Month: March 2015

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Fox in a Corner

It was 1983 and Mr. Fox was planning to get married. He had arrived in Los Angeles to tie the knot with his betrothed but like many love connections, he quickly learned that the family of the bride-to-be was not keen on living arrangements coupled with sin, so he was forced to quickly find a cheap apartment in East Hollywood.

He searched about, thinking mostly of his fiance, trying to find the closest bachelor apartment (an appropriately coined term, if I do say so) and when he happened upon a garden courtyard he snapped up their only remaining studio, located in the back with the worst view and the noisiest neighbors.

He wasn’t going to be there long, so the lack of luxury accommodations didn’t phase him. He would soon be cuddling with his fiance post ceremony and life would be complete.

Then one day the relationship ended, perhaps over money, perhaps over family, Mr. Fox wasn’t one to divulge that much information to strangers. So he stayed in that bachelor apartment to wait out what would happen next in his life.

One year went by and then 20. Soon 30. That’s when I met him, after almost a lifetime of sitting in a tiny, corner pocket, studio apartment. He never changed the paint (or carpet), and lived exactly the life you would expect of a bachelor who’s heyday was probably in the 1940s.

He would make delightful conversation with myself and our neighbors as they came and went through the complex, moving on with their lives as he gently evolved into that kind man in the corner apartment. It was always a joy to bump into him on the way to the mailbox.

Mr. Fox once gave me a painting he was going to take to goodwill. I saw it as he passed by and he offered it to me, saying he couldn’t remember if it was worth anything. I told him it inspired me for its dream like qualities and soon after that it was mine.

I recently learned that Mr. Fox, the permanent bachelor, the kind man in the corner apartment, died this week. A former neighbor at the complex broke the news and I just wanted everyone to know what a kind, sweet, patient person he was. Why some woman never snapped him up, we’ll never know.

See you on the other side, Mr. Fox.

I’ll remember your wisdom-laced smile forever.

painting

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Top Five Moments as a Production Assistant aka Gopher

One of my most loved and used pieces of advice when talking to new writers is to get out and actually make a film before you attempt to write one.

Is it mandatory? No. Will it improve your writing? Yes, in folds.

But with the folding comes delight, terror, and humor. Here are my top five memories of working in the infomercial world.

Grand Theft Parsons
Grand Theft Parsons – 2002

1) Day One

During the fall – spring season, I worked at an Orange County based repertory theater. But summer was always a fight to pay the rent, so when I stumbled upon a production company hiring P.A.s, I applied for the job because I knew someday I was headed to L.A. and the experience would be worth its weight in Oscar statues.  I was very excited to get the position because once I met my co-workers, I realized I was the only female P.A.. Power fist!

After a few days of doing paperwork I didn’t understand (call sheets, etc), they sent me to set.  I was basically a lamb going to slaughter and it was probably one of the most frightening experiences in my life. What do you touch? What don’t you touch? Are those dirty men with their guts hanging out over their tool belts actually smoking cigarettes in the fumes of the generator?  I made it through the day, only getting yelled at once. The biggest lesson on your first day is don’t touch ANYTHING without being told to do so by your immediate supervisor (the A.D.).

2) Dusty the P.A.

With one commercial under my belt, the set me loose with a little more responsibility because I hadn’t burnt anything down yet. We had an oddly late call to the beach where we lugged a million containers (I counted) to a beach. When 6 pm rolled around, I asked why we weren’t shooting. “Oh, no, honey, this is just the gear set up. See you at 4:30 a.m. tomorrow. ” So, basically, it took 8 hours to move everything the set needs to one location when normally it takes 2.

The next day I reported for duty and the A.D. handed me a large, new, paint brush. He said my only job of the day was to keep the actors clean. Clean? “We’re on the beach so they’ll get sandy, so be ready. ”  Okie dokie, sir.  Green as the day was not,  I went to craft service and ate breakfast, armed with my paint brush, awaiting my destiny.

Once the set and crew were ready, the actors were walked on and I’m faced with three well built actors, 2 women and 1 very very very very cut gentleman.

I spent the next 12 hours brushing sand off of glutes, thighs, and six packs.  And instead of being called by my name, they cooed for “Dusty”.

Best day ever.

3) Dusty the P.A. and roundabout hero of the homeless

During the same commercial, somewhere near 5 o’ clock in the evening, craft service was asked to start packing up the mid-day snack (hot dogs and burgers).  While this was going on, a homeless man had walked through the set, eyeing the tent where other P.A.s were packing up and grips were eating. There must have been 20 hot dogs left even with the crew completely stuffed, and so, innocent me, I put together a meal for the poor guy.

Not five minutes after this moment, the A.D. is screaming down at me about not encouraging the hobos because they’ll come back in droves. In my head I’m spitting in his face, thinking, fuck, it’s 5 o’clock, we’re not coming back, what is your problem. Scream any louder and you’re going to have a heart attack.

Once the vocal flagellation was complete, he walked away to finish work.  I went right back to craft services and packaged up more hot dogs for the homeless guy and handed all of them to him .

The grips near craft service gave me a standing O.

Fuck that A.D.

4) Lamborghini

All I remember about this day was an unbreakable pair of glasses as the focus of the commercial and the hottest car you’ve ever seen. Dusty to the rescue! I spent the entire day removing finger prints and you know EVERYONE had to touch this car.

5) Upgrade

After an unending amount of  golf and workout infomercials which includes my failed break into show business as a testimonial actor (the commercial never aired), I was told they needed a wardrobe supervisor for an ABC internal industrial commercial. What, no P.A. position? I’m being promoted?  HOTCHA!

The position was really not much more different than what I did as a P.A., they just wanted someone voting on which outfit each ‘cast member’ would wear. No stripes, no white, that was my only order.  But at least my resume was upgraded by the job. I was finally able to work in Hollywood at that point, and nailed my first film as an on-set dresser without an interview.

 

 

What do all of these memories have to do with screenwriting?  Every commercial I did, and every film I worked on, no matter what I was doing, I was a part of the process. I learned how to make films and by knowing how to make them, you can write them more effectively.

You’re sorely missing out if you don’t try being a P.A. at least once.  Some writers may disagree with me, but because they haven’t done it, they can’t see the light that shines above you while you’re writing. It really does add to the experience.

Break a leg, folks.

Love,

Dusty.

 

 

 

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Never upstage a clown.

This evening’s Twitter hashtag game was to state reasons why you were fired from a job in two words.

My answer: Upstaged Clown. #ReasonYouWereFiredInTwoWords 

The hashtag immediately brought forth some sour memories as a college student, drudging through a small town trying to find ANY job that has even a shred of connection to the Performing Arts.  White Castle won’t do for a student trying to become a costume designer and the one shopping mall we had seemed delightfully unequipped in the fashion department to work retail.

What’s a theatre major to do?

Lo and behold, a help wanted sign shined like a water tower warning light, beckoning any one willing to work behind the counter in a cramped, tiny costume rental shop.  I thought I had finally found my golden ticket because renting costumes is costume design related, RIGHT? Right? It has to be!

Well, there were no sewing duties that involved costume creation but there were a few rips to darn. There were a lot of sniff tests to make sure the returned costumes had been dry cleaned, and then the ever present alphabetical filings of duck and Tonto costumes back into the crammed storage area kept me busy most of the day.

Oh, did I mention I was also required to perform as a Chipmunk at children’s parties while the owner of the costume shop dressed up as a clown and terrified the children she was hired to entertain?

My boss was a bitter hard woman, someone you’d least expect to have or like children much less entertain them, and I think she was a smoker. If you can picture a 40 something, gambling addict glued to a filtered cigarette as she pulls the slot machine handle down between gulps of watered down rum and coke, this was my boss.

After one week on the job, she announces a party we have to attend. While she’s closing up the shop and putting on her clown makeup, I’m pulling on a brown fake fur body suit.  Two minutes in to wearing it and I’m soaked in sweat. While she finishes the final details of her ensemble, I wait outside, Chipmunk head under my arm.

Once we’re in the car, the Chipmunk head now doing double duty on my lap as an air bag, my boss turns to me and says, “Just follow me, do what I tell you and NEVER LET THEM SEE YOUR EYES.”

The way she said it, I thought I was walking into a battlefield.  She wasn’t far off, because when we arrived, we were swarmed in the front yard by children hopped up on birthday cake and icing.

I literally spent the entire afternoon being chased by children. Every time I stopped (it’s 80+ degrees out by the way), the children would jump and try to look at me through the large screened-in eyes of the Chipmunk. Every single child there was a truth seeker, adamant about proving my existence as a human being (or overly large living cartoon character).

In the melee of trying to keep the their innocence intact, I found these children were not paying attention to the clown trying her damnedest to get their attention.

Her magic tricks were no match for a circling giant Chipmunk with a horde of children in tow.

At one point I even sat down, trying to get them to gather, because I knew she was losing her patience. I had to stand right back up again because you know what happens when you sit down in a Chipmunk costume?  You’re eye level with the Pip Squeak Inquisition, and they get digital with you, poking hard, little fingers everywhere, knocking your head around en masse.

Once she made it through her act, we left, she paid me for my time (not a part of the take), and we rode back to the costume shop in silence.

When I was dressed and  ready to leave she told me, “this just wasn’t going to work out”.

I was young and I always did my best to be a dutiful employee back then, unable to invent a quick comeback, but had I come up with one, it might have gone thusly:

What isn’t going to work out? Me sweating my ass off in an itchy, poop-colored, acrylic Chipmunk nightmare for minimum wage, or you being the saddest clown I’ve ever seen?  Don’t peg this party failure on me, Ice Queen. Given a choice, children will always choose the NOT CLOWN for entertainment. I bid you a good day.

But rather than rip her a new one, I left, head down, trying to figure out where I was going to work next. I ended up working in a university research lab with bloodhounds that smeared the walls with their feces over every inch of their kennel… every day.

The moral of all this is don’t upstage the clown if you want to stay employed.

 

 

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My memories of Mr. Nimoy

It’s been a couple days since the world lost Mr. Nimoy, and not many people who know me now, know that I have a deep connection with Star Trek.

Sometimes it’s embarrassing to let people know this information, especially if someone willingly laughs at you for being in an inconsolable state of drunken shock when the news finally settles in one’s heart.

Yes, this has already happened to me.

But I thought, ignoring the ignorant, I’m finally able to put words to digital paper to talk about my connection to a television show and an actor who has been a part of it.

Every time we lose one of our heroes, a little notch is taken out of our souls. It makes us less than whole and it’s just a matter of being patient enough to walk through the pain and brush off the wound so we can keep going.  God help me when Mr. Koenig reaches this point. Seriously. I’ve packed away some Xanax and a paper bag for the day. But that’s a different story.

I’ll just begin by saying that my personality is probably 50% Star Trek and 50% parental upbringing. Where my parents faltered, a television show about survival, equality, peace and the love of science took their place.

Star Trek is also how I started my fascination with writing.  My father, having moved away after my parent’s divorce, knew I was lonely the first time I left my home state to visit him. At 12 years old, he bet me 50$ I couldn’t write a book by the end of the summer and having fallen in love with Star Trek the previous year, the math was simple. I wrote about what I loved.  I turned in, I don’t know, 200 pages of hand written Star Trek melodrama with a stolen nemesis from Flash Gordon to boot.  Funny how I never got paid for that until many years later.  But I did get paid. I was given an immense gift. A way to escape all worries, a safe place to explore and just be myself or anyone else I wanted to be.

Fast forward many years, after educating myself in theatre and film, I ended up as an assistant stage manager / production assistant at South Coast Repertory for the play Six Degrees of Separation. Marnie Mosiman, an actress in the production was/is an amazingly talented woman who just happened to be married to John De Lancie.  I figure if you’re a trekkie/er, I don’t have to explain any identities, nor explain the internal storm of raging excitement I hid every day of the production.

After some unusual days in rehearsal, (John de Lancie was pacing in the hallway with what appeared to be fumes hovering over his head, at least that’s what I was imagining when I sent our unsuspecting production intern out to figure out why he was upset or here for that matter), I came to the realization that this entire production would probably be touched by Star Trek, my secret love, my comfortable tattered sweater I wear when no one is around.

I wasn’t wrong. Many faces of Star Trek came through the backstage doors during production, and each one was a pleasure to talk to and not about Star Trek. I wasn’t stupid, I was cool, or at least I thought I was. I kept my ST questions behind the doors of convention hotels, safely locked away in their proper place. Don’t be the GEEK, Stacy.  Inside, I was a spaghetti and meatball mess of course, but it was fun throwing off some actors from the show (ST: VGR) because normally no one recognized them under all that make up.

Then one day, I think it was during the last week of production, Marnie let loose that Mr. Nimoy, THE ONE AND ONLY LEONARD NIMOY, would be gilding the halls of South Coast Repertory with his presence on the last show of the production. Many amazing actors have walked through the halls of SCR, but in my head, none compared.

I’m pretty sure when she told me,  I held my breathe and smiled, saying ‘lovely, that’s great, I hope I get a chance to meet him and his wife’.   Marnie promised she’d try to help make that happen.

Cut to the final show of the production. I can barely think or carry on a conversation with anyone I work with, and thankfully by that point, most of my cues were so ingrained, I couldn’t forget them.  The last show was as great as the first and the actors filed out to their dressing rooms for the final time.  As they got dressed back into their street clothes, I stood backstage pacing, because I knew what was happening next. Staff would lead Mr. Nimoy backstage to the green room to await Marnie.

I could not move my feet to the green room.

Why couldn’t I move? Why was I pacing backstage while I’m pretty sure a couple of my back stage crew enjoyed watching me buzz back and forth talking to myself.

Many people find it easy to ask questions at a convention. The actor they love is safely behind a “wall” of expectations, so there’s a form and dress to it all, you know the drill.  You’re surrounded by 3000 other people in the same boat, so it’s easy.  Back stage in the green room I knew there was just this person, this actor I had spent many many years adoring. I have to treat them like a human being, not some god. So you see the internal struggle and conundrum?

Marnie had promised to introduce me but time was waning backstage, no one had come to retrieve me so I swallowed hard, trying to create a voice that wouldn’t crack when I left to go find them.

I entered the green room and sure enough Marnie stood there with Mr. and Mrs. Nimoy.  What did I do?

I placed my arm around Marnie’s shoulders and asked her “So, who are these friends of yours?”

DID I JUST ASK THAT IN MY HEAD OR DID THAT COME OUT OF MY MOUTH????   Nope, woman, you said that. Don’t puke. Doooooon’t Puke.

Luckily, I was spared because Mr. and Mrs. Nimoy were use to this nonsense over the years. They melted my internal horror with handshakes and a pleasant conversation about the play and other places they had seen it to compare against what they had seen at SCR.

And that was it.

After they left the green room I lamented to Marnie, that I hadn’t had a chance to ask a certain question of Mr. Nimoy. I said it felt weird because it was somewhat related to Star Trek and it felt improper to blurt it out.  She said she’d try to ask him, and get the answer for me. So I told her what I wanted to know, hoping she’d email me with the answer.

The show closed, I went about my next few days getting ready to start another play and forgot about my question.

My question if you’re wondering was simple. What ever happened to a short Mr. Nimoy had directed about Chang and Eng Bunker, the “Siamese Twins”. Mr. Nimoy had attended a tour of Star Trek conventions showing off this lovely short and beyond the convention I had never heard of it again. I just wanted to know where this gem stood.

After a few days, the event of meeting a hero, safely tucked away inside my heart as a top 10 moment, I came home and the answering machine was blinking.

I pressed play and then knelt on the floor, unable to breathe because Mr. Nimoy had called my house and left a long message…answering my question.   I had to listen to it several times to understand what he was saying because well fuck, LEONARD NIMOY LEFT A  MESSAGE ON MY ANSWERING MACHINE!!!

It occurs to me now, 18+ years later, that the message was recorded not on tape as I had thought (I’m still wondering), but on one of those DAMN digital contraptions with only a battery back up to save what was on them. I know I saved the message for quite awhile, but I don’t think I was able to archive it.

That’s my memory of Mr. Nimoy. It’s a good one for me. I’m going to miss him and his good work in this world, as I do every actor who created this fantastic world for me to live in when I was a child (and adult).

Thank you, Leonard. You and your wife have both touched the world and we’re better off for it.

I suppose you may want the answer to that question?

Mr. Nimoy explained that the short was a sales tool. He had wanted to create an entire feature film about Chang and Eng Bunker and after showing it around town for so many years, and after receiving no bites, he simply moved on to his next project. That’s a pretty typical answer from any filmmaker. But as a fan of his work, I still want to see that film, and I guess as a writer, I have seen it in my head already, but I still want to see it.

#LLAP