FOUND: A Lazy Writer Who Writes About Writing

So I didn't post yesterday because I had a shitty work day and decided I'd rather up my endorphin count by hanging out with Casey after I got off. We ate raw vegan food and watched One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. When these two things make you happier than when you were at work, you know it was a rough day.

I was trying to of what to write about tonight... I kind of bounce among my safe little pool of topics:

- Being a young adult
- Living in LA
- Being a young adult in LA
- Having a job
- Having a job in entertainment
- Being a writer
- Being a writer in LA
- The Free Masons

So tonight let's talk a bit about being a writer in LA.

Any other post about this topic will probably be a gratuitous heap of depression and negativity, but I'm keeping it light tonight. Party because I don't feel like pretending to be depressed, and partly because I want to make sure I have enough time to watch an episode of "House of Cards" before bed tonight. Seriously, I just started watching... Kevin Spacey is and always will be the world's hottest guy-who's-more-than-fifteen-years-older-than-you.

Spacin' out

Tonight I'm going to kill two birds with one stone on this blog. See, as a "writer in LA" it's my job to go out and send my spec script to the batch of tv writing fellowship programs that open for submission around the spring. I've already submitted to the Nickelodeon TV Writing program, but I've been severely putting off looking up the deadlines of the others for no particular reason. Which I believe is the textbook definition of laziness.

I'll post the programs here so that you know what I'm looking to do, and I'll know what I should be doing. This is mutually beneficial for anyone else out there who is as remotely wrapped up in my life as I am. Although it is also beneficial to other writers I'm competing against... ho hum.

Here they be:

1. Nickelodeon Television Writing Program - Already submitted to. You basically get to play writer for a year at Nick Studios. They pay you to shadow your idols. I'll take that to go, garcon.

2. Disney ABC Writing Program - Submission period unknown. The submission period has never once been posted online in the 237 times I've checked over the last 9 months. I guess if they're offering to help me network with successful writers/producers, let me write on a show for a year, and pay me nearly double what I currently make, they can post the submission period whenever the hell they want. I'll be standing by creepily waiting to hand them a manila envelope containing a script and about 10 ounces of glitter.

Assuming that's the proper unit of measurement for glitter.

3. Writers on the Verge - Submission period May 1-May 30. A chance for me to compete with much more experienced/successful writers for the privilege of being able to say that you write for a living.

4. WB Writers' Workshop - Submission period May-May 31. A once-a-week writing workshop with Warner Bros. So I can still do other things technically... it's always been my dream to be a couch salesman by day and TV writer by night.

5. CBS' Writer Mentoring Program - Submission period March 1-May 31. Wait... I need a pilot episode already?!

6. Late Night Writers' Workshop - Jan 10-24, 2014. Missed it 'cause I'm a moron and didn't know it existed until doing a little research just a minute ago. I now have a full year to think about my choices.

That's it.

This post took about as long to write as a usual post... and about 1/100th as entertaining. Now THAT's conservation of energy.

I Would Bike Five Hundred Bars, and I Would Bike Five Hundred More

Everyone knows that bicycles are a healthy, eco-friendly mode of transportation.

What you don't know is that bicycles are actually hormonally-injected genetically mutated unicycles.

Disgusting.

And what you also might not know is that bikes are great for bar hopping! Bike-hopping. Bar-biking. Barbecue. Barbie. Sexism. Who are you again?

This is what I did this past weekend with Casey and her roommate. Saturday afternoon Casey and I sojourned out to Pasadena to get her a new bike, since her old bike had flower stickers on the side and no working gears. I was eager to make more use of the one I got this past Channukah. So far I haven't been able to use it much, because I work 11 hours a day and on the weekends I wear a shirt that reads "LAZY FUCK" under all my clothing.

I am happy to report that during this past weekend, not only was I a productive fuck- I was a productive drunk, too! In the morning I biked around town getting groceries and running miscellaneous errands, but once night descended onto the unsuspecting bike lanes of Los Angeles, Casey, her roomie and I took to the streets like ravenous hyenas in search of booze.

On bicycles.

Okay, I know what you're thinking.

     


                            Wheels + Alcohol - Coordination =







But you've got the equation all wrong. It's actually






                                       Wheels + Alcohol - Fucks = 




Taking your bike on a bar excursion is actually wonderful for several reasons. You don't have to look for parking, you don't have to pay for parking (more beer!), your bike is right outside the bar where there's more than enough foot traffic to ward off thieves, and best of all, at no point are you getting behind the wheel of a car with alcohol in your system.

Now, granted that none of us were truly smashed, but bicycling after a few drinks was hardly treacherous. It was actually insanely fun and about as easy to maneuver as any other bikeventure. I admit I had reservations at first. Before the evening began I was certain that one of us would topple over and eat it. But the old mantra about bikes proved true: once you learn, you never forget. Some part of me was convinced we'd regress to five-year-olds once we had booze in our systems. But thinking about it, I don't turn five when I drink. I turn into a sarcastic and overly-emotional thirteen-year-old. And I knew how to ride a bike when I was thirteen.

We planned the evening out right. Biking meant that we had to remain relatively local, so we left Casey's apartment and rode about 20 minutes away to Silverlake. What we chose to do was ride to the furthest point and work back the way we came. The only downside to this plan was the uphill-ness coming back. Fortunately it was not steep at all, and even in my most sober state I just randomly click the gears around like a silly baboon until I find a setting that works.

So where did we go on our magical Tour d' Silverlake?

I'm glad you asked, slightly larger font.

Our first stop was the enchanting 4100 Bar.

Come wearing your finest PJs and/or belly-dancing skirt.

I imagine they had to go with the name "4100 Bar" for fear of what kind of crowd "Sexy Blanket Fort Fun Palace" would attract. But with the low warm lighting, intimate atmosphere, and abundance of tapestries draped from the ceilings and walls, this place promised a lot more intrigue and wonderment than the outside, which is a small black building with some dude grilling carne asada in the parking lot. Drinks ranged from affordable to I'm-a-paid-actor, and the bar played lots of 90s grunge... though I think that's because there was a juke box, in which case the real reason to go is for the odds of striking up a conversation with whoever payed to play five consecutive Nirvana tracks.

A few blocks up on Sunset Blvd. we reached Malo.

Not tu madre's cantina.

Malo was... mas o menos. It was a little more conventional and a lot less dive-y than 4100. It had a trendy lounge sort of feel to it, but Mexican themed. When you put the two together your end up with $12 guacamole and horchata-based mix drinks.  A "nice" bar, but coming from an English major them's fightin' words. Nonetheless I have to say: horchata with rum--?! Next house party I know exactly what two things I'm bringing and not sharing.

Our final liquor pit stop of the evening was Tiki Ti.

AKA my college dorm... both in size and in style.

It's JUST that awesome, you guys. Tiki Ti is a tiki-tiny little bar on border of Silverlake and Los Feliz. It's essentially a Polynesian-looking box filled with wondrous treasures. For starters, I mean, look at that photo. This is what we're dealing with. The whole thing is the size of my apartment, and I live inside a laundry hamper. If you can manage to get your party inside with their tight one-in-one-out entrance policy, you are in for a treat. The walls and ceiling are packed with Pacific Island decorations and knick-knacks, ranging from puffer fish light fixtures to unsettling sociopath-mermaid figurines. You'd think that's the main event, but then they hand you a drink menu. Holy humuhumunukunukuapua'a. It's a list of about 75 different mix drinks with crazy titles and zero descriptions. You have the choice of either asking the bartender or chancing it. Ultimately, no matter which drink I asked about, the little fruity-sugar alcoholic in my head tugged on my earlobe and shrieked, "That one! We're doing that one!" I ended up getting a Chief Lamu Lamu and a Space Pilot, both of which were ten layers of delicious. Be forewarned that Tiki Ti's drinks run in the $9-$20 range apiece, but for a special night out (or a night of generally low inhibitions) this is a place that you have to visit. It's also supposedly one of the oldest bars in LA, so if you need "historical significance" to justify it then be my guest.

After leaving Tiki Ti we made our way home in about 10-15 minutes, where we ate grilled cheese sandwiches with the utmost orderly conduct and self-restraint.

Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez

Final verdict: will I bicycle bar hop again? Ab-cycle-utely!

...a bit of a stretch on that one.

Yes, I fully intend to. As long as I'm able to avoid a BUI, which are as real as they are admittedly hilarious.

Gerry-Meandering

So after a grand total of 3 days of shitty weather we're back to pretending like Winter never happened. All right, California.

Tonight I'd like to discuss ever so briefly (because I just spent the past two hours teaching a high schooler how to lie about her aspirations and I am BEAT) my triple-dip weekend.

That's right, I chewed tobacco with people of three different nationalities.

...But I also spent the weekend in three different counties: Los Angeles, Orange, and San Diego. I visited one of my very closest friends who recently moved to Huntington Beach in Orange County, spent one crazy birthday night in San Diego's downtown Gaslamp district, and bought groceries and went to the bank in Los Angeles.

Firstly, just to get the educational portion of this blog out of the way, please refer to the following map which labels some (but for whatever reason not all) Southern California counties:

San Bernadino accurately depicted as a large space containing absolutely nothing.

Los Angeles: Where I live
San Diego: Where I'm from
Orange: Disneyland

With my move to LA and subsequent awareness of my immediate surroundings, I found this to be an insightful opportunity to look at the nature of these three places. Now, this post deserves a lot more time and cocaine than I'm giving it, but I at least wanted to touch on some of the differences I noticed within the great, beautiful county-centipede we call the South Coast.

I choose to do so in the form of a stream of conscious adjectives. Like a regular Virginia Woolf.

SPOILER ALERT: She's actually a snail.

H'okay.

So.

Orange County

I managed to crop out the CVS's in the four corners of this photo.

Calm

Average

Accepting

Neighborly

Breathable

Family-friendly

Mellow

Non-egotistical 

Mature

I visited my friend's apartment, the beach, a Wahoo's, and found parking at all three places. Orange County is just really good at taking a load off my mind. With the exception of a few boug-y patches it is considerably tamer than the two metropolises Eiffel Towering either side of it, and I appreciate that calm. Visiting Huntington Beach certainly made me blow a kiss to Oceanside... the overall hassle-ness of LA beaches like Santa Monica and Malibu has made me incredibly cynical about beaches that aren't ones I grew up around. So, for the Angeleno willing to trade in the LA designer tag for something more comfortable and affordable, there is Orange County.

San Diego

Complimentary sailboats for all hotel patrons.

Glitter-sandy

Crisp

Colorful

Groomed

Confident

Self-loving

Naiive
Smiley

As someone raised in San Diego I have a much better idea of the nuances that go with each city within the county, so I'm reflecting on just the downtown area. Growing up, I never visited the Gaslamp much for several reasons (poor, underage, reclusive, scared of one-way streets), but coming back after living on the crispy edge of DTLA, it's interesting to see San Diego's take on "urban cityscape." The first thing I noticed was that it is very polished and well-kempt. Now, living in LA I've been trained to be filled with dread and anxiety in these sorts of areas. There will be lots of traffic, no parking, overpriced parking, and lots of bars and restaurants I can't afford but will be forced to eat/drink at and pretend I have the disposable income to do so just so I can save face in front of people who are all just as poor. San Diego is maybe 25% of that, tops. DTSD has a lot of things nailed; namely the look, the busy-but-not-gonna-be-an-ass-hole-about-it vibe, and the bang for your buck. I was not at all stressed driving or being in downtown, and I could even sort of afford the places we hit up. It was swell. The one thing I will say is that DTSD is a total baby compared to DTLA. LA is fierce. San Diego is small and virginal. I don't know if San Diegans not from LA are aware of that. To reference the highly relevant and topical show Rugrats, DTSD is Chuckie and DTLA is Angelica. Except in this scenario Chuckie is a hot surfer.

And Orange County is Tommy. Or else Dill.

And finally...

Los Angeles

Celestial sunset or fire and brimstone?

Dirty

Gritty

Glamorous

Impressive

Kooky

Energetic

Chaotic

Systematic

Arrogant

Tough-loving

Passionate

Jaded

My tri-polar assessment of LA is obviously indicative of the reality of the place. LA is just a fuckin' mish-mash. It's the world's most expensive and desirable Hometown Buffet. In as much a literal as a poetically profound sense, LA has everything; you just have to be willing to put up with a lot of shit to get it.

There's an Alumnus Among Us

As this past weekend was the final week of pledging for the society (co-ed un-douchey less-rapey fraternity) I joined at Whittier, I realized it was a particularly school-heavy week for me. I was elected this semester as one of our society's "alumni advisors," aka society members who take up the noble duty of coming to campus every now and then with advice in the form of cheap 30-racks. I'm a newbie so I got a 12-rack... but hey, I could've done much worse than Tecate.

We use the term "much" very loosely around here.

Anyhow, the end of pledging is a special time. Alumni get an excuse to get together with the active members and drink and hang out and mainly bond over the fact that we're not as miserable as the pledges. It's tons of fun. Even more fun than drinking Tang.

But it's a very strange experience to become an alumni. This is my first time "on the other side," and I gotta say, it's not so much a side as a different plane in the time-space continuum.

Save this picture on your computer so you can appreciate the clever file name I gave it.

Like, remember when you were an awkward kind of chubby 16 year old who wore lime green cheetah leggings everyday and you had a crush on a 20 year old and you were all like, "Hey man, I don't see what the big deal is! Age doesn't matter!" And then as time passed you eventually blossomed into an awkward kind of chubby 20 year old and you were like, "Wow, if I were dating a 16 year old now I wouldn't even want me living in my neighborhood. This is supposed to be a safe community!"

Well, going back to college and doing college-y things sort of feels like that. I didn't experience it too badly because I'm fresh-faced enough that my presence on campus is still relevant. Also, this event is made to be alumni-friendly. But in a year or two my college friends will graduate and be replaced by a crop of kids who give as few shits about me as I did about alumni when I was in school, and hanging around will almost certainly guarantee that I grow a skeevy mullet and handlebar mustache. Trying to keep myself wedged in that community feels... weird.

Now, I remember as a college student that I didn't think much of older alumni coming around... only the exceptionally weird ones who were more reckless than half of my currently-enrolled friends. And the 40-something dude with the belly button piercing. It didn't really strike me as odd that I was in the presence of, say, a 27-year-old who had graduated five years prior. But you spend a few months out of school and all of a sudden the difference is like apples and tax consultants. I think the biggest difference is priorities... I mean shit, I haven't had to write a thesis in nearly 6 months.

AND IT FEELS GREAT

People were so stressed out about writing papers, and making it to dinner on time, and hitting the best house parties, and getting up early for intramural water polo practice... all of a sudden I was so hyper-aware of the fact that I hadn't thought about any of these things once since May. And on the flipsies, if I attempted to talk about my work or my current what-doings with college people what I usually got in response was either blank stares or polite nods. After all, why should they care? Not even other regular faux-grown-ups are really interested, so why should college students? They still have active social lives and excuses to own feather boas.

The key to every and all theme parties.

In all honesty, I'm probably being a little over-dramatic about this ordeal. I didn't feel extremely uncomfortable, just a little nagged by the feeling. 90% of the time was spent hanging out with other alumni anyway. Kudos to the currently enrolly-pollies who were the exception to this rule; you make coming around worth my emotional investment.

I think I'm bracing myself for the much harsher reality I'll have to face a couple years down the line when college is in no way home. I got a little sample spoon of the feeling this year, but I've still got a whole grip of amazing friends in the one-to-three-years-younger than me range to still make me feel loved and welcomed and accepted. You know what that means- I've got one-to-three years to set up my little social network throughout LA county. So far I'm off to a roaring start with an email from a crazy old vegan dude named Star.

And people diss Craigslist for being sketchy.

He wants to go hiking sometime. 

Fatty Birthday to Me

Last blog (and more than a few before that) was all about work.

I'd take the perilous dead tree bridge over the 10 East any day.

But I'm happy to say that this week it's all about play!

Careful, those apples will seriously sneak up on you.

I haven't necessarily slowed down recently so much as I've just worked harder to even out the work-to-fun ratio. It's easier than ever to justify because I just celebrated my 23rd birthday yesterday. Yup, ol' J-Mil's the big two-three... I'm finally entering the adult version of awkward adolescence. It's like turning 13 but knowing how to be existential about it.

So this weekend I've peppered in a few fun celebrations. Among the best was a little affair last Friday evening at the Aquarium of the Pacific in Long Beach, which I'd never been to before. They were having a special late-night event called Night Dive.

Casually nodding to a Beatles song near YOU.

The poster for the event was disappointingly deceptive... I was very unhappy to be told by aquarium personnel that I would not in fact be allowed to drop acid and drive a submarine around the deep sea tank. 

Still, it was a pretty grand event on the whole. It was cool to go to an aquarium at night, especially when said aquarium was filled with art vendors, live bands and booze. I went with Casey and our Long Beach native friend Alana. Once we arrived in downtown LB and got our tickets, we grabbed dinner at the little cluster of food trucks parked outside the aquarium for the event. Once inside, we got to check out all the different aquarium exhibits, learn about how we're killing whales, and even touch sharks!

YES, I touched a mother-flippin' shark. Several in fact. Mostly tiger sharks and baby hammerheads. They were just swimming around in the tide pools like it wasn't no big thang. Fun fact: sharks are actually very soft!

Know how I know that?

I touched a fuckin' shark.

Another interactive highlight of the trip was touching jellyfish. Which is neither as painful nor sexual as it sounds. The aquarium had a little tank set up and you could ("gently") bop 'em on their little jelly domes. I would've given anything to do the same with my new favorite sea creature and possibly animal of all time: lumpsuckers. 

For your reference:

Looks like a jive lumpsucker to me.

It's a chunky little fish with suction cup feet that it uses to "perch" on rocks. Like. What? How did I not know this was a thing?

Lumpsuckers defy science.

My heart just about melted. Likewise, my brain melted when the last performing band came on out of nowhere with a bunch of sick music and terrifying identical lumberjack masks. They call themselves "Fartbarf"... I fartbarf you not.

If I saw these guys on the street I would fartbarf my pants.

Despite what the name might suggest, they're actually a pretty talented, high-energy band with great heavy electronic dance beats and just enough pop in the mix to keep you from running in fear from their masks.

Their sound hits a lot heavier live, but you get the idea. It's the kind of music I would love to take back to people in the 1800s just to fuck with them.

The aquarium apparently hosts a bunch of special events, so it may be worth visiting again in the future. I think I just need an excuse to giggle at little baby lumpsuckers.

My mom and sister also came up over the weekend to celebrate my birthday. We didn't do anything too crazy, though I got to have birthday dinner at a great place that already has a ton of clout but which I will promote anyway: Cafe Gratitude. Oh my nom. Where swanky meets vegan meets delicious. This is a 100% organic vegan restaurant that defies all "leaves and twigs" accusations about vegan diet. This food is INCREDIBLE. 

And incredibly photogenic.

And it doesn't hurt that the waiters compliment you based on what you order. For instance, when I ordered the "humble" with a fresh-squeezed "divine," the waiter wrote my order down, gazed into my hungry fat-ass eyes, and said, "You are humble and divine."

"Thanks, I know right?" I responded just before ordering him to bring me a Q-tip to clean out my belly button.

I finished my meal with a coconut cream pie that was better than it looked.

Isn't that vegan food just miserable?

In terms of other birthday treats, I spent my actual birthday evening at Writer's Blok, where the group organizer Paul got me a banana cream pastry with a candle in it. There's something about being handed sugary treats in front of a bunch of strangers who don't get one that really makes you feel special. I also got M&M cookies and a California Pizza Kitchen giftcard from my boss... no, not my full-time job boss who I told about my birthday multiple times and who didn't once say happy birthday to me yesterday, but rather from my writing program boss who I didn't once bring up my birthday to. You know, the one I'm leaving. *face palm*

Well, this birthday bitch is going to milk the surrounding birthday days for everything they're worth. If you need me I'll be celebrating how great it is that I am alive. You're more than welcome to do the same, from the comfort of your home.

How to Create a Resume that Won't Make People Hate You

Recently I've had to go through countless resumes and email applications for people interested in being on the upcoming film at my work. We have tons flooding in because we're essentially staffing an entire production right now. We're looking for a Production Designer, 1st AD, 2nd AD, Production Coordinator, Script Supervisor, Wardrobe, Hair, Make-Up... as I'm sure folks reading the Craigslist ad gathered, we are so totally and completely prepared for this movie to happen in four and a half weeks.

Never in a million years did I think, at least at this juncture in my life, that I would be reviewing resumes... I figured I'd be submitting them. For all I know that may soon be on the horizon. And sure, I know I'm not the hire-r, but I've been granted some insight on how application screeners do their thang.

Thus, for once-blog, I'm going to actually try and impart what I hope to be useful information about creating a resume that won't make people hate you. A lot of it feels obvious to me, but I've been annoyed by enough submissions to sense that these are #realworldproblems.

Since I am giving advice, I want to slide in the disclaimer that this is all based solely off my own experience, in what may very well be an unconventional job setting, and may or may not apply only to film/tv. Maybe beekeepers read resumes differently, I wouldn't know.

I like my resumes like I like my women.

Here goes.

1. Make it easy. All the other tips pretty much roost beneath this one. Because if somebody has to read forty resumes, why would they feel compelled to take any extra steps towards reading yours? If it's too much work, they've got 39 other resumes to scope out for that one position you're all applying for. So make it easy.

How does one do that, you ask...?

2. Use less words. Your resume should look like a kindergarten handout. Your reviewer wants to know exactly what your experiences are within three seconds of looking at your resume. It makes them feel smart. Don't do what I did, which is bog down every "description of duties" with a buncha wordy jargon my schools' career center told me to include. Just be straightforward. You didn't "execute the proper sanitary maintenance of business utilities," brah; you washed dishes. Ain't nobody got time to figure out what work task you're trying to glorify.

Senior Mopper of Khol's Lavatorial Facilities

3. Don't hide the stuff that they use to contact you. I seriously have to scroll to page xxvii of the addendum to your "Special Skills" section only to find out you just gave me your website and the city you live in? You ass! You royal, royal ass! I was GONNA call you, but now I'm not, because I have no easy way to do that and even if your resume looked good, chances are it wasn't so mind-blowingly special that I or anyone else would make the extra effort.

On that note--

4. Stop after 2 pages. 1 page is perfect. It's easy to hold and look at and digest, and I don't have to staple anything. 2 pages is okay, but anything beyond that is just you wasting paper and pixels. Employers only need to get an idea of what you've done, not follow the exciting chronicles of the six different houses you plant-sat for in high school. Just show the range of what you can do.

Make your resume a flight of your skills.

That's not to say you shouldn't hype up what you're good at if you have a crap ton of experience. I'm more likely to pay attention to the 1st AD who has 1st ADd on eight different films versus the 1st AD who has three 1st AD credits listed but has also gaffed, composed scores, and directed. Don't do what I did and buy into the career center mind-garbage of "show them the versatility of your skills." Sure, why not show you can do other stuff, but don't let it replace the relevant experience... or stretch your resume out to 4 pages.

5. Submit a flipping resume. Apparently it isn't common knowledge that you're supposed to do this when applying to a job. So many people have just sent links to their personal websites an IMDBs. These are helpful, but as supplements, not the whole enchilada.

SEND ENCHILADAS

6. Don't try to impress anyone with your "fun" website interface. So many people recently- especially these goddamn artsy fartsies- get frilly "attention-grabber" websites that are like Prezis. There's catwalk background music, an opening animation of a dancing camera, and everything your mouse hovers over ripples like a pond. These efforts are SO pointless, apart from just being obnoxious. My computer freezes when I open some of these websites! And it's the world's most exasperating waste of time if every button I click on hops three times and morphs into a flower before I get to the next page. These allegedly innovative pages may look super-trippy-cool when you're showing all your friends the free website you made, but it comes off as dumb.

7. Make yourself printable. For resumes submitted online, and photographers/art people especially. If someone wants to print out your picture portfolio to look through, that's awfully hard to do when your pictures are in some fancy Wix photo slideshow that only shows them one at a time. Just have a page where they're all lain out. Stop me from destroying the planet by printing 50 weird-ass screenshots of your website instead of 3 clean grids of photos. Es logico, no?

So there you have it. I guess.

I think I just bored myself to death, but hopefully one or two of you out there benefited from this is some way. As for the rest of you, I gave you a picture of an enchilada, I really don't know what else you want from me.

Night of the Night-And-Day Shift

It's 8am. You're sitting on the outdoor patio of a Panda Express, stabbing disinterestedly at your Surf n' Turf panda bowl, minding your own business. You look out to the horizon.

You drop your chopsticks.

For there, silhouetted in black against the smoggy luminescence of the LA sunset, you see the vague shape of a figure coming towards you. You can't see much, only hear the heavy dragging of feet and the slow, growling exhales divided up by shallow inhales.

You squint and lean forward to get a better look. You don't even notice that the homeless man who's been watching you ever since you sat down has inched your styrofoam box of half-eaten chow mein away from you and is now eating it by the dumpsters. The ever-nearing figure draws closer and you can just begin to make out details.

Phew! You wrinkle your nose as the sensory details kick in. First of all: the thing smells. It smells like poop. Like sour, sour horse poop. And undertones of some other chemical odor.

After wiping the welled tears from your eyes, you can see more details. The nature of the thing is hard to make out as it is wearing loose, baggy clothing that renders it biologically neutral. But there's still plenty that you are able to distinguish.

A pair of dead, half-open eyes with deep lines cut below them.
Stringy, stuck-out hair that either avoids or eats hairbrushes.
Pale skin covered in splotches of colors and glue.
And all of this is coated in a conspicuous amount of dirt. Dirt in its fingernails, its ears, its armpits, its nostrils-- not one crevice of cleanliness.

You gasp.

It's...

It's...

JESSICA AFTER A FILM SHOOT.

*DRA*

*MATIC*

*MUSIC*

Howdy y'all, I have all but returned from the dead since the recent wrap of this Chapman film. A little under two weeks of shooting, two weeks of prep before that, and now two weeks of therapy as I gather up the shattered remains of my daily routine. 

First reactions to thinking about the shoot: it was a lot of fun. The cast and crew were all primo individuals and a genuine pleasure to work with. It was nice having our set be in the pleasantly still and unobtrusive rural zones of Chino Hills-- while the hour and a half commute from Santa Monica was a force to be reckoned with, I must say the drive got prettier and prettier the further east I went. Weaving through the hills and little residential bubbles was a nice break from the clusterfuck of Los Angeles. Not to mention the ranch was pretty great, too. I liked it mostly because I never felt spooked when I had to walk around in the dark at 4am. Who got time for a haunted ranch?

THE BEAST CRAVETH ALFALFA.

The ranch was pleasant and made for many "stop and wonder at the world" moments. Which were swiftly interrupted by the sound of my phone snapping artificial memories.

And God said, "Let there be dirt." And there was.

Just envision Judy Garland sitting on that fence.

All in all, I guess you could say it was a
 

Nailed that one.

But for all the good times I had, there was just as much stress and anxiety to handle. We shot on the ranch at all hours of the (everything but) day, call times often starting early evening and ending at 4 in the morning. It was exhausting, but the adrenaline of enjoying being on set kept me awake. Except for when it didn't and I fell asleep on a piece of ram board.

The typical work day on a film set is 12 hours which, thanks to our kick-ass 1st AD, was never breached on this shoot. But no matter if we were working 12 hours or 6 hours, at least 8-10 hours of my weekday were spent working at my job in Santa Monica. So here's how a good two or three weeks of my life went:

Drive to Chino Hills. 
Get on set at like 4am. 
Prep for 3 or 4 hours. 
Drive an hour and a half to Santa Monica. 
Work for 9 hours. 
Go out and gather more props, or else draw diagrams, create schedules, read/write zillions of production e-mails, or go back on set to shoot for another 8 hours.
Maybe sleep for 3 hours. 

Repeat.

My life was utterly consumed by work. Every minute was dedicated to the movie or hanging on to my current job. It was absofruitly nuts. I didn't contact the outside world for days; people thought I was dead or blowing them off. My bed was stacked with last week's clean laundry that there was no time to fold. At one point I was so sleep-deprived driving home from Chino that I pulled over into a residential neighborhood in West Covina and slept in my car for two hours before heading to Santa Monica for work the next day.

Am I crazy? Yes. Did I pull it off? Sort of. Was it worth it? You bet.

While I'm exceedingly happy that I once again have time for the little luxuries in life, like making food and changing my underwear, this was a positive experience. Not necessarily the juggling-two-jobs part, but the fact that the challenge was tackled and I can safely say I did the most that I was able. And honestly, I like being on set a hell of a lot more than printing TV sides and being told on a regular basis that what I do isn't enough. Film production is fun, no matter how hard the work. That's how I know it's the industry I want to spend my life working in. Where else can my work-related duties include:

-Designing an entire kitchen, living room, and bedroom... without using my own money!
-Collecting cool dishes and knick-knacks and arranging them
-Drawing copies of a 10 year old's doodle to have on standby
-Writing multiple fake suicide notes (apologies to the director for the nonsense scribbled on those...had I known we were doing long close-ups I might not have included that stuff about demons)
-Hiding a TV mount with a cow skull 
-Loading hay onto a golf cart and using my body like a human bungee cord to keep it all held on as we transported it from one site to another
-Dressing a fake corpse
-Building a tire swing
-Figuring out how to piece a fake axe together on about 5 separate occasions
-Watching two male cats lezz out with each other

Kitty-9ing

Now that I write them out I realize these things may not necessarily sound like "a blast," but that's exactly what I was having throughout the process. And especially getting to play the part of Production Designer, it's awesome to get to see the products of your work so immediately. If you don't mind me sharing--

Kitchen: for kitchen scene.

Living room: for living room scene.

Tire swing: for zombie pirate hooker scene.

 The only part that really, truly sucked was moving large and heavy furniture around on the world's most scratchable  floor. Have you ever lifted a wood stove before? You shouldn't. Buy a goddamn space heater.

You STAY in the corner, Woodrow.

For anyone who's interested, the film has a very talented team behind it and in front of it. While there's still much time to go before the thing is edited together, you can get updates and info on the project at this lovely little corner of Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/scarlettfilm. 

It's called "Scarlett" by the way, I feel like I've failed to mention that before. Or any other details about it, for that matter. It's a sort of thriller/drama. It's good. So far. Coming this Spring to a Chapman screening room near you-- or, if you don't live in Orange, 45 minutes to an hour away.

SO. In conclusion, I'm walking away from all this with a positive if not completely exhausting experience under my belt. The vacuum of hard work has literally and figuratively paid off, granting me the freedom to tackle the hard work I already deal with day to day.

Just enough time to rest up before this feature-length project begins production in 6 weeks...