when in roam

By and large, I love my cell phone. For the past six months, the T-Mobile Pocket PC Phone Edition (aka the Dork-o-matic 8000) has done everything I could want from it – fielding calls, intermeshing seamlessly with my over-stuffed contact database, calendar and to-do list, checking email, and even letting me modify complex film budgets on the fly in Excel, allowing me to determine the fiscal impact of changes to production plans while still on set.

Since coming to LA, however (ah, yes, did I mention I’m back in our nation’s smog capital, this time through mid-February?), I’ve been frequently seized by the urge to drop kick the thing against the nearest brick wall. Because, though the breadth of T-Mobile’s LA coverage is indeed impressive, the depth leaves a bit to be desired; so far as I can tell, though I get strong reception in all but the deepest concrete parking dungeons, I cannot actually place a call anywhere if any other user in greater LA County has even considered turning on their phone within the last twenty-four hour period. As a result, I spend quite a lot of my time listening to apologies by soothing automated voices – they’re sorry, but all circuits are perpetually busy.

Like any problem, however, my inability to initiate or receive calls, or even check messages, has a bit of a silver lining: this being LA, people assume I’m purposefully not answering their calls or returning their messages to demonstrate my greater relative power level. Yesterday, for example, David Hillary, the other producer on I Love Your Work, was ribbing me for being “harder to get on the phone than Ovitz at his prime.” And when I called to apologize to an agent earlier today who’s call I hadn’t returned for nearly a week, I found myself instead receiving profuse thanks for taking time from my obviously busy schedule to talk through the relatively minor matter at hand.

So, while I had initially planned on picking up a second cell for the duration of my LA stay, I suspect I’ll instead be sticking with my trusted T-Mobile. If I could work up the nerve to do it, I’d actually switch instead to an exceedingly elaborate and ineffective system of smoke signal and carrier pigeon, as I can only imagine the career gains I could realize by effecting such an approach. Once I work out the details, Harvey Weinstein is toast.

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December 30, 2002

a brief respite

Back to New York for a bit of a break before hurling myself into the fires of Hollywood once more for the ever-intensifying stretch that leads to the start of I Love Your Work shooting on January 8th. Too stressed out, jet lagged and sleep deprived for genuine pith or wit, I fall back upon these two passages on that most unique city of angels to summarize my thoughts.

On Los Angeles versus New York:

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there’s a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in those streets.

– Jack Kerouac, On the Road

On the lovely individuals with whom I’ve interacted thus far:

The men who work in this town, and, to a lesser degree, the women, display behaviors that would undo them in any other profession. Egomania and greed that would disgrace any executive in, say, the insurance or aerospace industries are here rewarded. And even for those who run afoul of the law and are convicted of crimes, there is an apparently bottomless well of forgiveness. “Nobody cares about that shit,” one studio head said recently. “If you’re a money-maker, you could have killed and eaten your own children. It doesn’t matter as long as there is the perception that you can make somebody some money.”

-Charles Fleming, “Failing Upward in Movieland”

Boy, I can’t wait to go back.

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December 21, 2002

rambling man

In a scant six hours, I head out the door to Los Angeles. Monday officially starts pre-production for I Love Your Work, so I’m heading west to meet up with the director and other producer to hammer out the details of actually pulling together the shoot. It needs to be quick hammering, though, as I’m only out West until Thursday – a stretch of agent and investor meetings bring me back to the East Coast for the weekend. Following that, I bounce back and forth between New York and LA for most of December and January. And then head off to France at the start of February for the world premiere of Coming Down the Mountain. Thrillingly jet-set, I know. But involving an ungodly number of suitcase packings and unpackings (right on the heels of packing and unpacking my entire apartment, none the less). Considering that the suitcase for my six-hours-till-embarkment trip is lying on top of my bed, completely empty, this could be an ugly couple of months.

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December 7, 2002

the kentucky recap

An excellent weekend in Louisville, celebrating Thunder, the kick-off of Derby season. The trip involved: a stealth bomber, the world’s largest fireworks display, a transvestite cabaret, and (most importantly) Lindsey and her fabulous housemates and Louisville Science Center co-workers. While I won’t be moving to Kentucky any time soon, I’ll definitely be heading back to visit at some point in the near future.

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April 22, 2002

into the bluegrass

I’m off to Louisville, Kentucky, for a quick visit with one of my best friends from college, Lindsey Tucker. Until I return on Monday there won’t be any new postings.

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April 19, 2002

the tropical recap

While I had intended to pull together a travelogue for my trip to the Bahamas, I returned to work this morning to find more than 1200 emails waiting for me. Therefore, I’m instead falling back on these dozen short observations, which I jotted down on yesterday’s flight back to JFK:

1. Kalik, the Bahamian local beer, tastes like a bitter, watered down version of Bud Light. The can proclaims it’s “export quality” – perhaps I’m just shopping at the wrong liquor stores, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen that exported Kalik here in New York City.

2. The bikini is, without a doubt, one of the 20th century’s great inventions.

3. Diving with groups of first time scuba-divers is absolutely hysterical. Everywhere you turn, one is floating up towards the surface, dragging along the bottom, or swimming off into the blue. Divemasters are apparently exceedingly grateful for any assistance in corralling such divers.

4. Getting cornrows is a big thing for tourists in the Bahamas. Girls everywhere had dropped $100 to have their hair tightly braided by old, fat Bahamian women on the beach. Note to future visitors: White girls in cornrows bespeak a world of missing teeth and trailer parks that is probably best avoided.

5. I went on the Booze Cruise, and I’m willing to admit it.

6. Crystal Palace, the Bahamas’ largest casino, while tanner and less geriatric than much of Vegas, wouldn’t even hold its own a few blocks off the strip. The place is less than a fifth the size of Foxwoods.

7. Watching spring-breakers from a Texas sorority interact with spring-breakers from an Ohio sorority is oddly fascinating. I felt sort of like Jane Goodall watching two tribes of gorillas squaring off over territory and mating rights.

Note to guys looking for vacation destinations: female-to-male ratio on Nassau’s Cable Beach was approximately 2-to-1.

8. Adrienne, if you’re reading this, I really will call you.

9. Conch chowder is mm-mm good.

10. Other than that, the food blew and was vastly overpriced. It was, however, served rather quickly, seemingly at odds with the otherwise blissfully slow pace of Bahamian life.

11. Masculinity be damned. I like pina coladas.

12. Our hotel didn’t have a hot tub, necessitating frequent trips to the next-door Marriott for the crucial tropical vacation cycle: beach – ocean – pool – hot tub – drink – repeat.

Nassau, in short: Without a doubt, worth the trip, but probably not the repeat trip. My heart is with the Pacific, and Hawaii is where I’d rather be.

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March 22, 2002

tropical interlude

I’m off to the Bahamas for five days of bibacity and philandery. And, of course, a good sunburn tan.

Don’t bother returning here until Friday, as the site won’t be updated until then.

In other news, apparently I can still swing dance. Last night’s date went well. Very well.

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March 17, 2002

east / west, redux

Several days ago, I discussed the Bay Area’s tragic flaw: a shortage of hot women. A slew of readers have replied, mainly splitting by gender:

Guys: You’re damn right.

Girls: Yeah, but we have it worse; look at the guys.

Several readers also pointed out a number of other, admittedly more minor, shortcomings of the idyllic greater San Francisco region. In particular, I’d agree with the lack of:

  • Pizza: Where’s the grease?
  • Bagels: In short, Ess-a-Bagel.
  • Deli: Pastrami on rye, and a good knish.
  • The Yankees: You call the A’s a baseball team?
  • Pickles: Sour or half sour. Never sweet.
  • Italian Bakeries: Long live Viniero’s.
  • Subways & Taxis: Getting around SF sucks.

The list goes on, but I’d prefer not to dwell on it, as I do intend to eventually move back to the Bay Area. Besides, if I can find the right woman to bring with me, I can get by without the rest.

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February 26, 2002

east / west

Each time I return to the Bay Area, I’m hit with a wave of homesickness. The perfect weather, the laid back lifestyle. The beaches, the mountains. Green everywhere. Wow, I always think. I should move back.

And yet, something is missing. Wandering Palo Alto this morning I finally realized what it is: hot girls. Women in New York are just better looking than in San Francisco. I’m not entirely sure why, but it’s indubitably true.

Cue up the Sinatra. Start spreadin’ the news, I’m leaving today…

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February 23, 2002