Diary of a Hollywood House Husband

Book

I’ve stopped writing this blog and am writing a book instead.

Opening Night Shenanigans

Went to the opening night screening and post party of The House Bunny last night. Basically a lower rent version of the premiere, which took place earlier in the week.

The theory being, friends of the cast and crew go to the cinema to watch the movie with Jo Bloggs public… thus giving them the chance to gauge reaction from the hoi polloi. The reality is a theatre full of raging sycophants (myself included) who laugh, applaud and cheer on cue. Fair enough. The movie was deserving. We’re not talking Oscar material - just quality popcorn escapism.

Leading lady Anna (Ahhhna) Faris holds it all together. Her on point comedic timing never fails to keep the laughs rolling (and that’s coming from a professional cynic). I have no doubt this film will do for her career what Legally Blonde did for Reese Witherspoon - which incidentally was written by the same winning writer combo (Kirsten Smith & Karen Lutz). Note to any aspiring young actresses - work with these girls - they’ll catapult you to the big league. 

Our invite came courtesy of said combo. Clare shares the same manager and has known them for years. It was exciting to be part of their big night. Plus, as a voyeur, it’s always interesting to hit Hollywood on a Friday night.

That said, the post party (with the exception of some choice conversations) was a bit of an endurance test. You see, I often feel awkward at industry functions. Alas, I’ve yet to master the fine art of networking (one day). My mind goes blank. I don’t know what to say. Nerves kick in. Then, before you can say ‘dickhead’ I start to over compensate. This usually takes the form of arse licking. Brown nosing has always been a trait I condemn in others so when I start doing it myself, self loathing is quick to follow. 

The House Bunny’s message is simple and nothing new. Be yourself, don’t try to be what you think others want you to be. We all strive towards this. Most of the time I succeed. But put me in a room with a bunch of successful Hollywood types and I become a gibbering fool.  

It’s not helped by the hassle of it all. Something like this:

Babysitter.

Car.

Traffic.

Park car.

Network / feel stupid.

Watch movie.

Network / cringe.

Car again.

Nightmare traffic.

Next venue.

Queue for valet parking.

Bored of queueing.

Leave queue.

Drive for 20 minutes.

Look for space.

Find one finally.

Walk 3 blocks (10 minutes) back to venue.

Queue at bar (15 minutes - heaving).

Can’t get pissed as driving.

No-one gets pissed as driving.

Loud music.

Network / can’t hear so pretend to.

Pretense discovered.

Awkward moment.

Want to dance.

No-one dancing.

See Anna Faris (surprised at how small she is).

Drink another beer (up to limit).

Lame.

Leave.

Drive home.

Traffic.

Drunk drivers everywhere.

Pay babysitter (small fortune).

Bed.

What a night eh?

Glamour. Glamour. Glamour.

Welcome to Hollywood baby!

Dr. Heimlich

I saved a woman’s life today. Sort of.

The drama took place at 21 Choices, a frozen ‘yo’gurt establishment I frequent. It’s a confusing place. The name’s totally misleading. I know Americans love variety (who doesn’t) but there are 100s of different options. I never know what to pick. 21 my arse.

So there I was mulling my options when the woman in front dropped her keys. Ever chivalrous, I picked them up. Just as I went to hand them back, she started coughing. I waited. She coughed. I waited. She started wheezing. “This isn’t right,” I thought to myself. By now she was turning purple and panting desperately.

“Are you choking?” I asked. With rising panic in her eyes she nodded.

Fuck! What to do?

I willed myself to keep calm just as the words ‘heimlich manoeuvre’ jumped into my head.

Quick as a flash I turned her round, got behind and prepared to start the abdominal thrusting.

But then I stopped.

She had huge tits. “Where do I put my hands?” was all I could think to myself. As she continued to fight for breath I continued to worry about getting sued for copping a feel. 

I couldn’t just stand there while the poor woman choked to death. I had to take action (didn’t I?). Finally, I opted to link my hands just below the danger area and prepared for the worst.

One, two, three… H  E  A  V  E.

Nothing happened. No offending food item flew out of her mouth. No round of applause. No pats on the back. “Again,” I thought. “Do it again.”

Ding. Ding. Round Two.

But as I readied myself she started to wriggle out of my clumsy grasp. “I’m OK,” she gasped weakly. “I just have a dry throat, thanks.”

The place was packed and about 30 pairs of eyes were trained on us. 

Mortifying!

Slowly her complexion started to return to normal, just as mine started to flush. I could feel my skin tone change as it crawled with embarrassment.

Only one thing to do. Get the fuck out. “As long as you’re OK, that’s what’s important,” I mumbled half-way to the door.

But then something wonderful happened. As I left a fit bird shouted out, “You’re a superhero!” It was tempting to do a 360 and go back in. Perhaps I could bask in glory after all. But no. We ‘superheroes’ are modest creatures so I scuttled off into the California sunshine.

Did The Earth Move For You?

Did you hear about the Earthquake in LA on Tuesday morning? I was at the gym at the time (finely honing the body of an adonis). There I was, hard at it, when the ground beneath my (hands and) feet started shaking. Subtly at first. Then nothing. It was easy to dismiss. But suddenly its full force erupted, in all its 5.4 on the richter scale glory. The building shook, gym equipment rattled violently and a dirty great rumbling billowed forth.

Once again the differences between your average Los Angeleno and Londoner became apparent. I grew up during the Northern Ireland ‘troubles’ and coming from London I consider any unmanned package as suspect. A potential bomb. And that was my first thought. BOMB. A real life Jack Bauer had fucked up, failing to thwart a dastardly terrorist plot. Surreal. I half expected to see a mushroom cloud over the LA skyline. My adrenaline surged. But as I looked around I realised I must be overreacting. My gym colleagues were nonchalantly ambling towards the exit. Chatting excitedly. Comparing ‘quake’ anecdotes. No drama. Just a couple of tremors. Not the big one. YET.

Adios Anger

After an absence of 126 days I’m back. And no I haven’t been in Mexico all this time. I’ve been suffering from good old fashioned writers block (shit ones suffer from it too you know).

It all started on my return from the Yucatan…

I don’t know if you noticed from previous entries that most of my motivation to write spawned from anger. In the immortal words of Johnny Rotten’s Rise, ‘Anger is an energy’ and I was using it to write all kinds of shite. And the source of my rage was (rather pathetically) moving to LA.

I was irritated by the seemingly endless differences between the US and the UK. The whole, you say tomay-to and I say tomar-to shebang gets really fuckin’ boring after a while. I won’t go into more detail in case I start getting riled…

Back to the point. 

It’s amazing what three weeks lazing around in paradise can do for the soul. I came back to LA feeling completely relaxed, sporting a new ‘don’t worry, be happy’ attitude.

This growing sense of calm, grew even more rapidly after we moved out of our Hollywood pad. Following the break-in (read March 12th entry for more) I wanted to move to an entirely different neighbourhood (yes with a u). It turns out that our old street - Wilton Place - is the stomping ground of the 18th Street gang. The biggest gang in LA. It’s also a very busy road - imagine living in a beautiful home but located on the North Circular. We’re glad to be shot of it. The new place is smaller but we love it. 

All well and good but alas, as my resentment mellowed so too did my desire to write. I started to fear that I’d lost my mojo. It may be limited in the talent department but it was my mojo.

Then, to add insult to my injurious anger, I started training in NLP - first as a Practitioner and then as a Master Practitioner. I’m now fully certified, although not certifiable (phew). For those interested I trained with Tad and Adrianna James.

Part of the training involves active participation in Time Line Therapy TM techniques, designed specifically to let go of negative emotions. In particular, yes you’ve guessed it, ANGER (grrrrr). It’s now been cast aside like an old oily rag. I’m reborn. A phoenix from the flames blah blah blah yada yada yada.

So how come I’m writing again? Easy. Ambition. It’s a great opportunity to mention that I’m launching a business as a performance enhancement coach. You can hire me to transform your life (for the better that is). I’m expensive, but then again you’re not cheap, are you?

PS. There is something I’m still angry about. The fact that 90% of soy and corn grown in the USA is genetically modified. It may not be a problem, but then again it might be. We don’t know. It looks like the bees might have an idea, or should I say what bees? Read more here.

South of the Border

I’m taking the family to Mexico for a few weeks to enjoy some well earned r & r. 

Adios you mugs! 

Pass the Parcel?

T turned three a couple of weeks ago. To celebrate we threw a little party. But initially it wasn’t going to be a little party. It was going to be a big party. We toyed with the idea of inviting a bunch of kids from her preschool. If we’d gone ahead there would have been around 20 under fives running riot in our house. Pandemonium. But that wasn’t my reason for downsizing. What really freaked me out was the prospect of making small talk with the parents of T’s class mates. You’d be hard pushed to find a weirder bunch of Americans. And believe me weird Americans grow on trees out here. I’ve met most of them briefly while dropping T off in the mornings.  Conversations go something like this:

Me: Good Morning

Them: What?

Me: Good Morning

Them: What?

Me: Lovely day isn’t it?

Them: What?

Me: It’s a lovely day isn’t it?

Them: Are you Australian?

I’d rather put my head in a vice than endure an afternoon of chit chat with these budding einsteins. 

I read somewhere that you should invite the same number of kids as the birthday you’re celebrating plus one or two more. As T was turning three we invited 5 kids. We knew all the parents. And (more importantly) they’d passed my strict vetting procedure… ie. they have the ability to understand an English accent.  

Next on the agenda was what to do at the party? I’ve yet to go to a kids birthday that hasn’t included professional catering and entertainment. In other words, parents throw a bit of money at it. Get someone else to sort it. Works every time in LA. But I’m different. I’m English. I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. And do it all myself I did (although Clare helped-ish). After much thought the solution was clear. Go old school.

We played ‘Pass the Parcel,’ ‘Musical Statues,’ and ‘Musical Bumps.’ It was a raging success. The kids loved it. The parents loved it. And the Americans loved it especially. You see, they’d never heard of, or played, these games before. I had no idea. I thought the US shared our party game heritage. But no. Needless to say, they were completely charmed. Quite right too.

And the moral of this story? You don’t have to shell out a small fortune on birthday parties. Kids just want to play some silly games, perhaps win a prize and eat some cake.

Less is more.