Aug 26, 2006

last week

here's what happened last week:

after a hot, grueling ride to vegas to meet up with some friends from austin, henry and i had night out on the town with the texas boys. henry got to ride in the boat that was being pulled by the gorgeously decorated rented rv, the vehicle of choice for the 5 austinites on their western tour of the states. we visited the eerie fundamentalist mormon world of colorado city, where multiple women harmoniously rule the same houshold, and where teenage boys are forced out of town to forget the syructured way of life in the small town. we visited the north rim of the grand canyon, watching thunderstorms break across the south rim as the sun was setting. we spent three days exploring the myriad liquid fingers of lake powell, as the desert sun beat against our chests. for the first time since austin, i set out wakesurfing in the pleasent waters of the lake.

then i received a phonecall. "patrick. we will be doing our final day of training tomorrow down in redondo beach. will you be able to make it?"
"...yeah, of course i can make it. i'll be there at nine a.m."

thus another journey began. lake powell is approximately 600 miles from los angeles, and i had15 hours to get my vespa-riding self back to the coast. i shot down towards flagstaff on a half-gallon tank, thinking i could refuel at the next small town. i did not know that the next 5 small towns were gas station-free, and the next pump was 80 miles away. my gas mileage isn't that good. at the small town of gap, i asked around at a general store for the whereabouts of any gasoline. there was none. i took a chance in asking a lady in a pick-up outside the store if she had any fuel. she merely asked how much i needed, took her freshly filled gas container from the back of the truck, and gave me a gallon of gas. thankfully, i gave her some money and moved on again.

in flagstaff, i drove the streets of old town looking for a suitable dining joint. after choosing a particular diner, i parked my vespa and headed round the corner. i suddenly decided i should park henry closer to the restaurant. as i turned back around the corner, i watched as a big, unmmarked, white van backed into henry--throwing the vespa onto another car--then squeeled its tires and sped off. adrenaline pumping, i ran after the van trying to catch a license number. i did not run fast enough.

two and a half hours later, after a police report, dinner, and waiting around for henry to start because the fuel filter was clogged, i inspected the new scrapes and dent in henry's side and set off once again. this time, straight to la.

a year ago to this day, i had my first all-night vespa ride as i headed toward new jersey through the heart of indiana, ohio, and pennsylvania, so i could catch the rehearsal for the wedding of one of my best friends, jared. again, i experienced the cold, back-aching discomfort through the night, and at times had to fight back the strong urge to close my eyes for only a moment. twice, i stopped off the side of the interstate for a quick nod. through the mountains, through the desert, i made my way mile by mile to the sprawling land of los angeles. navigating my way through endless highways and interstates, i rolled into the redondo beach marina parking lot an hour and a half late, but still eager to get my training on. the other soldiers were taking a break from rowing, so i grabbed a coffee with the bunch, then headed out to the harbor for a grueling day of rowing.

i was tired and i was worn out. i endured the night, and i endured the day of hot sun and rowing. it was worth it. sag voucher number two.

Aug 18, 2006

training day


tuesday was spent in san pedro, rowing boats, rigging a sailing vessel called the black pearl, and firing cannons. i gues i'm now officially an english soldier.


meandering up the coast, i stopped for a rest at a park in palos verdes, and ended my day at a pirate ship of another kind.

Aug 12, 2006

blonde on blonde


anyone in line to see jessica simpson perform at popstarz last night might have glanced at the venue's entrance, noticed a twenty-something boy being restrained on the ground by two bouncers and thought "grrl, you have to wait in line to see the show."

js made a brief appearance at the venue last night; and despite the club's crowded attendance, her appearance was announced only yesterday on the factory's website. chris asked me to join him and some other friends for night on the town and near jessica simpson.

while giving mitch a piggyback ride up the staris to the dancefloor, a security guy decided it was the right time to tell mitch to get off my back. or rather, pull mitch off my back. excuse me? i certainly understand the necessity for the big boys running the club to keep liabilities down and maintain a supersafe atmosphere. but how does yanking someone off my back while i'm on the staris manage to do that?

for the next half hour, i tried to explain that to anyone who would listen. i was passed from manager, to security, to bouncers at the door, all the while being ignored in my complaint. granted, 12:48 am isn't the best time to sound off or hop on my soap box. but all i wanted was a patient listener. but no one would listen. that's how i ended up on the curb, arguing with the bouncers, 20 feet down the curb being restrained by the bouncers, and finally throwing myself through the stalks of bamboo growing in front of the entrance as i tried to run back into the venue. i was swiftly tackled by both bouncers.

as simpson stepped into the crowd and lost herself and her song amongst the throng, my friends got word i was in trouble at the front. just as my throat was being squeezed, my arms were being twisted, cops were being called, and i was still trying my darndest just to be heard, my friends snatched me from the clutches of the bouncers, up off the ground and led me away yelling things about being my lawyer and promising to take me home. eager, onlooking paparzzi took advantage the altercation to fill time while waiting for sights of simpson.

so my friends listened to my rants, and my irritible anger was quickly assuaged. i didn't get to see the blonde bombshell sing her tunes, but i did get to put on a blonde show of my own.

Aug 11, 2006

a job's a job

this is the reason i do not have a real job:

this morning, i was really trying to get up early. i even accounted for the fact that i would definitely hit the snooze a few times. that's why the alarm was set for the insanely early hour of 9 am. i'm really trying to get up early these days and make the morning really productive--like making myself breakfast before noon.

as is usual, i rolled around my bed and hastily hit the snooze while enjoying the luxurious 300 thread-count linens i graciously inherited from the ritz-carlton a year ago. as i became increasingly irritable at the sound of my alarm, it sounded loudly for a third time. wait, no, that wasn't my alarm. that. was. something...else. think, patrick. think. oh, it's so early, it's so. sleep. yes, sleep... but. but... phone! it's the. wait. phone!

in the past, i have opted to shy away from unknown numbers suddenly lighting up the face of my phone. i have not yielded to the eeri--yet tempting--"unkown number" calls that ring occasionaly. but now, my life depends on them. news from an agent, a casting director, a filmmaker who wants me to work in a project. no longer do i prefer listening to a voicemail message minutes later; on the contrary, my livelihood depends on the unknown caller.

that's why i knew i had to answer my phone this morning. a rush call to the disney lot for today's shoot for pirates of the caribbean 3. only nine actors were needed; was it possible for me to drop everything and make it down to the set? "yes" is my answer, of course." immediately, sir! and that is why i don't have a real job. to make room for my "unreal" jobs. and to make room for my very first sag voucher.

Aug 10, 2006

ballet and bayonets

"huzzah!" was my cry as i deftly lowered the musket into the cradle of my arms, anticipating the next movement of my gun: a neat, quick stab of the bayonet into my dying enemy's chest. a dying pirate's chest, that is. but today, there was no pirate to offer a quick and painful death. instead, there was a prop master and weapons trainer, telling a bunch of boys how to properly hold the gun. in the sweltering valley heat earlier in the week, the weapons trainer drilled nearly 40 british east india trading company soldiers in military meaneuvers.

after a good bit of training and a few visits to the craft services trailer, i tried my best to prove my merit as a soldier. after all, i need to get that sag card.

after wrapping military training for the day, i drove a few minutes from burbank's disney studio to the streets of hollywood. there, near the intersection of cole & santa monica, is the area's most renowned dance studio. edge is la's premier source for dance classes, ranging from hip hop and belly dancing to ballet and tap. instructors seep out of the entertainment industry's darkest corners, from the likes of madonna concerts or behind-the-scenes american idol choreography. all i'm there for is a little ballet. just as a little musketing and shoot-em-up action is right in its place, so is a well-executed pliƩ or pirouette. although i'm only one class down, i'm hooked. combine that with my biweekly hip hop class, and i will soon be a dance machine to be reckoned with. yeah, so i think i can dance.

and that's what it's all about. as long as i'm pursuing a dream of performing for a living, i might as well get it anywhere i can. so, i'll take bayonets and ballet, please.