, she has forgotten her cigarettes. I try and calm her down, send one of the PA’s out to buy her fags. I cannot believe that I am somehow not the person being sent out to get fags, but am high up enough to be the one doing the sending. When did this happen?
Anyway, the actor comes on to set and is being all authorly and abusive. (I will point out that although this is disconcerting, his acting is SUPERB. It's kind of like when you fist see someone really truly beautiful, and you realize that all the people you've seen in your life and though pretty were just that - jus pretty, not beautiful. The level of brilliance separating the actor's acting and anyone I have seen act on stage ever is amazing. He WAS the author. And I can now understand why some actors get paid so much money (only some, mind, i haven't gone completely crazy)).
Anyway, we start shooting and the actor/author decides he doesn't want the filters in the cigar because that's not how real cigars are. We tell him that we know that, but that we were just trying to keep the unpleasantness level as low as possible. We tell him we have real cigars that we can give him if he'd like true authenticity. No he decides, he doesn't want to go that far. We decide to just take the filters out. His bloody choice.
The first few takes go fine. By take 3, actor/author is acting a little weird. He's adlibbing more, and is really bringing out the author as drunk side of the monologue, instead of just the author as funny humorist. It looks amazing. Take 4 is even better, starting to take our breath away when, after just a few lines, actor/author yells cut and storms off set, followed by his makeup/hair guys who generally trail him everywhere.
No-one's that concerned - actor/author has been having tantrums and storming off all day. We start to reset the camera and lights. Those who smoke pop out for a quick fag. Others grab coffee from craft services. All is going fine until the $30,000 a day prosthetics dude walks back onto set shouting it's a wrap kids, it's a wrap.
Actor/author is in his dressing room, feeling very unwell. The story is that the actor was so into the part that he managed to actually get drunk on decaf ice tea whiskey and herbal cigar smoke. Play a dying alcoholic and you get drunk and sick, if you're as sensitive a soul, and as good an actor, as the actor is...
Other stories do circulate, too salacious to be written here. Ask me very nicely and I might tell you about them. Might.
So, last week I worked my first freelance Hollywood job and, gosh, it was an experience.
On Wednesday night I’m sitting out on the front porch with Laura-from-downstairs when she receives a phone call from her boss (an eminent film producer) asking her if she would like a week-long job organising a one day film shoot for a rather famous film star. The film star in question is very busy, and wants to shoot a monologue the next Tuesday. The purpose of this shoot is for him to perform said monologue made-up to look like a famous author from the last century. It is his passion to make a feature film based on this author’s life story, and he is trying to convince the money men firstly that he can perform as this person, and secondly that the make-up can be applied convincingly. (The author cuts a rather older and uglier figure than the actor.)
Laura takes on the rather daunting job of organising the entire shoot from scratch in a week, and promptly employs me as her second-in-command. Things happen fast in Hollywoodland.
The next day I get to meet with the actor over breakfast. It is slightly painful to have ones first proper meeting with a bona fide Hollywood star take place at seven in the morning when you haven't had time to put any makeup on. Jessie and I sit with him in his trailer and try to get him to make some decisions. He's a strange creature. Has a reputation for being difficult. Saying that he was lovely to Laura and I during the week of preproduction - one of the smartest, funniest most charismatic people I have ever met. Obsessed with the author, which can only be a good thing. He quickly becomes familiar with Laura and I, thinks nothing of parading around in his underpants in front of us whilst in his trailer. Later he demonstrates "how annoying it is when people don't respect your personal space" by stroking my arm for 5 minutes.
Then, on shoot day, he went completely mental on us. Turns out that the reason he has this "reputation", is that he's a hard-core method actor of the old school. Now, as the elderly author he is portraying was an alcoholic misogynist forced to whore himself on lecture tours so as to have enough money to eat, this made for a rather unpleasant atmosphere for the women on set, especially the ones who had to tell him what to do (Jessie and I). At one point he shouted "women, I'm surrounded by bloody women" in his character’s southern drawl, before throwing a whole load of notecards at Elizabeth (our sweet and innocent 23 year old production assistant and downstairs neighbour, who hadn't met the actor before, and hence just concluded that he was the most horrid man in the world).
But, the day soon turned even more bizarre. The actor had emphasized Laura and I during preprod that he was v. clean living. No tobacco or alcohol ever, only eats raw foods. Fine we say, we can accommodate all that within this tiny 5 days preprod period, even though the author he is playing was an alcoholic cigar smoker and Laura and I have to organise EVERY single aspect of the whole shoot between us in a week, and for v little money.
The whiskey is simple - I buy a crystal tumbler from a thrift store and fill it with a blend of decaf ice tea that the actor approves of. The cigar becomes the bane of my existence. After enthusiastically agreeing to get the actor a tobacco-free cigar, we soon learn that such things do not actually exist (which makes sense when you think about the fact that a cigar is wrapped up in one giant tobacco leaf). I call up head shops, I have in-depth discussions with custom cigar making companies but, no, tobacco-free cigars do not exist.
We consider going back to the actor and telling him this. But we don't want to do that. The actor is trusting us to put together this shoot, and we've already learnt that he's the kind of guy who doesn't need to know exactly how everything is done, he just wants it done.
Anyway. So, with many years of cigarette rolling experience behind me, I endeavour to construct my own tobacco-free cigars (who could have guessed that all those nights of drunkenly rolling cigarettes would come in useful one day). They take about an hour to make each, but they are so beautiful. I slowly and carefully hollow out regular cigars with tweezers and kebab skewers, then refill them with herbal tobacco from herbal cigarettes. To compensate for the smoke from the tobacco leaf that still forms the wrapper, I manage to find a way to squeeze three cigarette filters into one end. Gina tries to help, but just destroys things. Turns out that herbal cigar making is a highly skilled profession. The night before the shoot I get Scott to test a cigar, as he is the most smoke-hating person I know. He tries one. Not only does it smoke properly, but he announces that it in no way makes him feel ill. Result!
Now for the juicy part. We get on set and get busy with prep. Laura's answering a million phone calls and dealing with crew, I'm hurridly writing out the prompt cards that the actor "forgot" that he said he wanted to do himself, as well as putting up our set and arranging the props (as it's a tiny crew I'd also been promoted to head of art department - which I actually really enjoyed). The actor is having his makeup put on. Everything is good and calm, except for Laura, who is super-stressed because, although everything on shoot is going fine, she has forgotten her cigarettes. I try and calm her down, send one of the PA’s out to buy her fags. I cannot believe that I am somehow not the person being sent out to get fags, but am high up enough to be the one doing the sending. When did this happen?
Anyway, the actor comes on to set and is being all authorly and abusive. (I will point out that although this is disconcerting, his acting is SUPERB. It's kind of like when you fist see someone really truly beautiful, and you realize that all the people you've seen in your life and though pretty were just that - jus pretty, not beautiful. The level of brilliance separating the actor's acting and anyone I have seen act on stage ever is amazing. He WAS the author. And I can now understand why some actors get paid so much money (only some, mind, i haven't gone completely crazy)).
Anyway, we start shooting and the actor/author decides he doesn't want the filters in the cigar because that's not how real cigars are. We tell him that we know that, but that we were just trying to keep the unpleasantness level as low as possible. We tell him we have real cigars that we can give him if he'd like true authenticity. No he decides, he doesn't want to go that far. We decide to just take the filters out. His bloody choice.
The first few takes go fine. By take 3, actor/author is acting a little weird. He's adlibbing more, and is really bringing out the author as drunk side of the monologue, instead of just the author as funny humorist. It looks amazing. Take 4 is even better, starting to take our breath away when, after just a few lines, actor/author yells cut and storms off set, followed by his makeup/hair guys who generally trail him everywhere.
No-one's that concerned - actor/author has been having tantrums and storming off all day. We start to reset the camera and lights. Those who smoke pop out for a quick fag. Others grab coffee from craft services. All is going fine until the $30,000 a day prosthetics dude walks back onto set shouting it's a wrap kids, it's a wrap.
Actor/author is in his dressing room, feeling very unwell. The story is that the actor was so into the part that he managed to actually get drunk on decaf ice tea whiskey and herbal cigar smoke. Play a dying alcoholic and you get drunk and sick, if you're as sensitive a soul, and as good an actor, as the actor is...
Other stories do circulate, too salacious to be written here. Ask me very nicely and I might tell you about them. Might.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Serrano Girls
Despite being technically old and married, in many ways living here makes me feel younger than I have done in years. A couple of years ago, sharing a flat with a friend in south London, I felt awfully grown-up and yuppie. We had our full-time jobs, videophone entry system and remote-controlled parking garage. We nodded to our neighbours, but we never knew them. Other than the fact that they were all young and upwardly mobile, I knew nothing about any of the people who lived in my building.
Here things are different. The Serrano compound is made up of four two-bedroomed appartments, managed by a crazy lady who charges cheap rent but doesn't really care whether or not the heating system is poisoning you. Here I am woken in the morning by Jessie from downstairs wanting to borrow a dress to wear on a date tonight. While Scott was away last week she spent every evening in our appartment borrowing Scott's computer and teaching me final cut pro while we drank wine and gossiped. Here Lauren from downstairs diagonal will provide wine, cigarettes and sympathy any evening I'm feeling down, and she knows she can leave her 5-year old son with me if she needs to run an errand. Here, if you ever need a listening ear, there is always someone who will not only oblige, but who already knows the backstory.
The Serrano girls are a special breed. It's like being back at university - no-one has a proper job or a proper schedule, the nights are late and there's always gossip to be had. I'd almost forgotten in the past 5 years how good it was to have a girlfriend ten seconds away from you that you could call on any time. I've missed it.
L.A. as a whole is NOT like this - I've met more people I actively dislike in the few months living here than I ever have in my life. But I've been lucky - this appartment has provided me with in-built friends and community who I would've loved to be friends with even had they lived far away. Sometimes I think i focus too much on all the negatives of living here, and don't appreciate the beauty of the little community I live in. The city may still suck me dry, but the girls are here to look after me.
This is sappy. And probably badly typed. But dammit, I'm happy for once (if a little drunk). I guess I can always rewrite this tomorrow. I feel I should be making some salient point about eveything but really, truthfully, I'm just glad to have found such lovely friends living right below me...
Here things are different. The Serrano compound is made up of four two-bedroomed appartments, managed by a crazy lady who charges cheap rent but doesn't really care whether or not the heating system is poisoning you. Here I am woken in the morning by Jessie from downstairs wanting to borrow a dress to wear on a date tonight. While Scott was away last week she spent every evening in our appartment borrowing Scott's computer and teaching me final cut pro while we drank wine and gossiped. Here Lauren from downstairs diagonal will provide wine, cigarettes and sympathy any evening I'm feeling down, and she knows she can leave her 5-year old son with me if she needs to run an errand. Here, if you ever need a listening ear, there is always someone who will not only oblige, but who already knows the backstory.
The Serrano girls are a special breed. It's like being back at university - no-one has a proper job or a proper schedule, the nights are late and there's always gossip to be had. I'd almost forgotten in the past 5 years how good it was to have a girlfriend ten seconds away from you that you could call on any time. I've missed it.
L.A. as a whole is NOT like this - I've met more people I actively dislike in the few months living here than I ever have in my life. But I've been lucky - this appartment has provided me with in-built friends and community who I would've loved to be friends with even had they lived far away. Sometimes I think i focus too much on all the negatives of living here, and don't appreciate the beauty of the little community I live in. The city may still suck me dry, but the girls are here to look after me.
This is sappy. And probably badly typed. But dammit, I'm happy for once (if a little drunk). I guess I can always rewrite this tomorrow. I feel I should be making some salient point about eveything but really, truthfully, I'm just glad to have found such lovely friends living right below me...
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Supermarket Sweep
Apologies to everyone I saw back in London last week, who have already heard this story straight from my angry little mouth. However, it's a tale so distressing that it just cries out to be written down...
One of the (many) moderately bizarre things about life in L.A. is the way that the whole city seems to be one giant pick-up joint. In some ways this must be great for single people, as one gets asked out on dates and dinners about a thousand times more than in England. On the other hand, it's rather disconcerting that you end up fending off men when you've just popped down to the supermarket to buy a pint of milk. I thought this might just be an L.A. phenomenom, but I have recently received confirmation that Americans from all over the country are shocked, when visiting England, to discover that no-one dresses up to go to the supermarket. To be honest, I'm kind of glad that I'm not single here. The idea of putting on makeup and nice clothes every time you leave the house 'just in case' seems rather exhausting.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, I'd gone down to the local Ralphs (think Tescos but with all the products arranged in really counter-intuitive groupings [why on earth would anyone group vinegar in with soups rather than, say, salad dressings or condiments?]) wearing my clearly totally-inappropriate-to-grocery-shopping-in-America jeans, sweatshirt and un-made-up face. I was hoping that this would mean I could do my shopping free from male hassle. I thought I'd succeeded but, no, standing in the check-out queue I found myself accosted by a man whose appearence epitomised every stereotype one could possibly have about Californian surfer-dudes. He chats to me about the contents of my basket, and I respond with the sort of bland smalltalk that seems appropriate. I happen to mention that I've only just moved here. He replies that I must be finding life here pretty different to China.
China? I respond. What's China got to do with anything? He looks confused at this, and says that well, seeing as I'm Chinese I must find America pretty confusing. I honestly don't know how to respond to this. As far as I'm aware I neither look Chinese, or speak with anything resembling a Chinese accent (and it worries me slightly that it clearly sounds to Americans as if English is my second language). Not wanting to get involved in some ridiculous debate while trying to pay for my shopping, I decide to simply smile and tell him that no, actually I'm English. To this he nods and says "well, I was close, wasn't I? After all, England and China are next to each other".
No surfer-dude man, no they're not. I don't know which shocks me more - the level of geographical ignorance, or the fact that this man (who, btw, appears to be in his late-20s, not 16 or anything) appears to show absoloutely no shame or embarassment when I explain to him that these two places are in entirely different continents.
I'm not a genius. I freely admit that there's an awful lot of stuff that I don't know, particularly with regard to U.S. history and geography. But (and in my mind this is a big but), if I get something hideously wrong and someone corrects me, I show at least some interest in finding out the real answer. This guy was completely unbothered by his ignorance.
Maybe I'm an insufferable intellectual snob. Clearly if I ever want to fit in here I'm going to have to get over this and embrace self-belief as more important than intellectual acumen. The cardinal social rule here seems to be to never criticise anything, and always agree with everything everyone ever says, even if you know them to be wrong (the correct form for coping with such wrongness is apparently to just go home and bitch about it afterwards, thus sparing the feelings of the person in question). It's just so hard when I've lived my whole life thinking that the pursuit of knowledge is more important than hurting someone's feelings a little bit. Am I right or wrong readers? Opinions gladly taken (even [nay, especially] those that differ from my own).
One of the (many) moderately bizarre things about life in L.A. is the way that the whole city seems to be one giant pick-up joint. In some ways this must be great for single people, as one gets asked out on dates and dinners about a thousand times more than in England. On the other hand, it's rather disconcerting that you end up fending off men when you've just popped down to the supermarket to buy a pint of milk. I thought this might just be an L.A. phenomenom, but I have recently received confirmation that Americans from all over the country are shocked, when visiting England, to discover that no-one dresses up to go to the supermarket. To be honest, I'm kind of glad that I'm not single here. The idea of putting on makeup and nice clothes every time you leave the house 'just in case' seems rather exhausting.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, I'd gone down to the local Ralphs (think Tescos but with all the products arranged in really counter-intuitive groupings [why on earth would anyone group vinegar in with soups rather than, say, salad dressings or condiments?]) wearing my clearly totally-inappropriate-to-grocery-shopping-in-America jeans, sweatshirt and un-made-up face. I was hoping that this would mean I could do my shopping free from male hassle. I thought I'd succeeded but, no, standing in the check-out queue I found myself accosted by a man whose appearence epitomised every stereotype one could possibly have about Californian surfer-dudes. He chats to me about the contents of my basket, and I respond with the sort of bland smalltalk that seems appropriate. I happen to mention that I've only just moved here. He replies that I must be finding life here pretty different to China.
China? I respond. What's China got to do with anything? He looks confused at this, and says that well, seeing as I'm Chinese I must find America pretty confusing. I honestly don't know how to respond to this. As far as I'm aware I neither look Chinese, or speak with anything resembling a Chinese accent (and it worries me slightly that it clearly sounds to Americans as if English is my second language). Not wanting to get involved in some ridiculous debate while trying to pay for my shopping, I decide to simply smile and tell him that no, actually I'm English. To this he nods and says "well, I was close, wasn't I? After all, England and China are next to each other".
No surfer-dude man, no they're not. I don't know which shocks me more - the level of geographical ignorance, or the fact that this man (who, btw, appears to be in his late-20s, not 16 or anything) appears to show absoloutely no shame or embarassment when I explain to him that these two places are in entirely different continents.
I'm not a genius. I freely admit that there's an awful lot of stuff that I don't know, particularly with regard to U.S. history and geography. But (and in my mind this is a big but), if I get something hideously wrong and someone corrects me, I show at least some interest in finding out the real answer. This guy was completely unbothered by his ignorance.
Maybe I'm an insufferable intellectual snob. Clearly if I ever want to fit in here I'm going to have to get over this and embrace self-belief as more important than intellectual acumen. The cardinal social rule here seems to be to never criticise anything, and always agree with everything everyone ever says, even if you know them to be wrong (the correct form for coping with such wrongness is apparently to just go home and bitch about it afterwards, thus sparing the feelings of the person in question). It's just so hard when I've lived my whole life thinking that the pursuit of knowledge is more important than hurting someone's feelings a little bit. Am I right or wrong readers? Opinions gladly taken (even [nay, especially] those that differ from my own).
Monday, March 19, 2007
The Power of Positive Thinking
So I'm back in L.A. after a glorious four days in England, that served to confirm just how much I miss the motherland. I always know how much I miss my family and friends, how self-centered I find a lot of people here, but I forget how truly inspiring it is to live in a city as beautiful as London. And, yes, London is beautiful in its chaos*, and one doesn't even really notice it until one is transplanted to a city** where everything is modern and organised and washed out and grey - and just plain same-y. (Sorry, it appears that eloquence is evading me today - I think I'll blame it on the jetlag.)
It was lovely to see so many friends, although a little heart-breaking that by the end I was fitting people into half-hour timeslots. Four days is not enough. Of course, everyone asked me how I was finding life in America, and I found that the tone of my answer tended to depend mainly on proximity to the husband. Much as I may moan and bitch about life in the land of the free and the home of the brave, having to try to find positive things to say about my adopted homeland in front of Scott did make me realise that there are - genuinely - some things that the U.S.A. does a lot better than in England. As you will see, these are important US achievements that more than make up for the lack of a free healthcare system and such.
Here, in no particular order, are the top 5 ways that living in the US is better than the UK.
5 - Walk-in closets in every bedroom. A teenage fantasy come to life, taking the pain out of outfit selection.
4 - "Two-buck chuck". A bottle of wine for the equivalent of a pound. I was initally reticent to try this, as it seemed impossible that a company could actually produce wine this cheaply - surely it costs that much for the bottle?!? Surprisingly non-disgusting. Not great but, you know, drinkable.
3 - Butter. Not the product itself, which is much the same, but the fact that inside the initial wrapper the creamy goodness is sub-divided into wrapped strips. These strips are printed with a measuring chart, which tells you where to cut for different weights and measurements. I realise this is of limited excitment to those who don't bake, but I was amazed! My mother informs me that British butter used to come the same way - why on earth has this been stopped?
2 - Edible fast-food. Don't get too excited, all the usual fast-food hellholes still rule the roost. However, there are also a proliferation of mexican fast-food places (Baja Fresh etc...) that are both scrummy and cheap. Probably score better on the global deforestation and exploitation of workers front too.
1 - Liquor store delivery service. I remember being involved in a long conversation back in the uni days about how great it would be if after the local shop had closed/it was cold, one could order takeaway wine and cigarettes. People, I am pleased to report that the shopkeepers of America listened to this plea and, for the princely sum of a dollar, the local liquor store will deliver whatever you want to your door - 24 hours a day. I'm still too embarrased to actually use this service, although the girls downstairs tell me I will get over this. They're now trying to get over the fact that the store now recognises their number when they call up, and asks whether they'll be wanting the wine or vodka tonight.
There you go. There's also the cheap cosmetics and the sunshine, but they seem a little too boring to list. Will update on further good things as I discover them. Maybe, just maybe, one day I'll be able to think of more good things than bad...
*Yes, I'm aware that its sounds wrong here. I have a vague feeling that cities are probably feminine, or is that just boats? Is there some kind of gender rule here, or does it depend on the city in question?
**I am still loath to describe Los Angeles as a city. Yes, it's a big, but in my mind true city-status requires some sort of central downtown area and people wandering around (sitting in cars doesn't count, even if you are mainly in traffic jams). It also requires some sense of unique character and charm. There is little about Los Angeles that one could describe as charming. Unless you get turned on by freeways and car wrecks (and if a David Cronenberg movie says you can, then it must be possible). In character and architecture L.A. is nothing more than a giant suburb.
It was lovely to see so many friends, although a little heart-breaking that by the end I was fitting people into half-hour timeslots. Four days is not enough. Of course, everyone asked me how I was finding life in America, and I found that the tone of my answer tended to depend mainly on proximity to the husband. Much as I may moan and bitch about life in the land of the free and the home of the brave, having to try to find positive things to say about my adopted homeland in front of Scott did make me realise that there are - genuinely - some things that the U.S.A. does a lot better than in England. As you will see, these are important US achievements that more than make up for the lack of a free healthcare system and such.
Here, in no particular order, are the top 5 ways that living in the US is better than the UK.
5 - Walk-in closets in every bedroom. A teenage fantasy come to life, taking the pain out of outfit selection.
4 - "Two-buck chuck". A bottle of wine for the equivalent of a pound. I was initally reticent to try this, as it seemed impossible that a company could actually produce wine this cheaply - surely it costs that much for the bottle?!? Surprisingly non-disgusting. Not great but, you know, drinkable.
3 - Butter. Not the product itself, which is much the same, but the fact that inside the initial wrapper the creamy goodness is sub-divided into wrapped strips. These strips are printed with a measuring chart, which tells you where to cut for different weights and measurements. I realise this is of limited excitment to those who don't bake, but I was amazed! My mother informs me that British butter used to come the same way - why on earth has this been stopped?
2 - Edible fast-food. Don't get too excited, all the usual fast-food hellholes still rule the roost. However, there are also a proliferation of mexican fast-food places (Baja Fresh etc...) that are both scrummy and cheap. Probably score better on the global deforestation and exploitation of workers front too.
1 - Liquor store delivery service. I remember being involved in a long conversation back in the uni days about how great it would be if after the local shop had closed/it was cold, one could order takeaway wine and cigarettes. People, I am pleased to report that the shopkeepers of America listened to this plea and, for the princely sum of a dollar, the local liquor store will deliver whatever you want to your door - 24 hours a day. I'm still too embarrased to actually use this service, although the girls downstairs tell me I will get over this. They're now trying to get over the fact that the store now recognises their number when they call up, and asks whether they'll be wanting the wine or vodka tonight.
There you go. There's also the cheap cosmetics and the sunshine, but they seem a little too boring to list. Will update on further good things as I discover them. Maybe, just maybe, one day I'll be able to think of more good things than bad...
*Yes, I'm aware that its sounds wrong here. I have a vague feeling that cities are probably feminine, or is that just boats? Is there some kind of gender rule here, or does it depend on the city in question?
**I am still loath to describe Los Angeles as a city. Yes, it's a big, but in my mind true city-status requires some sort of central downtown area and people wandering around (sitting in cars doesn't count, even if you are mainly in traffic jams). It also requires some sense of unique character and charm. There is little about Los Angeles that one could describe as charming. Unless you get turned on by freeways and car wrecks (and if a David Cronenberg movie says you can, then it must be possible). In character and architecture L.A. is nothing more than a giant suburb.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Almost Happy
Why is it that I seem unable to write entries in this for weeks at a time and then, when i do write something, realize that I do have stuff to say, and have to write multiple entries.
Anyway, I realize that I may have seemed rather miserable in my last spate of entries. This is because I was rather miserable. However, day by day, almost so imperceptibly that I don't notice it happening, I seem to hate it here less. Right now I've reached the stage of almost liking it. Bizarre.
Anyway, here are the good things:
1 - Have met some nice people. Actually feel like there's someone here now who I could describe as a proper friend. We sit on the porch in the evening drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and watching the crazy folks of Hollywood Blvd pass us by. It's like being back in London. Only warmer.
2 - Despite still being unable to work for actual money (come on work permit), I've been doing some interny-type script-reading stuff to fill the time. Which I'm actually finding interesting. I'm also working on producing a documentary with Scott. It's an investigation into the reasons why so many amusement parks are closing around America. Actually pretty interesting. Scott's provided the initial idea, I'm structuring the brainstorms into something that resembles a cohesive thesis. Also doing the research and production organisation. He is also going to do all the on-camera interviewing stuff, which he loves and which scares me senseless. It's great when you have someone there to cover your weak spots!
3 - I'm just about to book tickets to come back to London for a week in March to attend the wedding of an old friend! Would love to meet up with anyone who is around then.
Good things do happen in threes.
Anyway, I realize that I may have seemed rather miserable in my last spate of entries. This is because I was rather miserable. However, day by day, almost so imperceptibly that I don't notice it happening, I seem to hate it here less. Right now I've reached the stage of almost liking it. Bizarre.
Anyway, here are the good things:
1 - Have met some nice people. Actually feel like there's someone here now who I could describe as a proper friend. We sit on the porch in the evening drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and watching the crazy folks of Hollywood Blvd pass us by. It's like being back in London. Only warmer.
2 - Despite still being unable to work for actual money (come on work permit), I've been doing some interny-type script-reading stuff to fill the time. Which I'm actually finding interesting. I'm also working on producing a documentary with Scott. It's an investigation into the reasons why so many amusement parks are closing around America. Actually pretty interesting. Scott's provided the initial idea, I'm structuring the brainstorms into something that resembles a cohesive thesis. Also doing the research and production organisation. He is also going to do all the on-camera interviewing stuff, which he loves and which scares me senseless. It's great when you have someone there to cover your weak spots!
3 - I'm just about to book tickets to come back to London for a week in March to attend the wedding of an old friend! Would love to meet up with anyone who is around then.
Good things do happen in threes.
Escape from L.A.
Have just got back from a weekend in San Francisco, where a film Scott worked on was showing at the SF indiefest. I had mixed feelings about attending this event. On the plus side, I love San Franciso, and it would be fun to get out of L.A. for a few days. On the minus side, it involved spending a concentrated amount of time with a group of people who haven't been particularly friendly towards me. When Scott announced that he'd got work in Denver for a week immediatly following the festival I decided to go, so I could actually spend a bit of time with my husband.
It turned out that I made the right decision, and had a wonderful weekend. Stayed with some of Scott's friends who live in the Tenderloin, who were the loveliest hosts one could wish for. Made friends with a girl who was showing a documentary she had made about South Afrikan women in hip hop. It was educational, and we had a lot of fun hanging out. As for the friends who I don't like...well, I managed to not spend too much time with them. Cameron (the one from this crowd who I actually really like) got immensely drunk and melancholic, and I volunteered to look after him. Although this sounds like a bit of a chore, there's a weird part of me that feels better about myself when i'm looking after someone. Or maybe it's just that looking after a drunk boy made me feel like I was back at home. Who knows? Did have to go for lunch with those I did not like. It was awkward, but I think I made noises in all the required places. Although I had to restrain myself when someone was confused by the word jettison. And when they didn't realize that Alcatraz was no longer functioning. And when it took 20 minutes (no joke) to divide the restaurant bill. Must stop myself being such a snobby bitch. It's just not the done thing here.
San Francisco is good for the soul. Maybe I just needed to be back in a proper city for a while. Walking down streets full of crowds of people, with life and dreams and stories at every turn, is something that I'd learnt to take for granted. Too often L.A. feels like a ghost city, with empty streets and lines of cars driving off into very private futures. Weird that a town famous for storytelling seems so void of emotion.
It turned out that I made the right decision, and had a wonderful weekend. Stayed with some of Scott's friends who live in the Tenderloin, who were the loveliest hosts one could wish for. Made friends with a girl who was showing a documentary she had made about South Afrikan women in hip hop. It was educational, and we had a lot of fun hanging out. As for the friends who I don't like...well, I managed to not spend too much time with them. Cameron (the one from this crowd who I actually really like) got immensely drunk and melancholic, and I volunteered to look after him. Although this sounds like a bit of a chore, there's a weird part of me that feels better about myself when i'm looking after someone. Or maybe it's just that looking after a drunk boy made me feel like I was back at home. Who knows? Did have to go for lunch with those I did not like. It was awkward, but I think I made noises in all the required places. Although I had to restrain myself when someone was confused by the word jettison. And when they didn't realize that Alcatraz was no longer functioning. And when it took 20 minutes (no joke) to divide the restaurant bill. Must stop myself being such a snobby bitch. It's just not the done thing here.
San Francisco is good for the soul. Maybe I just needed to be back in a proper city for a while. Walking down streets full of crowds of people, with life and dreams and stories at every turn, is something that I'd learnt to take for granted. Too often L.A. feels like a ghost city, with empty streets and lines of cars driving off into very private futures. Weird that a town famous for storytelling seems so void of emotion.
What's in a name
People in LA have strange names. I'm presuming that this is more a sign of "creative" people moving to L.A. rather than a random geographic anomoly.
For example, last week I met a frind of Scott's who is named Shoe. This is weird enough in itself, but even more bizarre when you factor in that I have already met another friend of Scott's who is called Boot. These two people do not know each other.
A few weeks ago I went to an advance preview of the film 300 (knowing comic geek boys has advantages) with, among other, a man who had legally changed his name to Just A Name. He seemed completely normal.
And the biggest joke of all is that 99% of people I meet here tell me what a weird name I have...
For example, last week I met a frind of Scott's who is named Shoe. This is weird enough in itself, but even more bizarre when you factor in that I have already met another friend of Scott's who is called Boot. These two people do not know each other.
A few weeks ago I went to an advance preview of the film 300 (knowing comic geek boys has advantages) with, among other, a man who had legally changed his name to Just A Name. He seemed completely normal.
And the biggest joke of all is that 99% of people I meet here tell me what a weird name I have...
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Quote of the Week
Or technically of last week, in San Diego. While Scott taught people how to do clever things on computers, I partook in a little sight-seeing. One of the places I visited was Old Town - the first Western settlement in California - and overheard the following statement from a local man showing some tourists around
"It's called Old Town because it's an old town".
No sarcastic twinge, no further explanation. God bless America.
"It's called Old Town because it's an old town".
No sarcastic twinge, no further explanation. God bless America.
Adjustment
I wish I could say that the reason I haven't posted in the last few weeks is because I've been so terribly busy, but this would be a rather large lie. To tell the truth, I have mainly been wallowing in misery. There are a lot of things that frustrate me about life in Los Angeles, and there are a lot of ways in which I'm frustrated and ashamed at myself for not knowing how to do the simplest things here. I've travelled a lot, in far more "exotic" locales than Los Angeles, and always not only coped with, but positively enjoyed all the variances in daily life around the globe. It turns out that adjusting to living somewhere is a lot more emotionally draining than just travelling through.
Yesterday's outpouring of tears was caused by my inability to post a letter. Scott was busy, I was bored, so he asked if I could post his mail for him. This is something so ridiculously commonplace that I never even considered before the amount of knowledge one needs to carry out this simple act. My first problem came with trying to find a post office. Turns out that one goes to the UPS place, but I didn't know that. Then at the counter, I took part in the following conversation.
- Can I have some stamps to send this to England please?
- Sure, no problem. (girl takes letter and goes to frank it. pauses. returns.) Where's England?
- Um, Europe. (girl nods, and starts to look thorugh a printed list)
- No, sorry, it's not.
- Yes it is.
- No, it's not on my Europe list. (Girl passes over her book, which lists the countries of the world by region. I study it).
- Oh, it's here. United Kingdom.
- You didn't say that, you said England.
- Sorry.
And here I let the conversation end, not having the desire or energy to get involved in an argument with a stranger.
I spend a lot of time here feeling like a particularly ignorant and slow child, a burden on everyone around her. Yet at the same time, I feel ridiculously defensive. I've only just moved here! How am I supposed to learn how to do stuff if no-one takes the time to help me? It particularly annoys me that no-one here manages to say my name correctly. Fill-Eeeeee-Parrr is how I am to be known in this land. When I tried to correct someone and explain, no, that's not how you pronounce it, he became all defensive and asked me what I had against Fill-Eeee-Parrr. Nothing. I have nothing against it. I also have nothing against Susan. It's just that neither of them are my name, and there's something quietly soul-destroying about living somewhere where not only does no-one know your name, they really can't be bothered to learn it. Or even pretend to.
In positive news, Scott made me go to the chiropracter with him. I had been less than convinced by similar outings to Reiki masters and astrologers, and thought this would be more of the same. Lo and behold, it turns out that having your back "adjusted" really does take away a lot of pain. I guess sometimes being open to new experiences does pay off...
Yesterday's outpouring of tears was caused by my inability to post a letter. Scott was busy, I was bored, so he asked if I could post his mail for him. This is something so ridiculously commonplace that I never even considered before the amount of knowledge one needs to carry out this simple act. My first problem came with trying to find a post office. Turns out that one goes to the UPS place, but I didn't know that. Then at the counter, I took part in the following conversation.
- Can I have some stamps to send this to England please?
- Sure, no problem. (girl takes letter and goes to frank it. pauses. returns.) Where's England?
- Um, Europe. (girl nods, and starts to look thorugh a printed list)
- No, sorry, it's not.
- Yes it is.
- No, it's not on my Europe list. (Girl passes over her book, which lists the countries of the world by region. I study it).
- Oh, it's here. United Kingdom.
- You didn't say that, you said England.
- Sorry.
And here I let the conversation end, not having the desire or energy to get involved in an argument with a stranger.
I spend a lot of time here feeling like a particularly ignorant and slow child, a burden on everyone around her. Yet at the same time, I feel ridiculously defensive. I've only just moved here! How am I supposed to learn how to do stuff if no-one takes the time to help me? It particularly annoys me that no-one here manages to say my name correctly. Fill-Eeeeee-Parrr is how I am to be known in this land. When I tried to correct someone and explain, no, that's not how you pronounce it, he became all defensive and asked me what I had against Fill-Eeee-Parrr. Nothing. I have nothing against it. I also have nothing against Susan. It's just that neither of them are my name, and there's something quietly soul-destroying about living somewhere where not only does no-one know your name, they really can't be bothered to learn it. Or even pretend to.
In positive news, Scott made me go to the chiropracter with him. I had been less than convinced by similar outings to Reiki masters and astrologers, and thought this would be more of the same. Lo and behold, it turns out that having your back "adjusted" really does take away a lot of pain. I guess sometimes being open to new experiences does pay off...
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Dilemma
There's a girl here, one of Scott's closest female friends, who I don't really like. I don't hate her, but there's a lot of reasons why it's probably just best if I don't spend too much time with her. Partly because I think she's been quite rude to me in the past, and partly because she's just not the type of person I have much in common with (she was the one who asked whether christmas was celebrated in England).
Now, as I have no friends here, and really don't want to be developing any enemies, I had decided that the best way to handle her would just be to be sweet and polite whenever we happened to be hanging out at the same place. I'm a big girl, and I'm sure I can manage to be nice for a few hours at a time. However, this morning I received an email from her inviting me to an all-girls party weekend on an island just off the coast of LA at the end of the month.
There are many, many, reasons why this trip doesn't sound like it would be that much fun for me. She would be the only person I know attending and, as such, I would have to spend a lot of time with her (i.e. sharing rooms in hotels and relying on her to drive me to and from the ferry). I'm not even sure if I can be polite for a whole weekend, especially when alcohol is involved, and especially when I don't have Scott there to triangulate (knowing both of us he could presumably fill those gaps in conversation somewhat). Plus, these are LA actress girls, for whom appearence is everything, and I don't know if I can cope with the stress of trying to look perfect all weekend...
On the other hand, I'm meant to be starting a new life here. I really need friends, and I really need to develop a bit of a life away from Scott. Am I just being scared? Or, if hell is other people, why on earth would anyone choose to spend a weekend with a girl they found it difficult to sit through a simple dinner with a week ago? Any advice is greatly appreciated...
- Oh, and for what it's worth, I'm pretty sure that the girl in question doesn't like me either. She's certainly never been awfully friendly before. She's probably just inviting me out of politeness to Scott, in which case how bad would it be for both of us if I actually go?!?
Now, as I have no friends here, and really don't want to be developing any enemies, I had decided that the best way to handle her would just be to be sweet and polite whenever we happened to be hanging out at the same place. I'm a big girl, and I'm sure I can manage to be nice for a few hours at a time. However, this morning I received an email from her inviting me to an all-girls party weekend on an island just off the coast of LA at the end of the month.
There are many, many, reasons why this trip doesn't sound like it would be that much fun for me. She would be the only person I know attending and, as such, I would have to spend a lot of time with her (i.e. sharing rooms in hotels and relying on her to drive me to and from the ferry). I'm not even sure if I can be polite for a whole weekend, especially when alcohol is involved, and especially when I don't have Scott there to triangulate (knowing both of us he could presumably fill those gaps in conversation somewhat). Plus, these are LA actress girls, for whom appearence is everything, and I don't know if I can cope with the stress of trying to look perfect all weekend...
On the other hand, I'm meant to be starting a new life here. I really need friends, and I really need to develop a bit of a life away from Scott. Am I just being scared? Or, if hell is other people, why on earth would anyone choose to spend a weekend with a girl they found it difficult to sit through a simple dinner with a week ago? Any advice is greatly appreciated...
- Oh, and for what it's worth, I'm pretty sure that the girl in question doesn't like me either. She's certainly never been awfully friendly before. She's probably just inviting me out of politeness to Scott, in which case how bad would it be for both of us if I actually go?!?
Life's a Gas
So, I'd been feeling physically ill since I moved to Los Angeles. Most evenings in the apartment came complete with a throbbing headache and increasing nausea. The evening of New Year's day was spent locked in the toilet. Scott and I considered various explanations for this, the two most likely being food poisoning from the cheap Thai restaurant that we visited on NYE, and some sort of psychosmatic illness based on the fact that I don't really like it here.
Plagued by this low-level illness (and by the fact that Scott refused to let me see a doctor due to the lack of medical insurance), I was not too happy at being left on my own for two days while the husband went of to work in San Diego. Knowing that I was miserable and cold, he gave me intense instruction in how to opearate the TV (trickier than you would imagine) and the archaic 1920s heating system. I mastered the TV, but was too scared to use the radiator (which one has to light with a match), and instead snuggled under blankets. This turned out to be a very, very, good thing.
Yesterday I called in the gas man, as one of the rings on the oven (also, it seems from the 1920s) was not working. We had a nice chat (he also an immigrant), and while here he said he would check the heating system for me. Which I thought was nice of him.
After spending 10 minutes or so lighting matches and fiddling with switches, he turned to me with a grave look on his face, and asked when we had last had the heating on. I told him it had been a few days ago. He asked if I had been having headaches or been feeling sick. Why yes I had. He then turns to me sternly, and tells me not to use it again because "if you switch on you go to to sleep and not wake up". Turns out it is leaking huge amounts of carbon monoxide into the living room, and the only reason that we're not already dead is that a lot of our windows are broken, which provided a bit of life-saving ventilation.
Strangely, it almost pleased me to find this out. Clearly it's not good that we were almost poisoned. However, it is nice to know that my body was going mental for a reason, and not just because I'm having a nervous breakdown. It also explains why Scott has found his memory and concentration failing whenever he is in the flat. So people, if you too live in an apartment with antiquted heating systems, a crazy landlady that has no interest in fixing stuff, and find yourself suffering from mystery illnesses, it really is worth taking the time to make sure you're not being poisoned...
Plagued by this low-level illness (and by the fact that Scott refused to let me see a doctor due to the lack of medical insurance), I was not too happy at being left on my own for two days while the husband went of to work in San Diego. Knowing that I was miserable and cold, he gave me intense instruction in how to opearate the TV (trickier than you would imagine) and the archaic 1920s heating system. I mastered the TV, but was too scared to use the radiator (which one has to light with a match), and instead snuggled under blankets. This turned out to be a very, very, good thing.
Yesterday I called in the gas man, as one of the rings on the oven (also, it seems from the 1920s) was not working. We had a nice chat (he also an immigrant), and while here he said he would check the heating system for me. Which I thought was nice of him.
After spending 10 minutes or so lighting matches and fiddling with switches, he turned to me with a grave look on his face, and asked when we had last had the heating on. I told him it had been a few days ago. He asked if I had been having headaches or been feeling sick. Why yes I had. He then turns to me sternly, and tells me not to use it again because "if you switch on you go to to sleep and not wake up". Turns out it is leaking huge amounts of carbon monoxide into the living room, and the only reason that we're not already dead is that a lot of our windows are broken, which provided a bit of life-saving ventilation.
Strangely, it almost pleased me to find this out. Clearly it's not good that we were almost poisoned. However, it is nice to know that my body was going mental for a reason, and not just because I'm having a nervous breakdown. It also explains why Scott has found his memory and concentration failing whenever he is in the flat. So people, if you too live in an apartment with antiquted heating systems, a crazy landlady that has no interest in fixing stuff, and find yourself suffering from mystery illnesses, it really is worth taking the time to make sure you're not being poisoned...
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Celebrity Spotting - week 1
1- The guy who played the original black surgeon in ER (the one who mentored Carter) - at the Arclight cinema.
2 - The girl who plays Eliot in Scrubs - coming out of a baby store in the Grove.
Clearly I hang out at the same places as fake doctors. What does that say about me?
2 - The girl who plays Eliot in Scrubs - coming out of a baby store in the Grove.
Clearly I hang out at the same places as fake doctors. What does that say about me?
Quote of the week
Before I moved here, I was under the impression that I was a reasonably tolerant and all round groovy person, who avoided making judgements based on un-PC factors such as race, age, gender or nationality. A week of being a resident of California has ruined all this. I tried not to believe the stereotypes, really I did, but it is so hard not to make judgements about the IQ levels of certain Californian girls when they sit with you at dinner and ask you, with the deepest sincerity, "if you guys, like, have christmas in England".
Life Lessons
I guess the greatest lesson I've learnt over the past few weeks is that it takes great tenacity and strength of character to be able to pack your life into two bags, leave behind your family and friends, and embrace a new existance on the other side of the world.
Sadly, I have also learnt that I may be a little lacking in these areas.
Sadly, I have also learnt that I may be a little lacking in these areas.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)