I have it figured out. It being the formula...for now at least.
You see, if there is one thing I have learned since coming to Los Angeles, it's that everyone is full of shit. And the only remedy for this cynical perception is proof that they are, in fact...not full of shit.
But it's great because every asshole in this town has got "something" going for them. Some kind of a light at the end of their tunnel. I've got two starting in 2006. The first is an in house writing job for one of the major studios. When I say major, there are less than a handful, so it's a pretty big deal...all riding on the word of two of its executives who actually believe I have something to say...something worth giving a listen.
The other is as the head writer/floor director of a TV show set to go on the air 1st quarter next year. I'd send the link to watch the pilot online...but my heart isn't in it.
And there isn't just that. I have these flickers of light along the way. A recently finished screenplay has been clawing its way up the totem pole of scriptdom. Everyone that has read it has come back with, "this is really great, let me give it to my friend...he just wrapped directing (insert: some shitty but very A-list movie that I pretend to respect), or she just wrapped producing (insert some movie that was disgustingly re-made into a 25 million dollar opening weekend)." And man...let me tell you, having people go to bat for some kid (still me) is an amazing thing. It's the kind of thing that when you look back from higher places...you remember every drop. Ah, but that's the stuff for acceptance speeches. Another day...
Because until it hits, until that phone rings, I got nothing. Scratch. It's still and always a pipe dream until it isn't.
That brings me to my grind. See, you can't sit around and wait for the tunnel to end. I work as a runner at the Argyle Hotel's Tower Bar. 5 days a week, I am clocked in from 430-1130...later on weekends. I can't complain. It's blocks from my apartment and the crew is nothing short of stand-up. Not a single douche bag among us. And that's a damn difficult task to pull off. Especially in this city...trust me. I'll get into the specifics somewhere along the way, as well as introduce you to our cast of characters, but for now, let's keep this thing as a basic overview. After all, I am only trying to catch you up on my story.
But tonight was great. Great. It began with a toast of Roederer for a glowing review in the LA times (which is the Super Bowl and the World Series rolled into one for LA restaurants) and it ended when I had to drag someone out of our establishment. That's right, I said drag...as in across the marble floor...as in kicking and screaming. I'll get to that.
Copy. Paste. http://www.calendarlive.com/dining/cl-fo-review7sep07,1,4393138.story?coll=la-headlines-food. Two stars out of a possible four. The best way for me to describe it is that if you were to ask the critic (who is a renowned backbreaker if you deserve it) what a good to very good restaurant would deserve, she would say 2 stars. A 4 star review is nearly unattainable. It means we will be slammed starting tomorrow until who knows. And that means more coin for everyone.
Let me just say that we hold a very high standard for clientele. Very cream of the crop music and movie industry people. Some royalty...seriously. If you decide to come in wearing a backpack, do check it at the door. If you don't, it means you have elected to wander into what will soon turn out to be the R Smith Danger Zone. Yes. I give that caps.
Now...our bartender is a hell of a guy. He's got this really sweet layer if you peel 16 or 17 back. He's Scottish. Or Irish. Maybe Skirish...who cares? He used to play professional soccer and I guarantee that when his playing days were over, he was the guy throwing beer bottles at David Beckham from the stands.
So he's talking to this guy and it's obvious trouble's coming. Because some people just don't have, "it." How do I explain? Okay...if I'm ever in or around a hostage situation where the aim is to preserve life, our bartender is NOT the one going in for the talk down. He was pretty awful. Once I stepped in and failed, I knew it was going to get ugly. After all, I talk sweet like you wouldn't believe. Just ask...nevermind.
So this guy says that if we touch him, he's going to fight back...while demonstrating a sweet fist to chin fighting position. With one look, we each grabbed an arm and were off as if chasing Barney the white rabbit out of the gate at Greyhound Park. He slid marvelously across our buffed and glossy floors. He kicked over tables and chairs...spatting terrible obscenities while we dragged him down the stairs, going limp as a dead fish after the fourth punishing thud against his tailbone. Once out the front door, he had a nice police escort to take him on his merry way. I thought it was just an expression. "They had to drag me out of the bar." Goes to show that behind everything sits a small plate of truth.
And as I walked to my car, I laughed a little laugh. Sure, it's not completely fun to have to do that to a man. And, being fair…it’s not exactly like I am a “tough guy.” I’m not pretending to be. He may have had stability issues...or drunken issues. It was difficult to tell. I guess my point is that it's an adventure...and this is my grind. I have to say that when I go to bed at night and wake up in the morning, I'm quite content with where this life is going. What more can one ask? The tunnel will end when it's good and ready. But there's nothing like a rabid will to saw it down...
