5.
I had been scanning entertainmentcareers.net for months to get a feel for what I was qualified, vocationally speaking. The best I could do probably was entry level/assistant gigs or an internship. But since I had already done my unpaid internship in Austin, I was going to be greedy and apply for only paid internships.
To cover my bases I applied to a couple of temporary agencies in September: Exactstaff and Appleone. Exactstaff was a fucking rip: they had me come in early in the morning in business clothes, they wouldn't pay for parking and I had to take two hours worth of tests before being asked all the same questions again by my interviewer. At the end of this inquisition they told me they would be contacting me soon with work. I still have not heard back from them.
Appleone was a different story. After Exactstaff I forwent the temporary agency and applied directly for jobs as listen on Monster and Entertainment. I received a call from Appleone acting as an agent for one of the listings for which I blindly applied. It turns out their office was in Marina Del Rey, which didn't sound that far away from K-town. Once again, I'm retarded. So I went down to Apple a couple of times to take tests and whatnot. They were actually pretty nice to you as well as easy on the eyes (all female staff). A few weeks later they landed me a week long gig before I landed my current job.
For about a month straight I averaged between two and five interviews a week. Some of them were for entry jobs and some for internships. The two best internship interviews were for the Mark Bass talent agency and Metropolitan talent agency. Mark Bass' office is located in this hyper-sweet high-rise in Beverly Hills. It's one of those offices with all white everything, contemporary art and furniture and everyone working there is very well dressed and own a Blackberry. Yay toys! So when I went into the interview I met with a guy who was probably three years older than me but very cool. We conversed very congenially about the company, my career goals, and the usual bullshit. During the course of all this however, it came out that this internship would be full time (8-6) and unpaid, despite listing on Entertainment as paid. The dude and I agreed that this whole interview had very well, despite his inexperience, and he would bounce it off of Mark Bass himself and that, barring any further applicants, it looked like I had the job. They never called me back.
The Metropolitan interview was sweeter. Their office is located in this sweet older-looking building on Wilshire a couple of blocks away from the Los Altos Apartments & Hotel, know to you and me as the Hyperion Hotel from Angel (tee hee). That gig was indeed paid along with reimbursement for mileage. The sweetest part of the whole deal? Metropolitan is a hybrid agency that represents actors, models and writers. That means that, as an intern, I would get to read scripts and do coverage for them (I love doing that), as well as sleep with models! They never called me back.
I had a few interviews for entry-level jobs of varying degrees of suckage. One job (Breakdown Services) consisted of scanning in photos through Photoshop and posting them onto their website. Mind-numbingly boring, 20+ miles away from my apartment, 30 hours a week max and an inflexible schedule, I decided to pass on this one, despite the interviewer's strong-arming.
The most ridiculous incident though, came through my submission to the Del Rey Agency, an agency that represents latino actors. I went into the interview to meet with an assistant to the boss/CEO, but in his absence I met with the CEO (there's only about 4 people in the company). We talked the usual bullshit and then things got weird. He started to compliment my looks and personality…a little unprofessional in my opinion. The position was 10 hours a day, six days a week. But when it came to pay, he blanked; he didn't know what the pay was going to be. The CEO then started talking about a guesthouse he wanted to rent out for around $1250 and how we could work out a deal for income payment and housing. I replied that I already had an apartment but apparently he wasn't listening. At the conclusion of the interview he stated that he would confer with his "money guy" and get back to me about how much pay would be for this job. I figured (read: hoped) this would be the usual scenario and I would never hear from these guys again.
Boy, was I fucking wrong.To follow up on the interview, hoping the pay would be huge (I mean if they are drug dealers or in the sex slave business imagine the cut) I called the agency back the next day at 10 a.m. No one was there…at 10 a.m.…on a weekday. So I went about my usual business for most of the day. I got a call back about 8 p.m. again from the CEO saying he hadn't heard from the "money guy" but he would get back to me the next day. About 18 hours later he calls me to say he had heard back and that he would like to meet with me to discuss the financial remuneration. This is where my own stupidity and their fucking craziness merge: he wanted to meet at his home that night to show me the guesthouse in which I would be living. I figured I'd be patient through his spiel, tell him I had already have a place (again), wait for an answer on pay and then give a yes or no on the job.
I showed up in street clothes because, I mean, fuck this guy. Seriously. He shows me the apartment/guesthouse: studio, raised bathroom, no overhead light except for a skylight and a stone's throw from his house. He claimed that I would be "in my own little world" with lots of privacy. I'm thinking: who the fuck does this guy think he is? He shows me around his property a little more. My little place would be next to his mother's. Fun. He then escorts me into his house to talk about the money. I start thinking about self-defense: go for joints, particularly the knees, the eyes, nose and, if necessary, the balls. We sit down in his living room and I hand him (per his request) my resume. He tells me more flattering bullshit about my resume and my looks and proceeds on that the pay would be $800…a month. The rent on the guesthouse, remember, is $1250. I told him I had a couple of interviews to follow through with and I would get back to him the following Monday. He called at 8 am Monday wanting an answer. I politely told him no. [On a related note: I tried finding this company online while writing this and was unsuccessful. They could have Keyser Soze-ed, but who really fucking cares?]
I continued with the hunt sending out blind emails to companies. I got a call back for a company I didn't remember applying to but gift horse's mouth, right? Before the interview I agreed to pick up a friend farther down the road thinking I'd have plenty of time. Nope. I had to call and say I was going to be late. In the end I was exactly on time, but I didn't know whom I was meeting. Just a girl…in a building. I got to the front office and had no clue where to go but we figured it out. I met with the girl who led me to a guy. The usual interview bullshit followed by: "We'll let you know by Tuesday." This was Thursday. The next day I got a call saying I was starting on Monday…at 5am.
I had found a job…but at what cost?
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Origin Story Vol 4.
4.
A few minutes after making the revolutionary decision to move to California at my desk in Austin, I started researching employment and residence in LA. Housing was/is fucking ridiculous. How so you ask? To this I respond:
LA is three to four time more expensive than Austin. My apartment in Austin (the fourth incarnation) was a two- story, 1,150 square foot townhouse two blocks north of Braker and 183. This gargantuan domicile was extremely well kept (fresh paint, carpeting etc.) and going for $729 a month for two people. No utilities were included, but the overall cost per person was probably, at the maximum, $450. For those of you who never lived in Austin, that's pretty fucking good. By contrast a similar apartment in central LA goes for about $2,300, without utilities. As I knew no one who wanted to split a lease at the time or needed a roommate, I was compelled to house alone.
I used a few of websites to gage what I was looking at: apartmenthunterz.com, rent.com and Craigslist. One of the main obstacles I ran into was a total lack of metropolitan comprehension. In Austin I knew to stay away from the east side of town. San Antonio: I had to stay away from the south side (for me, anything south of 1604). But I got to LA and realized I was hunting everywhere. Van Nuys, Echo Park and Inglewood were just names on a map, not words of caution. To this end I went to the corporate office of Apartmenthunterz.com in Beverly Hills to discuss the areas in Southern California to avoid. I was so let down by their office. It's located in this really glamorous building, but their actual office looked like two broom closets fucked and gave the offspring up for adoption. Inside I learned the areas to look in and refined my search a little more.
I rummaged metro LA as well as the better/affordable parts of The Valley. I met with a few people to check out some places and some apartments wouldn't even return my calls. My budget range was a severe hamper on the quality of apartments, so eventually I just pulled my nose and dove in. I came to realize that I was being unrealistic looking for a centrally located residence in a well-maintained building for a reasonable rate. I began to wonder how anyone ever made such a transmittal into the city of LA in the first place. Do you think Rivera y Moncada went through the same fucking hassle I did?
Two friends of mine had been living in Koreatown for a year or so, and despite their disdain for the area en mass, they found it a good base of operation for the recent arrivals. So, following their lead I narrowed my search even more to the confines of Koreatown, Mid-Wilshire and West Downtown.
I was still searching when Jillian J. M. handed me a pillar of light and I found a place that met my criteria. Finally I could stop looking, worrying and sleeping on her couch. I had a place to call my own.
One task down…
A few minutes after making the revolutionary decision to move to California at my desk in Austin, I started researching employment and residence in LA. Housing was/is fucking ridiculous. How so you ask? To this I respond:
LA is three to four time more expensive than Austin. My apartment in Austin (the fourth incarnation) was a two- story, 1,150 square foot townhouse two blocks north of Braker and 183. This gargantuan domicile was extremely well kept (fresh paint, carpeting etc.) and going for $729 a month for two people. No utilities were included, but the overall cost per person was probably, at the maximum, $450. For those of you who never lived in Austin, that's pretty fucking good. By contrast a similar apartment in central LA goes for about $2,300, without utilities. As I knew no one who wanted to split a lease at the time or needed a roommate, I was compelled to house alone.
I used a few of websites to gage what I was looking at: apartmenthunterz.com, rent.com and Craigslist. One of the main obstacles I ran into was a total lack of metropolitan comprehension. In Austin I knew to stay away from the east side of town. San Antonio: I had to stay away from the south side (for me, anything south of 1604). But I got to LA and realized I was hunting everywhere. Van Nuys, Echo Park and Inglewood were just names on a map, not words of caution. To this end I went to the corporate office of Apartmenthunterz.com in Beverly Hills to discuss the areas in Southern California to avoid. I was so let down by their office. It's located in this really glamorous building, but their actual office looked like two broom closets fucked and gave the offspring up for adoption. Inside I learned the areas to look in and refined my search a little more.
I rummaged metro LA as well as the better/affordable parts of The Valley. I met with a few people to check out some places and some apartments wouldn't even return my calls. My budget range was a severe hamper on the quality of apartments, so eventually I just pulled my nose and dove in. I came to realize that I was being unrealistic looking for a centrally located residence in a well-maintained building for a reasonable rate. I began to wonder how anyone ever made such a transmittal into the city of LA in the first place. Do you think Rivera y Moncada went through the same fucking hassle I did?
Two friends of mine had been living in Koreatown for a year or so, and despite their disdain for the area en mass, they found it a good base of operation for the recent arrivals. So, following their lead I narrowed my search even more to the confines of Koreatown, Mid-Wilshire and West Downtown.
I was still searching when Jillian J. M. handed me a pillar of light and I found a place that met my criteria. Finally I could stop looking, worrying and sleeping on her couch. I had a place to call my own.
One task down…
Origin Story Vol 3.
3.
The overall plan was to drive to Newport Beach where my (evil) aunt lives and meet my mom there where she would act as a buffer while I looked for an apartment and a job. With the money I had left I could afford to live for a few months in an apartment with a rent rate of about $700-800 a month. As far as a job went, I wanted something in the industry, because if I wanted to do retail or food I could have stayed in Austin.
The morning of the 28th I awoke at about four. It was still pitch black outside and the air was still warm and muggy, a typical summer night in South Texas. A million thoughts raced through my head as I prepped myself for the almost 600 mile leg of the first day. Some part of me was trying to convince myself that there was an alternative to making this trip. "Austin is the place to be, yo" "LA will eat you alive and spit you back to your parents' house" and the coup de grace: "Dude, you'll never get laid in LA". That last one is still haunting me even now, granted I don't have enough free time to do anything about it.
My parents, as a show of support, were up and dressed when I jumped into my car and took off into the darkness. As I drove off I took in my neighborhood of 12 years with new eyes. My typical mentality of "God, I fucking hate San Antonio" was replaced by a sense of pseudo-sentimentality. I wasn't necessarily sad I was leaving, but I was thinking that this might be the last time I ever see this neighborhood. There's the house of the girl I had an unrequited crush on for six years. There's the home of that bitch that pointed out my acne in 8th grade. There's the house of that fucking redneck prick that humiliated me in front of everyone on our bus freshman year of high school.
God, I fucking hate San Antonio.
The trip through West Texas was pretty sweet: big rocks, desert, mountains, hills and lots of open highway. If Edward Hopper had grown up in Marfa he would have loved the first leg. I was making stops every 150 miles or so to make sure I had a half a tank left as well as take in a little bit of the towns I was stopping in; bustling metropolises such as Van Horn, Ozona and Fort Stockton. One scary moment was when I was within the city limits of El Paso and I-10 seemed to be heading toward the huge Mexican flag in Juarez. I totally thought I had taken a wrong turn and I was going to Mexico.
As far as my stay in New Mexico goes, I'll just say this: Las Cruces is ghetto.
The second day was a little harder than the first. I was going from Las Cruces to El Cajon, California. I left at five and headed west before the sun could burn the land too badly. This leg was going to be a little more tedious. I was going through three states and an extra hundred miles. I saw a lot of cool shit along the way and someday I hope to go back and do the tourist thing. But the main thing I started to notice was the mountains. I have lived in Virginia and South Carolina, so I have seen the Appalachians but I still find myself staring at mountains here in Los Angeles. The Appalachians are like withered old hags of mountains. Why look at some wrinkly old A's when you can have some awesome young C's, you know?
Day three was sweet because I got to sleep in, as I was a few miles outside of San Diego in El Cajon. I was planning to meet with my mom in Newport Beach around one in the afternoon and the trip would only take about two hours, max. Unfortunately I arrived too early and was forced to tread water with my aunt for an hour or so talking about bullshit like weather. Here's why I don't like visiting family: you (or maybe just I) have to put on this false persona of a nice guy. I was a very nice guy a few years back, so it was easier then. But as time went on and the world wouldn't let up with the letdowns I grew bitter, then angry, then dark. One of the Archer brothers in Austin (I forget which one) described me as a "boiling cauldron of rage". So when I am forced to sit down with someone I explicitly don't like, it takes a lot of effort for me not to fucking tell him or her off. My aunt is very rich and as much as I try not to be, I am still materialistic. It's an endless cycle.
So after arriving in Southern California and camping out on the floor of a huge Newport Estate, I began my search for employment and residence.
The overall plan was to drive to Newport Beach where my (evil) aunt lives and meet my mom there where she would act as a buffer while I looked for an apartment and a job. With the money I had left I could afford to live for a few months in an apartment with a rent rate of about $700-800 a month. As far as a job went, I wanted something in the industry, because if I wanted to do retail or food I could have stayed in Austin.
The morning of the 28th I awoke at about four. It was still pitch black outside and the air was still warm and muggy, a typical summer night in South Texas. A million thoughts raced through my head as I prepped myself for the almost 600 mile leg of the first day. Some part of me was trying to convince myself that there was an alternative to making this trip. "Austin is the place to be, yo" "LA will eat you alive and spit you back to your parents' house" and the coup de grace: "Dude, you'll never get laid in LA". That last one is still haunting me even now, granted I don't have enough free time to do anything about it.
My parents, as a show of support, were up and dressed when I jumped into my car and took off into the darkness. As I drove off I took in my neighborhood of 12 years with new eyes. My typical mentality of "God, I fucking hate San Antonio" was replaced by a sense of pseudo-sentimentality. I wasn't necessarily sad I was leaving, but I was thinking that this might be the last time I ever see this neighborhood. There's the house of the girl I had an unrequited crush on for six years. There's the home of that bitch that pointed out my acne in 8th grade. There's the house of that fucking redneck prick that humiliated me in front of everyone on our bus freshman year of high school.
God, I fucking hate San Antonio.
The trip through West Texas was pretty sweet: big rocks, desert, mountains, hills and lots of open highway. If Edward Hopper had grown up in Marfa he would have loved the first leg. I was making stops every 150 miles or so to make sure I had a half a tank left as well as take in a little bit of the towns I was stopping in; bustling metropolises such as Van Horn, Ozona and Fort Stockton. One scary moment was when I was within the city limits of El Paso and I-10 seemed to be heading toward the huge Mexican flag in Juarez. I totally thought I had taken a wrong turn and I was going to Mexico.
As far as my stay in New Mexico goes, I'll just say this: Las Cruces is ghetto.
The second day was a little harder than the first. I was going from Las Cruces to El Cajon, California. I left at five and headed west before the sun could burn the land too badly. This leg was going to be a little more tedious. I was going through three states and an extra hundred miles. I saw a lot of cool shit along the way and someday I hope to go back and do the tourist thing. But the main thing I started to notice was the mountains. I have lived in Virginia and South Carolina, so I have seen the Appalachians but I still find myself staring at mountains here in Los Angeles. The Appalachians are like withered old hags of mountains. Why look at some wrinkly old A's when you can have some awesome young C's, you know?
Day three was sweet because I got to sleep in, as I was a few miles outside of San Diego in El Cajon. I was planning to meet with my mom in Newport Beach around one in the afternoon and the trip would only take about two hours, max. Unfortunately I arrived too early and was forced to tread water with my aunt for an hour or so talking about bullshit like weather. Here's why I don't like visiting family: you (or maybe just I) have to put on this false persona of a nice guy. I was a very nice guy a few years back, so it was easier then. But as time went on and the world wouldn't let up with the letdowns I grew bitter, then angry, then dark. One of the Archer brothers in Austin (I forget which one) described me as a "boiling cauldron of rage". So when I am forced to sit down with someone I explicitly don't like, it takes a lot of effort for me not to fucking tell him or her off. My aunt is very rich and as much as I try not to be, I am still materialistic. It's an endless cycle.
So after arriving in Southern California and camping out on the floor of a huge Newport Estate, I began my search for employment and residence.
Origin Story Vol 2.
2.
The process of gearing up towards the move to Los Angeles was an interesting mix of taxing and exciting. I made the decision early on to get rid of all my furniture, most of my DVDs and the majority of my material possessions. Now I'm not advocating that you should go out and ditch all of the stuff you have and/or love and move into a monastery (although being a Shaolin monk might be pretty cool), I am simply stating that I found a sort of pleasure out of getting rid of said possessions and adopting a more utilitarian/Spartan lifestyle. I gave many of my clothes to charity and many more of my worldly possessions to my closest friends. They seemed appreciative, and I in return felt as though I was being generous (for a change). It was a different sort of sensation than I was used to.
Years earlier, I had tried to comprehend this association in my philosophy class. There was this philosopher a couple hundred years ago by the name of John Stuart Mill and he was regarded as the father of an ethical doctrine called Utilitarianism. One of the basic principles of this was the differential of pleasure. In his book (the colorfully titled: Utilitarianism) he goes into detail:
"Human beings have faculties more elevated than the animal appetites, and when once made conscious of them, do not regard anything as happiness which does not include their gratification…" (Ch. 2, Par. 4)
It's been four years and I still don't entirely understand what that dead fucker is talking about. But, from my understanding, his deal breaks down to this: by doing stuff other than physical pleasure (e.g. sex, eating, drugs & alcohol) that might benefit others, we will feel a different yet still as enjoyable form of pleasure. That's not to say I'm giving up any of the physical pleasures all together. Please! Have you met me? I'm just saying it's a new and interesting concept to me.
The process of getting ready for the trek financially was not as enjoyable. But it's odd how practices from video games still apply to my and, by extension, your life. I remember playing Breath of Fire years earlier and learning the process by which to upgrade your possessions. You sell your old one, save up some extra cash and then buy the newer/better version. To this end I sold my TV, DVD player, stereo and a few appliances in hopes of buying better versions in Los Angeles. God, I'm retarded.
After my lease was up in Austin, I moved in with my parents for a few weeks to get my shit together for Los Angeles. There I sold even more of my shit in a garage sale and cleared up my credit. A few years back I had moved into this apartment complex in Austin called Indian Creek (now called Westdale Creek). That was the second worst apartment I have ever lived in. It sucked in every aspect. But the coup de grace came a few months after I had moved out. According to them I never gave notification that I was leaving, despite the fact that I did, and they charged me $600+ and threatened to fuck up my credit. After contesting for months, they ushered an ultimatum and I was forced to pay. Even after paying, they still marred my credit. I will personally pay $50 to anyone who makes their lives hell.
So, after that little party, getting health insurance, new tires, a tune up, PC upgrade and couple of other expenses I had blown about $2500 of the $5000 I had saved up living in Austin. With what I had left, I booked two hotel rooms for the road trip in Las Cruces, NM and El Cajon, CA. By doing this I had cut my trip into three legs: Texas would be day one, Arizona and New Mexico day two and California day three. All in all I would be adding about 1500 miles onto my car's odometer. By the week before my scheduled departure I was losing sleep because I was losing faith that this was the right thing to do. I had no job, no apartment and no friends in LA. What the fuck was I thinking? Still, that little voice that had inspired me a few months earlier was still there, just a little quieter: "Dude, it'll work out. It's the right thing to do. You need this right now. Fuckin' Road to El Dorado, dude." Still scared shitless, I loaded up my car for the trip through the American Southwest on the night before the 28th of August.
The process of gearing up towards the move to Los Angeles was an interesting mix of taxing and exciting. I made the decision early on to get rid of all my furniture, most of my DVDs and the majority of my material possessions. Now I'm not advocating that you should go out and ditch all of the stuff you have and/or love and move into a monastery (although being a Shaolin monk might be pretty cool), I am simply stating that I found a sort of pleasure out of getting rid of said possessions and adopting a more utilitarian/Spartan lifestyle. I gave many of my clothes to charity and many more of my worldly possessions to my closest friends. They seemed appreciative, and I in return felt as though I was being generous (for a change). It was a different sort of sensation than I was used to.
Years earlier, I had tried to comprehend this association in my philosophy class. There was this philosopher a couple hundred years ago by the name of John Stuart Mill and he was regarded as the father of an ethical doctrine called Utilitarianism. One of the basic principles of this was the differential of pleasure. In his book (the colorfully titled: Utilitarianism) he goes into detail:
"Human beings have faculties more elevated than the animal appetites, and when once made conscious of them, do not regard anything as happiness which does not include their gratification…" (Ch. 2, Par. 4)
It's been four years and I still don't entirely understand what that dead fucker is talking about. But, from my understanding, his deal breaks down to this: by doing stuff other than physical pleasure (e.g. sex, eating, drugs & alcohol) that might benefit others, we will feel a different yet still as enjoyable form of pleasure. That's not to say I'm giving up any of the physical pleasures all together. Please! Have you met me? I'm just saying it's a new and interesting concept to me.
The process of getting ready for the trek financially was not as enjoyable. But it's odd how practices from video games still apply to my and, by extension, your life. I remember playing Breath of Fire years earlier and learning the process by which to upgrade your possessions. You sell your old one, save up some extra cash and then buy the newer/better version. To this end I sold my TV, DVD player, stereo and a few appliances in hopes of buying better versions in Los Angeles. God, I'm retarded.
After my lease was up in Austin, I moved in with my parents for a few weeks to get my shit together for Los Angeles. There I sold even more of my shit in a garage sale and cleared up my credit. A few years back I had moved into this apartment complex in Austin called Indian Creek (now called Westdale Creek). That was the second worst apartment I have ever lived in. It sucked in every aspect. But the coup de grace came a few months after I had moved out. According to them I never gave notification that I was leaving, despite the fact that I did, and they charged me $600+ and threatened to fuck up my credit. After contesting for months, they ushered an ultimatum and I was forced to pay. Even after paying, they still marred my credit. I will personally pay $50 to anyone who makes their lives hell.
So, after that little party, getting health insurance, new tires, a tune up, PC upgrade and couple of other expenses I had blown about $2500 of the $5000 I had saved up living in Austin. With what I had left, I booked two hotel rooms for the road trip in Las Cruces, NM and El Cajon, CA. By doing this I had cut my trip into three legs: Texas would be day one, Arizona and New Mexico day two and California day three. All in all I would be adding about 1500 miles onto my car's odometer. By the week before my scheduled departure I was losing sleep because I was losing faith that this was the right thing to do. I had no job, no apartment and no friends in LA. What the fuck was I thinking? Still, that little voice that had inspired me a few months earlier was still there, just a little quieter: "Dude, it'll work out. It's the right thing to do. You need this right now. Fuckin' Road to El Dorado, dude." Still scared shitless, I loaded up my car for the trip through the American Southwest on the night before the 28th of August.
Origin Story Vol 1.
(I wrote these on Myspace back when people used visit that site. Written from December 2006 - January 2007)
A note to the reader:
I must warn you ahead of time: I am not a linear thinker. Most of my thoughts branch off of the main topic and then veer off into the stratosphere. It takes serious cognitive strain for me to get back on topic. For this, I apologize. Also be aware that my vocabulary is comprised of a mix of vulgarity, large words and numerous colloquialisms. So this might not be the best toilet-top reading. Or maybe it is. Who knows? So forewarned, this is the story of my recent journey.
1.
The decision was a hard one to make. I think when I actually made the concrete decision to move to Los Angeles I was sitting at my desk in my apartment in Austin. It had been a year since I had graduated from college and I had to reflect upon my life. I had done my internship with Monument Productions for about eight or nine months and I had learned about the industry. However, I would later come to realize that the real industry was significantly different than the façade that Austin calls its film production. I thought I was ready for anything they threw at me. Shit, was I wrong.
After my internship I spent a few weeks sifting through North Austin for some means of income. Something entertainment related would have been nice but I was up for anything…anything not food related…and preferably not retail. I lost out on the last part. In October of '05 I was hired by a Postnet franchise to work as a CSR (customer service representative). Basically I photocopied papers, shipped stuff UPS, FedEx, DHL and through the post office. Awesome, I know. While working there I discovered (or possibly re-affirmed) the mind-numbing repetitive nature of the retail business. After a few months, I knew my shit backwards and forwards. I knew the difference between certified and certified return receipt, which services delivered on Saturdays, how to get the copiers to print out on 11x17 rather than 8½ x 11 and other women-seducing information. I was getting $10/hr, making a net profit in my bank and living very comfortably.
My social life had never been better. During my academic days I had never been much of a socialite, tending to keep mostly to myself unless in the company of trustworthy friends. But the last few years of college and beyond I had settled into a group I was comfortable around and vice versa. I was living with one of my best friends, I was within a mile of my best friend and I had an out-of-town girlfriend who came into Austin very frequently (a very good situation for a solitary gentleman like myself). And since my work schedule was from 12 until 7pm, I frequently went out at night for various activities.
The most infamous of which being Whiskey Night at Trophy's every Tuesday night. This entailed buying a bottle of Kentucky Deluxe Whiskey and a three-liter bottle of coke and having whiskey and coke until 2 am or we ran out of hooch. You must understand, dear reader that this was a significant aspect for me. Many of my literary inspirations came from this event. Numerous stories have spawned from this ethanol-fueled congregation. Usually all of my friends would gather for this weekly decathlon with the occasional stray guest star from out of town. Tuesday night was also open mic night, which lead to some interesting performances.
But something inside me realized that all of my goals in life couldn't be achieved if I stayed in Austin. There is so much camaraderie in the city and so much to do (both socially and vocationally) that it is hard to leave and may blind you to the truth of your own situation. But if I wanted to run and own my own production studio as well as achieve some kind of significant acting success there is no way to get that done in Austin. As much as the city and its inhabitants claim to be the "Third Coast" it cannot hold a quarter of a fucking candle against the City of Angeles. The solution was simple: light a fire under my own ass. Get out. Get real experience. Build up contacts. Climb the fucking ladder. Then, after a few years, if either A: nothing has or never will happen, or B: I have enough pull and/or power to work in the industry, wherever I may roam, I would decide which city I love more: Austin or L.A.
In a conversation with my boss at Monument Productions we had discussed the appeal of Austin and how, for many people it seems, the city is very hard to move away from. She described Austin as a "city of lotus-eaters"; a group of people so addicted to a lifestyle they don't even realize they are practically slaves and will never experience the outside world. Life is about the journey.
Here is the passage from Book IX of The Odyssey:
"I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotus-eaters, who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower. Here we landed to take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid-day meal on the shore near the ships. When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they had a third man under them. They started at once, and went about among the Lotus-eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the Lotus-eaters without thinking further of their return; nevertheless, though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made them fast under the benches. Then I told the rest to go on board at once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus and leave off wanting to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars."
A note to the reader:
I must warn you ahead of time: I am not a linear thinker. Most of my thoughts branch off of the main topic and then veer off into the stratosphere. It takes serious cognitive strain for me to get back on topic. For this, I apologize. Also be aware that my vocabulary is comprised of a mix of vulgarity, large words and numerous colloquialisms. So this might not be the best toilet-top reading. Or maybe it is. Who knows? So forewarned, this is the story of my recent journey.
1.
The decision was a hard one to make. I think when I actually made the concrete decision to move to Los Angeles I was sitting at my desk in my apartment in Austin. It had been a year since I had graduated from college and I had to reflect upon my life. I had done my internship with Monument Productions for about eight or nine months and I had learned about the industry. However, I would later come to realize that the real industry was significantly different than the façade that Austin calls its film production. I thought I was ready for anything they threw at me. Shit, was I wrong.
After my internship I spent a few weeks sifting through North Austin for some means of income. Something entertainment related would have been nice but I was up for anything…anything not food related…and preferably not retail. I lost out on the last part. In October of '05 I was hired by a Postnet franchise to work as a CSR (customer service representative). Basically I photocopied papers, shipped stuff UPS, FedEx, DHL and through the post office. Awesome, I know. While working there I discovered (or possibly re-affirmed) the mind-numbing repetitive nature of the retail business. After a few months, I knew my shit backwards and forwards. I knew the difference between certified and certified return receipt, which services delivered on Saturdays, how to get the copiers to print out on 11x17 rather than 8½ x 11 and other women-seducing information. I was getting $10/hr, making a net profit in my bank and living very comfortably.
My social life had never been better. During my academic days I had never been much of a socialite, tending to keep mostly to myself unless in the company of trustworthy friends. But the last few years of college and beyond I had settled into a group I was comfortable around and vice versa. I was living with one of my best friends, I was within a mile of my best friend and I had an out-of-town girlfriend who came into Austin very frequently (a very good situation for a solitary gentleman like myself). And since my work schedule was from 12 until 7pm, I frequently went out at night for various activities.
The most infamous of which being Whiskey Night at Trophy's every Tuesday night. This entailed buying a bottle of Kentucky Deluxe Whiskey and a three-liter bottle of coke and having whiskey and coke until 2 am or we ran out of hooch. You must understand, dear reader that this was a significant aspect for me. Many of my literary inspirations came from this event. Numerous stories have spawned from this ethanol-fueled congregation. Usually all of my friends would gather for this weekly decathlon with the occasional stray guest star from out of town. Tuesday night was also open mic night, which lead to some interesting performances.
But something inside me realized that all of my goals in life couldn't be achieved if I stayed in Austin. There is so much camaraderie in the city and so much to do (both socially and vocationally) that it is hard to leave and may blind you to the truth of your own situation. But if I wanted to run and own my own production studio as well as achieve some kind of significant acting success there is no way to get that done in Austin. As much as the city and its inhabitants claim to be the "Third Coast" it cannot hold a quarter of a fucking candle against the City of Angeles. The solution was simple: light a fire under my own ass. Get out. Get real experience. Build up contacts. Climb the fucking ladder. Then, after a few years, if either A: nothing has or never will happen, or B: I have enough pull and/or power to work in the industry, wherever I may roam, I would decide which city I love more: Austin or L.A.
In a conversation with my boss at Monument Productions we had discussed the appeal of Austin and how, for many people it seems, the city is very hard to move away from. She described Austin as a "city of lotus-eaters"; a group of people so addicted to a lifestyle they don't even realize they are practically slaves and will never experience the outside world. Life is about the journey.
Here is the passage from Book IX of The Odyssey:
"I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotus-eaters, who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower. Here we landed to take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid-day meal on the shore near the ships. When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they had a third man under them. They started at once, and went about among the Lotus-eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the Lotus-eaters without thinking further of their return; nevertheless, though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made them fast under the benches. Then I told the rest to go on board at once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus and leave off wanting to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars."
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sisyphean Hope
There are very few things in life that launch me off into a mental spiral into an all-day daydream like the prospect of never having to work again.
In case you don’t keep track, the Megamillions lotto is up to $244,000,000 tonight. This being the case I find myself going through my usual routine. I buy a ticket and wait for my golden ticket to freedom. As I wait and pray (or whatever) numerous scenarios and numbers roll through my head. Behold.
The first thing you have to do is figure out how much you will actually walk away with after the government does their fiscal castration. According to the California Lottery Commission if you, and you alone, win the jackpot and opt for the cash value option you would be awarded $155,000,000. Luckily the state of California does not take taxes out of lottery winnings over $5,000. This is stupid, for the record. Speak to my aching, beaten Saturn and the continuing war against potholes in Southern California. But the federal government takes 25% of all lottery winnings. So now you’ve got $116,775,000. Now the real fun begins.
There have been numerous people who have won the lottery and claimed that it cursed them for the rest of their lives. Some people just don’t know what to do with that much money.
I remember reading an ethnography in my anthropology class back at UT that some people are so ingrained into a specific caste mindset that if presented with something as exalting as a massive fortune, they would simply revert to their usual lifestyle but with more gaudiness. The notable example would be after Hurricane Katrina in 2005. After being paid restitution for the massive destruction of New Orleans by FEMA, instead of using the money to rebuild their homes or lives, some residents chose to spend the money on superfluous eccentricities such as bling or rims.
There are others who suggest that the best thing to do with sudden wealth is to give it all away, whether to a charity or religious intuition. I’ve heard from some that the first thing you need to do when you win is to give half of your winning away, even after taxes just to keep the Feds from MC Hammering your ass. This bumps us down to $58,387,500, which is still a ludicrously large amount of money.
Now it would be ill advised to just throw all of that into a checking account. Most fiscal advisors would…uh…advise that if you are under 40 you should keep your cash split 75-20-5. 75% of the amount in stock and mutual funds, which are likely to return 10% or more every year. 20% should be in locked assets such as CDs, though at their current interest rates you might as well just keep it in your sock. The last 5% should go into your checking and savings account. This has been your financial soapbox lecture.
Here comes the ugly: the odds. CA Lottery says that the odds of winning the jackpot are 1 in 197,911,536. Let’s compare. (INHALE) The chances of being killed by lightning are roughly 2,650,000 to 1. You are still 6 to 45 times more likely to die from a lightning strike than you would be to win the lottery. You are 18 to 120 times more likely to become infected by a flesh-eating bacterium. You're a whopping 180 to 1,200 times more likely to die a snake bite or bee sting. Statistically, you are 30,000% to 200,000% more likely to die in a legal execution than to win the lottery You are 450,000 to 3,000,000 times more likely to die in an asteroid collision in the year 2029 than to win the lottery. If you drive 10 miles to purchase your lottery ticket, it's three to twenty times more likely for you to be killed in a car accident along the way than to win the jackpot.
Bummed out yet? Bored? K. How about this: if you take that 5% of the winnings we were talking about and keep it in a savings account at a pathetic 1% interest rate, you would make $58,387. Every year. Forever. I think that’s worth a dollar.
UPDATE: FUCK!!!
Monday, March 7, 2011
God, I love being right...
Hey.
Remember back in the day when I said that Liquidmetal would be used to make the newest version of the Macbook Pro? Well another refresh came and went without a new body. New processors, graphics and features, sure. But it's still the same unibody design with the same materials. But there are very low rumblings that Jobs has another trick up his sleeve. Supposedly, if we aren't wiped out by The Rapture, Apple will release a completely redesigned Macbook Pro, possibly with the new "rapid, low-cost fabrication" metal. The company's stocks have seen a rise since rumors speculated that the newest version of the iphone would NOT be using liquidmetal and that it's most likely for the Macbook Pros. So I wasn't wrong, just a little early.
So bide your time and stock up on liquid nitrogen, in case it's nothing more than another trap from Skynet.
Yeah, it's the same joke. I'm lazy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)