I Swore I'd Never Do This

First, I swore I’d never be an assistant. That rapidly changed as I realized it was pretty much the only way into the industry I want to be in (the entertainment industry). Then, I swore I’d never be a personal assistant. Excuse me but fuck me gently with a chainsaw if I’m ever going to be paid to take care of someone’s dry cleaning or order their daughter’s birthday presents. Then, I swore I’d never work a desk job. And where am I now?

Working a desk job. Gobbling Tums to settle my acid reflux stomach and writing posts for my Internet column (I will never call this a blog. Perish the thought.). I don’t know what my boss thinks I do all day, but as his Development Executive, I tend to do more “personal time” things than work things. Don’t get me wrong, I perform all tasks put in front of me with lightning speed and an even more impressive perfection, but most of my time is spent “brainstorming” in front of a computer that is rapidly degenerating my vision and is so ancient (circa 2000) that it barely turns on anymore. I even do a helluva lot of brainstorming and come up with plenty of worthwhile ideas for my boss, but unfortunately, the nature of the game of independent artisans is that they generally can’t bring to fruition most brilliant ideas.

I kind of am under the impression that I am about to be let go; this only has a little to do with the fact that I haven’t come up with any million-dollar ideas (according to him) and more to do with the fact that I don’t think he can afford me anymore. But that’s okay, because I swore I’d never work a desk job.

Desk jobs are soul-sucking. They drain you of your will to live just as they drain your eyes of their ability to see. I just never thought I’d be 23 and so tired of life…such a shame to throw it all away (Dave Matthews)—in other words, I never thought I’d be 23 and have nothing to show for myself. Sure, I got the random Associate Producer credit, I’ve worked on a feature film, but I have yet to truly reach out and touch anyone with my work (except for you, loyal column-reader). It’s really effing hard to be a dreamer in 2007.

Not only a dreamer, but a perfectionist. I’m remember with haunting clarity a gentleman’s bet I made with a friend-slash-nemesis the summer of 2002 about who would be more successful in five years. I’m still pretty sure I won that bet, but I didn’t win it in any way in the way I thought I would win it—with an Oscar under my belt and a lot more money in my checking account. If you don’t want to be an investment banker or a doctor or a lawyer, what else is there besides paltry desk jobs or—heaven forbid—retail?

While my life is hardly an episode of The Office, it’s nowhere near the glamorous glory that I imagined it would be. Desperate to be finished with schooling and a functional member of the working world, I never thought I would find myself dreading waking up in the morning and hitting snooze until the last possible nanosecond, watching Matt Lauer and Meredith Viera and praying for an earthquake so I could have a few days off of work. They say you always look back with rose-colored glasses, but I just didn’t think I’d look back with such yearning for those days of innocence, of coming home from class at noon and spending the rest of the day blissfully stoned and daydreaming about the wondrous world that awaited me upon graduation.

Reality bites, it really does. As GenY is learning this, I think we’re also learning to cope in a world quite unlike any other (though that’s not really all that novel of a statement, given that every generation faces a world unlike any other), facing down the demons of demands by the media and society and the pressures of perfection and pursuits of riches. The focus on money and the race to the top is so heavy that it’s easy for the average artist to get trampled in the stampede (as I once was—literally—trying to get into a USC Trojan football game). So what is the value of art in today’s world?

The “art” of film is certainly not truly appreciated in the world of blockbusters. The “art” of music is definitely not appreciated in a world of Britneys and Fall Out Boys (what happened to the rock band?!). And the “art” of writing is not appreciated in a world of dumbed-down mass appeal paperbacks topping the New York Times Best Sellers List (although, I will make an exception for Harry Potter et al). How does an artist, who wants to be true to himself but still reach a wide audience, cope?

Well, he doesn’t, really. He, at some point, has to give in to The Man and work a desk job to make ends meet until his big break comes along. And this town is full of bright aging hopefuls waiting desperately for that big break. The tease that has been present in our lives since the explosion of television and tabloid journalism. The sad reality is, the break will never come.

And that will be the downfall of our generation.

I Wish I'd Never...Sent That Love Letter to Anthony Kiedis

I had hit the jackpot: the man whose child I was now baby-sitting was a business manager for a few bands. And not just any bands, my friends, but THE band. The band I've worshipped as performing music from Heaven itself. One of the last great sustaining rock bands. The one, the only, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I have had a minor obssession (which technically has grown into an uncomfortable obssession as of late) with Anthony Kiedis (the lead singer of RHCP) since I saw their Behind the Music in 1998 for the first time. I had no idea who he was or who they were but I was instantly drawn in by his sexy butt-length brown hair and his commanding eyes. The band's story was made for Hollywood and was nothing short of a rock legend. This first encounter with Anthony was but a brief moment of "Wow, that guy is HOT, maybe I'm not attracted to blonde preps with popped collars after all." Then I filed it away and pretty much forgot about them until 2002, when By the Way was released. It was the summer after I graduated from high school, and the album became the soundtrack to my first summer as a legal adult. The obssession began to grow.

Fast forward to 2003. I see the Chili Peppers in concert for the first time. Though I was seated essentially miles away from the stage, I was instantly drawn in by their stage presence and Anthony's undeniable charisma and charm. The concert was a milestone, as it strengthened my love for Anthony and obssession with the band.

For Christmas that year, a friend who had attended the concert with me gave me Anthony's autobiography, Scar Tissue. I read it cover to cover on my flight back to Los Angeles from London (where my family lived). It was a pretty unbelievable tale of Hollywood's golden age, of fate, of karma, of cosmic amazingness. Another momentous thing came from reading that book, though: I realized that Anthony Kiedis and I were soul mates.

Bite your tongue, naysayers. I have done the astrological compatibility tests and let me assure you, we are soul mates. Scorpio (Anthony) and Pisces (me) are one of the best matches on the Zodiac. That was enough for me. It cemented my obssession with Anthony and since then I have pretty much been certifiable. But NO, this is not your average celebrity crush. Why not? Because, duh, we're soul mates.

Which brings me to February of 2005. The sister and brother-in-law of a family I baby-sat for here in Los Angeles called me in a frenzy asking if I could baby-sit for them, as their nanny (excuse me, au pair) was going out of town. Sure, why not? House in Brentwood, I figured it could be a cool gig. That weekend when I was cleaning up the kitchen for these obviously wealthy people I found a backstage badge for the By the Way tour. When the parents got home that evening, I casually mentioned it to them.

"Oh yeah," the mom said. "[He] represents the Red Hot Chili Peppers."

Cue jaw dropping, heart racing, adrenalin pumping. I couldn't believe it. Not only did the stars say we were destined to be together, I was now ONE DEGREE REMOVED FROM THE MAN HIMSELF. I regained my composure, expressed how cool I thought that was, and went on my way, all the while the Crazy Bells in my head banging away to the tune of "YOU'RE GOING TO MARRY ANTHONY! YOU'RE GOING TO MARRY ANTHONY!"

After discussing it thoroughly with my roommate, I decided I should take a chance and see if this guy wouldn't mind getting my copy of his book autographed. In retrospect, that was stupid, because a soul mate wouldn't ever be so pathetic as to ask for her mate's autograph. But I was still young and stupidly in love.

However, that really wasn't the stupid part. The stupid part was allowing myself to be convinced that this might be the only opportunity I would ever have to share my love and knowledge of our soul matedness with Anthony, and, thus, I should write him a letter. So I did.

I wrote a sappy, dramatic, crazy-laced paragraph expressing my deep appreciation for his words, his music, his story, and shared that I was so touched by his work because I felt like I could truly relate to him. I tucked it inside the front cover of the book, and, after getting the go-ahead from the guy's sister-in-law, passed on my book with the aforementioned letter enclosed, though against my better judgment.

I didn't get the book back for nearly a year, but it was autographed--even addressed to me--in his beautiful handwriting. I was so happy. I was also so happy that many many more one degree separation connections between me and Anthony had been made in the interim time.

I only found it slightly strange that I hadn't been asked to baby-sit for this family for months--after all, they did have a full time nanny (excuse me, au pair). However, it wasn't until a few weeks later that I learned why they had stopped calling me to baby-sit.

"Oh, they think you're crazy," his sister-in-law said.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Yeah, they read your letter to Anthony Kiedis. They think you're a heroin addict."

My stomach dropped. My heart rose to my throat. My vision went all spotty. I couldn't believe it. They READ my LETTER?! Isn't that, like...ILLEGAL?! Opening someone else's mail is against the law, for God's sake! My knees started to knock together and I thought I was going to die. In one second I became thirteen years old again, a silly little girl who wanted to write letters to Prince William and run away with Paul McCartney.

The parents laughed. "Yeah, apparently you said something about being able to relate to him in your letter? They interpreted that as you're a heroin addict. They don't want you around our kids."

"W-what...what? What did you say?!"

"We laughed! I thought it was hysterical! Obviously you're not a heroin addict."

Obviously.

I didn't see the manager father again until a birthday party several months later. I decided I had two options: to be embarrassed and cower away in a corner, hoping he didn't recognize me, or I could face him head on and turn the embarrassment on HIM.

"So!" I said, marching right up to him. "I hear you think I'm crazy."

He was, needless to say, caught off-guard. "N-no, no, of course not, I just..." he stammered.

I smiled. "It's okay. I guess I am a little crazy."

No sooner had I said the words did I realize that they were true. I was finally embracing my craziness, for all that it's done for me.

But still, I wish I'd never sent that love letter to Anthony Kiedis.

Life on the Other Side

30 March 2005

I did it. I caved. I swore I never would, but I gave in to lust, intrigue, and peer pressure.

I got an iPod.

To be fair, it was a gift--a reminder of which is engraved on the back with the message "Happy 21st, Caroline / Love, Mom and Dad." To continue this theme of fairness, it's what I told my parents I wanted for my birthday.

I tried to fight it--I really did. Everyone else in my six-person family got one and loved it. I saw on average thousands of fellow college students a day on campus, jamming along to their own drummers. I even saw a homeless man with one across the street from a major mall in Los Angeles.

And yet I resisted. I continued to stand as a regressive member of society, lugging my old-fashioned Nike Athletic Discman and CaseLogic book of 500 CDs through airports, used a boom box, and the CD player in my car got tons of exercise. But finally, I gave in.

The simplicity, ingenuity, and rationality of the iPod is undeniable. Thousands of songs on a small, lightweight electronic device the size of an index card (or smaller)? Brilliant! Going to school in LA with my family living in London, I do more traveling than the average Joe--seems the perfect accessory for someone like me.

But those iPod people--they drove me crazy. Bopping through public in their own world, ignoring everything and everyone around them, carrying themselves with that haughty air of technological supremacy. Haven't we as a culture gotten anti-social enough? Dow we really need more to separate us from each other? I guess so.

But you have to admit: it just makes sense. My first day with my iPod was certainly an enlightening one. I felt self-conscious and more acutely aware of my fellow iPod-ers while walking to class, feeling as though I should nod hello to these people, as though we were part of an elite group (nobody returned the nod). But I was one of THOSE. Sadly, though, I was instantly addicted. Listening to my professor all afternoon was out of the question. I did my best to hide the wires coming from my head with my hair; pretended to be intently taking notes while secretly scrolling through half of my music catalogue. The cost of getting caught and singled out in front of the class for listening to my own lecture was high, but a risk I was suddenly willing to take. (Much like the chance of walking into moving traffic because I decided to switch between the first and second discs of the White Album while crossing the street. And they say technology saves lives.)

Suddenly my internal monologue and daydreams had their own soundtracks--how post-modern is that? I was always closed inside my own head; now I'm locked there. I've always felt slightly odd, walking around lost deep in thought (I like to compare myself to Socrates, who supposedly had the same habit, muttering through the streets of Athens), and now I have something to further enable my quirkiness. But now, surrounded by thousands of similar music-obsessed loners, I have to ask: are we ALL freaks?

Who knows, really. Maybe we are, maybe we're all joined by this common denominator of freakiness. Is this a development in humanity or in society? The post-modern answer is that it's a little of both--but it probably is anyway.

Sure, it kind of saddens me that people would rather lock themselves away, cowering from others safely behind their iPods. But honestly, most of them probably weren't all that worth my time anyway. I guess one day I'll get to know some of these iPoders. In the meantime, I'll be perfecting my lip-reading skills, because The Killers are far more entertaining than Hobbes.

The Ins and Outs of a Nobody in a Sea of Somebodies

3 March 2005

Driving in Los Angeles is one of the most dangerous tasks a man may ever have to undertake. And, in a bizarre twist of irony, it is practically a requirement if one wants to venture out into the City of Angels.

Heading West on Interstate 10 ("the 10," to the locals), blasting CALIFORNICATION in my Iraqi-oil-guzzling Chevy Tahoe, my gaze drifts to the Hollywood sign out my right window, and I can't help but wonder: who might that be in the black-windowed limo next to me?

When you live in LA, you never know who you may have just met, may have just walked past, may have just been within a mile of...it gets under your skin, LA does. You begin looking over your shoulder at every flashbulb (lest it be that of a paparazzo), peering over your steering wheel to see if you can see through the blackened windows, and double-taking everyone wearing sunglasses indoors.

The difficulties of driving in LA are numerous. First, one has to take into account that there are about 5 million LEGAL drivers in LA County, and God knows how many illegal drivers. There are the trucks, the limos, the morons, and the native Angelenos, who are afraid to merge on the freeway. Then there's the fact that there are approximately four left turn lights in the entire county--making turning a near-death experience and a guarantee red light-running maneuver.

Throw in a little weather, and you have the makings of the perfect Hollywood action flick. People in Southern California are physically incapable of handling ANY sort of real weather that isn't sunny and 75 degrees. This has been made all too clear to me this calendar year driving during the torrents of rain we've been receiving as a result of "global climate change."

I love it when it rains in LA, even if that means driving an average of 4 miles per hour and/or watching people lose control of their cars left and right. The clouds over the Hollywood Hills are so symbolic, and are always a welcome respite from the blanket of smog we all know and love. One must, as a driver, be careful of jaywalkers when it rains, though--unfortunately, I know from personal experience that they like to dart out in front of your car, causing you to ruin your brakes and STILL hit them (lucky for me, the law was on my side: pedestrians outside the crosswalks are fair game. God bless the technicalities). You are truly taking your life--and everyone else's, apparently--in your hands when you drive in LA.

And then, the clouds part, the pavement dries up, and the whole city has a glow about it. For a few days, you can see for miles--I can even see the Hollywood sign watching me while I'm on campus. These moments between cloudy and clear are when the magic happens--when you can feel LA breathing in you.

To me, the constant sunshine in LA is symbolic of the mask everyone here wears: everyone is an actor, it's all one big conglomerate of one-man shows. And when it rains, the makeup gets washed away, making everyone tense and uncomfortable. Afterwards, though, the sun shines, and it's beautiful, and you can truly feel the bizarre uniqueness that no other city in the world has.

Behind all of the facades and sunglasses and blacked-out windows, there are real people, real souls, and real lives. They may all be in their own universes, but it's their own, distinct form of reality. If you're not a native, you constantly find yourself between the world everyone else knows and LA--and it's dizzying, upsetting, and confounding. But this city, she loves you, for better or worse. This is celebreality.