Tag Archives: film

ROOM SERVICE DURING AWARD SEASON

Well, it’s here, that self-congratulatory jerk-off fest and ass kissing extravaganza!

Film, music, and television award shows! Look I’m not trying to hate, I enjoy one or two shows here and there. But Jesus Christ it’s nonstop in this town! I would love if they gave an award for ‘biggest douche bag, biggest asshole, the biggest pain in the ass to work with, biggest ass, biggest man boobs…’

I don’t know, maybe if we get a little more creative, and a little more self-deprecatory maybe the general public wouldn’t take actors and celebrities so seriously. They seem to look at them as these monumental, incredibly important, amazing people. What’s worse though are the sycophants & minions that blog and report on said celebritards. And a lot of those people stay right here in the hotel. These are the flies buzzing around the secondary shit that is Hollywood. Based on the delusion that there’s any glamour in Hollywood, entertainment reporters would be the very lowest on that wrung. How do I know? Because I worked for an entertainment magazine (STAR) long enough to see what a load of stupid fucking tripe all that information and news is. But hey, I grew up in this town so I’m probably a little jaded.

Ok on with it.

Golden Globes Night.
I get a big order $860.00 rm. 412, knock knock.
‘Room service.’ The TV is LOUD; I hear audience laughter as well as heavy room chatter. A lot is going on in there. I sense douchery; I hope I’m wrong.
‘What? what? Who is that? Why are you bothering us! Come back later.’

I knock again and scream loudly over the noise, ‘ROOM SERVICE!’
‘Yes, Yes. Okay. Hold on.’ The door opens a Perez Hilton looking guy gives me a dismissive wave in. Fat dude in purple skinny jeans and deep v-neck with a wolf’s head print. I’m annoyed, right off the bat. Why do I have to be visually offended by your bad taste in fashion and your lack of physical exercise? I hate everything.

I go in, 10 or 12 people are huddled on a couch looking up at a wall mounted plasma screen. They’re consumed.
They’re desperate for a fix. They speak as if they know the celebrities intimately and personally. Using first names, or shortening the name or making child like names of the nominees.
‘Oh my god Patty (Patricia Arquette) is hot!’
‘Well Meryl is like that…’
‘Bobby D was up for that.’
‘And Well George (Clooney I suppose) is so blah blah…’
I’m totally ignored, and someone says ‘pause it.’ The poor man’s Perez replies, ‘Don’t you fucking dare, I need to see this in real time! Ok come in. Quickly please.’ At that point I move even slower. ‘Where would you like…’ I say slowly.
‘Oh god, just over there. Where ever.’

Then a chubby girl in skintight everything. ‘No no not there! Just leave it. Right by the window.’ She gets up with a grunt. ‘Nyuuhh, oh my this looks fan fucking tastic!’ Another rude chubby wubby on the Couch yells, ‘eat my quesadilla bitches and just see what fucking happens!’
‘Oh shut up Gavin!’ I back up towards the door, now I really want to get out of here. I feel my soul being sucked out of every orifice. The depth of this crowd resembles a dried out birdbath.

I leave the room. I look in the book, of course there’s no extra tip or gratuity. ‘Oh God you cheap assholes,’ I say under my breath as I round a corner. I bump into a bellman that’s bringing someone’s luggage to the lobby. ‘Yeah man,’ he says ‘this is the cheapest fucking crowd of the year prepare yourself.’ The next room, 516. Just tea. Small order smaller auto gratuity. I knock,
Room service before I can even finish the sentence a girl whips open the door,
‘Finally.’ she says. The room’s packed with wardrobe racks, and suitcases, and boxes, and shoes and high-end designer shopping bags, jewelry strewn all over the tables. I manage my way around the obstacle course of couture footwear and accessories. I give her the check.
‘Yes yes I’m here dressing and styling VIPs I’m sorry to be short, I just need things delivered very quickly.’
‘That’s nice.’ I say.
She grins at me.
I walk out.

Short & Sweet
The Grammys. In the great words of Chuck D of Public Enemy, ‘Who gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy.’

More senseless awards for art. I will not be commenting on Kanye West, because I really don’t care. I haven’t heard the new Beck album either. I’ve never listened to music because it won an award. Seems like an Award just solidifies your self-worth as well as a future paycheck.
Most of the guests that I dealt with on Grammy night were too self obsessed to be dismissive or mean. Anybody that was of real importance was already at the show. At the end of any shift (regardless of the event that’s taking place) I usually laugh it off. And I realize that it’s not my career path and you wouldn’t get the entertainment of this lovely little blog, so I will be reporting more about this fantastic award season after the Academy Awards! And we’ll see you at the movies!

 

MY DAYS WERE NUMBERED AT TECHNICOLOR – CIRCA 1994

It’s physiologically staggering how much I detest most of the employees here.

One big dysfunctional family.

Alcoholics, gamblers, drug addicts sex addicts these are obvious. 

I’m sure there are also plenty of wife beaters, masters of molestation, pedophiles and judging by where some of these hicks live—bestiality. 

I hang in because the money is good. Bad move. Bad idea.

That rationale, that saying, “Well, at least the money is good…” America.

The phrase that pays. The Lie. The justification of lost passion, of the soul’s complacency, the collapse into a false sense of security and an even more false sense of self.

Speaking of delusion, working here does give me the delusional sense of being an intellectual… because the intelligentsia is so stiflingly low.

One of the bosses told me that he would “break both my fucking arms and legs” if I pressed a power button on a broken machine.

HE LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE COSMO SPACELY FROM THE JETSONS.

Not the least bit intimidated, I glared at the diminutive little man and I laughed. I could crush his windpipe in one fell swoop. I already had it telegraphed in my head.

 The money is good. But how far does that ever take me?

When your soul and spirit is broken, waded up like a Milky Way wrapper, and thrown to a needy corporate dungeon of chemical death, it makes you wonder, what the fuck am I doing here? Or anywhere?

Everyone in the Positive Developing department has a glazed look and is stupefied from watching monitors of the same 35 mm film going backward on a high-speed developing machine at 500 frames a minute for 12-hour shifts. This was the process of film, before digital.

Most people here break the monotony by drinking, gambling, doing drugs into oblivious states of delusional ultra temporary contentment. 

Or… they eat and eat and eat…to fill the senseless void of an unaccomplished, and molested life. 

Me: I’m terrifyingly sober. Dry as Death Valley in July. 

I read, write, exercise and get laid if I’m lucky. Sometimes I obsess on all the above that I can’t do—gamble, drugs, drink. Wait, murder? 

Even though this freedom sucks it’s better than jail, (more morbidly senseless justification for staying stuck in this chemical hell with toxic people).

There really is no glamour in Hollywood.

But based on the that there is, well this would be the least glamorous of film industry jobs. 

No fucking doubt.

My worth in the eyes of management is contingent on just how many hours of overtime I’m willing to work, but I have a modicum of self-esteem, self-care, and self-worth so I frequently refuse the OT request. 

So in their eyes, I’m a worthless piece of liberal shit and I have even been told so.

And (again) it’s rammed into my consciousness that Hollywood is filled with wolves parading around in liberal wardrobe.

The job, this existence, It’s an amazing concept that a job could be somebody’s whole life, somebody’s identity. 

More Americana that’s as shallow as a bird bath. Like a Junkie math equation. Good paying job = good life

The job collapses.  They collapse.

These gears here are oiled so well that word of layoff, fiber optics, digital anything that would threaten the weak foundation of their existence sends them scurrying in a panic, like roaches running from a homemade aerosol & Bic lighter flamethrower.

 image1.jpeg