For those ten or twelve of you who bothered to send me any feedback, yes, I am still a P.A. for a B-list actor in this Tinseltown of lost and faded lives. Yes, it's another semi-sad tale from Hollywood, complete with a vague sampling of dish. Punch in your coordinates, calibrate your GPS tracking system and set course for stun.
Yes, actors are a fickle, capricious lot. You can't expect a human being to bleed his or her heart on stage or screen and not expect that they may be wired into a more immature emotional system. Now, the sad part is the minor celebrity I tend to has two kids and happens to be terrified of not getting a gig. A mortgage in the Hollywood Hills is no laughing matter. And so, as always, guess who gets to be the release valve for all this neurosis and anxiety? You guessed it.
I took the job thinking it'd be a great way of getting behind the glittering wall that separates the norms and the special people. The norms are normal people like you and me. Though, I wonder if I still qualify as a norm, given that I've been registered in so many minor celebrity memory banks. Did I mention Anthony Kiedis once hit on me at my client's kid's birthday party? Yes, it was awkward. No, nothing came of it.
Rome is burning, and guess who gets to watch Nero fiddle away whatever celebrity collateral she had accrued over the years of B-grade TV and infomercials? If either of the little lads starts wailing or pitching a fit, her glaring eyes fall on me. Can I help it that they're raised like borderline feral children? The job description says personal assistant, not day care provider.
I feel sad for her. It's not easy to be clocking in on mid-forties and not have anything lined up. What bills that do get paid, including my paltry salary, come from the syndication residuals. Let's just say it was a really big show in the late Eighties. If I say anything more I run the risk of having this article rank on the SERPs and jeopardize my non-disclosure agreement.
Yes, actors are a fickle, capricious lot. You can't expect a human being to bleed his or her heart on stage or screen and not expect that they may be wired into a more immature emotional system. Now, the sad part is the minor celebrity I tend to has two kids and happens to be terrified of not getting a gig. A mortgage in the Hollywood Hills is no laughing matter. And so, as always, guess who gets to be the release valve for all this neurosis and anxiety? You guessed it.
I took the job thinking it'd be a great way of getting behind the glittering wall that separates the norms and the special people. The norms are normal people like you and me. Though, I wonder if I still qualify as a norm, given that I've been registered in so many minor celebrity memory banks. Did I mention Anthony Kiedis once hit on me at my client's kid's birthday party? Yes, it was awkward. No, nothing came of it.
Rome is burning, and guess who gets to watch Nero fiddle away whatever celebrity collateral she had accrued over the years of B-grade TV and infomercials? If either of the little lads starts wailing or pitching a fit, her glaring eyes fall on me. Can I help it that they're raised like borderline feral children? The job description says personal assistant, not day care provider.
I feel sad for her. It's not easy to be clocking in on mid-forties and not have anything lined up. What bills that do get paid, including my paltry salary, come from the syndication residuals. Let's just say it was a really big show in the late Eighties. If I say anything more I run the risk of having this article rank on the SERPs and jeopardize my non-disclosure agreement.
About the Author:
Yes, loyal readers, calibrate your GPS tracking system, set your phasers to gossip, and make sure your lattes are extra hot, with two Equals and no foam. Hollywood awaits.
0 comments:
Post a Comment