To Be, or Not to Be...A Londoner

Picture this...



A vacation of high tea in splendid grandeur, surrounded by romantic renaissance architecture, gestures of European affection toward pastry treats, and Shakespearean worthy adventures in the Cotswolds. Bored yet? Envious yet? Shall I continue...yet?


Honestly, Los Angeles seems like a fetus compared to such a cultured city of mouth watering fashion, highly performed British speech and note-worthy theater outings in the overseas market of London town. I'm almost embarrassed to talk about what LA has to offer compared to what I have just experienced!


After having taken my extravagant adventure in order to find the Hugh Grant to my Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, I was also cordially surprised to find that I could possibly become quite the alcoholic in a society based around having a pub on every corner. How fun! Ten pounds later and I'm re-thinking that thought. Perhaps London-born folk aren't that healthy, but they sure know how to enjoy this sordid short life we all live. Remember, I come from the land that makes starvation in Africa look like child's play, and enjoying life means hitting the trendy clubs where "The Hills" ladies "might" appear. Ooo La La-uren Conrad!


Why isn't LA like Europe? What is wrong with having a bit of culture, history, and God forbid, CLASS. Europeans have this way of housing a secret affinity for cultured awareness. The most surprising of individuals can tell you the history of a 15th century pub owned by Henry VIII back in the days where vulgarity was a virtue, and gluttonous stuffings of the face were fancifully rewarded, but the pub still lives regardless of either one getting in the way.


I had a marvelous host though, which makes all the difference in the world. Sharing a pint of Bitter, my new favorite drink, with the Hugh Grant of Hugh Grants (before Devine Brown) fulfills that European fantasy, doesn't it? Forget Hollywood glamour, I'd rather spend time with a dapper commonwealth chap ready to play a drinking game before a cultured theater event. The best of both worlds!


The Cotswolds:
I'm sure the romantic fantasy of moving to a small sheep town emulates mouth watering notions of Jane Austen's Wentworth Miller coming to rescue you ladies on his white horse and I have to admit, it isn't far from the truth! Could have sworn I was courted to milk a goat one morning followed by a jaunt to the country estate. All in one day? Why, but of course!


Lets pretend for a moment that you have tickets to a horse race. I'm not talking about the sleazy Hollywood race track and casino, I'm talking about something along the lines of THE ROYAL ASCOTT. Don't get too excited, I wasn't there, but I did see the posh folk who happened to be dressed in their finest racing tweeds that morning at tea. While their high Brit greetings of "darling" and "chap" perfumed the morning's aura of seemingly having just arrived from tea with the Queen, I was...well...trying not to feel embarrassed, nor stick out like a sore thumb by reference of my American drawl asking for more milk in my English Breakfast...tea, that is. I did "try" to resume my famous posh impression of Bridget Jones' accent several times while embarrassing my host, I'm sure! Brit in my last life? Perhaps.


Other than the beautiful Cotswolds, High Tea at the Wosley (doesn't that sound posh?) and splendid hours at The Victoria Pub where Princess Di used to date young chaps, one must wonder if this is how Londoners actually live. Perhaps this is the UK's version of a mature Disneyland, minus Mickey and Minnie unless those are the names of your race horses at Ascott.


I can always go back when I finally get sick of rummaging through my glamorous life in LA. I make the most of pretending to be a movie star half of the time, but Europe is different. I didn't have to pretend to be anyone but myself. Such a satisfying bonus of contemplation and self reflection.

Hey London...time for tea!
Ms. Heels

Big Boys on Planes, Trains and Automobiles...

Does anyone actually believe their life is a cookie cutter image of a sitcom?  Of course! That is how these brilliant writers come up with such prolific nonsense, however, it isn't really nonsense at all...it is life.

I fly up to San Fran from LA every so often as part of my big-time studio "experience" and I've noticed that San Francisco is full of organic health nuts, and not the kind you buy at Whole Foods.  While Los Angeles is the wicked step-child of its Northern and more beautiful Cinderella-clad city, one might imagine they could very well be rivals, but at least they both have something in common; eating healthy or more appropriate for LA, starving yourself. Apparently, this news flash didn't reach the two gents I am about to talk about, deservingly, in this blog.

For my more tedious forced employment aside from blogging, acting, writing, and eternally trying to lose five pounds, I head to San Fran every other week for some good ol' fashioned e-commerce fun...not.  Does anyone use "not" anymore?  Who cares, I'm bringing it back. Some might think "lucky girl" getting to jet set her way through business opportunities for a Hollywood studio that any MBA grad would kill for, but I don't actually get to enjoy SF, because I am In-N-Out like the burger, but I know the staff on Southwest very well...I've made temporary friends. They give me extra peanuts upon my arrival.  Bonus.

Anyway, Southwest Airlines is my poverty mobile to and fro San Fran and LA.  Before this job, I had never flown Southwest. I am more of the Canadian breed, pompously refusing to fly on anything that is a terrorist target and therefore choosing only upper-class airlines such as the Canadian owned WestJet! Yeah baby!  Why do you think Canada is "up" above the USA? Americans hit below the belt anyway, it's fitting.  So after my taxi cab hijack-induced driver rushes me to my "oh please can I miss this flight so I can run away from LA" check-in time, I realize that SW doesn't have assigned seating. No assigned seating?!  What is this? Even homeroom had assigned seating in grade school.  Apparently SW hasn't taken that notion of no child left behind. Well...I wish SW had left me behind on this flight.  Where was the Bush administration now...hmm?  Leave me behind, damn it!  Take it from me, foreign policy at its best, boot those Canadian draft dodgers over the border. Honestly, as a Canadian myself I wouldn't mind a bit, but America is the land of opportunity! So where is my Oscar? Liars.

So there I was, late for my flight, and stuck at the very back of the line in order to get a standing room only "seat" on the 1970's soul plane.  Now, prior to this I was minding my own business, and this hot-looking fellow ahead of me in line started chatting and chatting and chatting and...not so hot-looking anymore.  He worked for the railroad and apparently chain smoked. Attractive. Say "hi" to Thomas the Tank Engine for me, will ya?  He did manage to squeeze in "I hope you don't get stuck between two fat dudes!"  I didn't like his remark, as I found it offensive to call people "fat" because it isn't always their fault. However, he did have a point, but I have faith in the airline Gods that they have noticed I've been a good girl this year and Santa wouldn't dare put coal in my shoe or seat, in this case.

The coal was hot and burning that night, because guess who got the last seat on the plane? Not chatty chatty bang bang...nope, it was me.

Flight Attendant:  You might not want that seat.

Me: I don't care, really. I just want to get home.

Flight Attendant:  That seat is the smallest on the plane, so you might REALLY want to re-consider.

To where? THE PLANE IS FULL, LADY! I think at this point the FA would have gladly offered me her seat, because she felt so sorry for me.  The lavatory would have been a better option, because what I'm about to tell you is the description of an opening scene of a sitcom.  

I look to my right and there it was, the two inch seat. Two inches, because of the large over-flow of what you wouldn't call "muscle" from the young man gnawing at his burger while listening to his APPLE iPOD (nice plug Apple...product placement on your unhealthy American...wish I had a camera) was practically infused with the larger than anticipated thigh build-up from the gin guzzling business man on his opposite side, obviously suppressing the fact that his left arm was much larger than my two thighs combined, and the reason why he's swiggin' gin is because gin don't are if yo a phat mo fo!  I sure don't feel so bad about losing those five pounds now.  Fantastic!  Great!  I'll squeeze in.  The faces of all the other characters on the plane were looks of steadfast daggers, inaudibly shouting "don't do it!" combined with "is she gonna make it?" like that last scene in Seabisket.  What will be the Hollywood ending, folks?

I felt conflicted about my feelings toward over-weight individuals at that moment, because I do feel for them and I have nothing against them as I'd like to make abundantly clear, however, they didn't even try to move over for me.  Whether they are big or small, its common courtesy to do so, and I had the middle seat.  Period.

I made it.  Unscathed? Uh...I don't think so.

My final question is, how do two health food nutty cities produce such fine specimens for fast-food commercials? What childhood tragedy did these two have to survive in order to subsequently spend the rest of their lives nurturing their trauma by stuffing five hundred Big Macs into their Big Gobs? Must've been anorexic moms or sisters or something.

It was the first and only time I actually paid close attention to the flight attendants demonstrating how to use the oxygen masks.  I might need one for later when my lungs are being squished to death by blubber and I'm not talking about the Judy Blume novel.

To add insult to injury, the younger obese gentleman (doesn't that just roll off the tongue?) decided that farting his way through the flight added to the aroma of the 200 other contestants on the plane.  I was sitting next to the winner, American Farting Champion.  I hope he gets a farting record deal from Simon Cowell. Fox...I just sold you your next reality show, so cut me a FAT check.  

I had a dream about Simon the other night.  He gave me a hundred bucks and his phone number, then whispered in my ear that he wanted to take me out to this exclusive restaurant and FATTEN ME UP! Foreshadowing? Simon could never be that clever of an actor.  Oh wait, he's a Brit.  Yes he can.  All the Brits win acting awards. Time to move to London and fake it 'til you make it. Maybe they'll give me a BAFTA.  Its better than OSCAR the Grouch anyway.

I clenched my teeth until the final moments when I thought the plane was gonna crash from that last air pocket just feet above the landing strip.  Bye Mom and Pops! I've always loved you.

I'm alive, which is why I'm writing this blog.  Someone needed to document the cliched remark made by motor mouth. His offensive joke turned into reality...just like Seinfeld.  Lets give him a staff writer job, shall we? Good on ya, Conductor!  Lesson learned?  Here's your sequel, Hollywood: Big Boys on Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

Stephanie Francesca

Studio Temp in the Devil's Castle

Temp

Definition: a noun - a temporary or contract employee (usually in an office). Temps receive fewer benefits than other employees.

I loved being the "noun" described above. As a former temp at a well-known Hollywood studio, my experiences ranged from slacker-status to high-stressed mania, all in the company of some of the most ego-centric executives you have and will ever meet. 

My favorite experience happens to be one of my most traumatic. I remember the phone call, "Stephanie, we know you are the best temp on the Lot, but this job might be a little...well...difficult." Whatevs. I can handle anything, but I started to worry when the head of Human Resources gave me her personal cell phone number as a "call me at ANY time if things get tough." Who was this guy? The Godfather? Close enough. He was the dictator of one of the most fruitful divisions of the studio. His name was known by everyone, except by me. When the temp agency told me his name, I naively asked "Who's that?" Ignorance is bliss, but after this experience, I beg to differ.

I dressed in my Sunday best and walked in with my head high, shoulders back, and lips pursed sternly giving off an air of confidence as I entered the old Hollywood executive building. You know, the one's you see in all the movies? The infamous building where 1950s movie stars apparently had affairs with the head honcho back in the glory days of Hollywood. I was enthused! How amazing! So close, yet so far from fame.

I walked into the oppressive office expecting to see Mr. Hitler himself, but no one was there. Hmm...perfect time to snoop. Everything was leather clad, mahogany hued and delicately touched with green velvet. The grand appearance was stuffy and expected to make you feel intimidated. The vibe was so thick, you could churn the air with a wooden spoon-the only way Hollywood would have it.

I glanced around the shark's office seeking out something, anything redeeming. Innocent 'til proven guilty, unless you are German and then its the opposite. There it was, the light at the end of the tunnel - pictures of his family. Awww, he's a family man! I was so excited he was someone human, that I called my mom at work to let her know I thought this might be the key to his soft side; family. "Human" resources just hadn't gotten to know this person's pillsbury doughboy soft side.

I peeked into his private headquarters and photos of his teenaged daughter, his two infant children and his young blond wife, obviously his second marriage (a Hollywood law) caught my attention. I turned to my right, and I saw even more pictures, and before I knew it my glance in every direction focused on picture after picture after...uh oh. Re-wind. This guy was a work-a-holic and needed pictures to remind him of what his family looked like, because he was never around to grace them with his Stalin-like presence. In my opinion, lucky wifey-poo and kids. This all meant, he was miserable and I was now screwed.

I glanced at his over-booked schedule only to be satisfyingly relieved that he was in New York for the "Diablo Wears Armani" premiere and then he was off in a couple of days to TomKats wedding. Wow. This guy was bigger than I thought. My only task that day was to call his cell to give him his schedule. Easy enough, yet still rather intimidating. I shakingly dialed his digits and was answered, after a short ring, with a brash "WHAT!" on the other end of the line. "Uh...hi, I am your assistant today and I just wanted to introduce myself." He seemed disinterested as I was merely a flea on the ground, so I skipped the introduction and headed straight for the goods. He then asked me to patch him into human resources and I immediately figured I was fired for not pronouncing "schedule" properly. By accident, I stayed on the line and listened in, ok not by accident. I was curious. I overheard him say "this new girl seems ok, why don't we hire her?" and the HR rep didn't miss a beat when answering "Sir, we have someone else more suitable in mind." More suitable! What am I, chopped liver? I was livid! I wanted to pipe in and announce my heroic 80 words per minute typing skills, damn it! I just wanted to have the opportunity to work for the gestapo if I so desired.

Then, the horrific moment came. The moment when I realized his assistant, who was obviously being replaced for a reason, forgot to leave me the password to the computer. The computer which housed his entire rolodex with every Hollywood celebs personal cell number. A gold mine for a stalker. HR didn't even do a background check on me. Scary. Lets hope Prison Break Anonymous didn't get the temping memo.

I called Miss ASSistant and I was furious. She didn't answer. F*%$! What if he calls for some Hollywood big-wigs number? I calmed myself down saying "he won't, he's sitting with the Devil as we speak." Then, the phone rang and up popped his call-display. Oh God. OH GOD! "Mr. Swimming with Shark's office, this is Stephanie?" I perkily squealed. "Get me Martin Scorsese!" the Devil squaked. OH MY GOD! There it was. The exact moment I had been dreading. What? Martin? THE Martin Scorsese? Zero access to his rolodex meant zero tolerance by the Chinese water torturer. I assertively stood my ground and told Mr. Great-White, "I'm sorry, your assistant didn't leave me the password to your rolodex, but if you have an extra copy somewhere..." I was curtly interrupted with "F*#&$$* then call Martin Scorsese yourself and tell him I'm going to be late!!!" SLAM goes the phone and I colapse in desperate frustration. Call Martin Scorsese myself?! Who has his number? Do I dial 411? Do I call the HR reps cell? I call my mother. Logical, right? Seeing as I am not part of Hollwood's club of nepotism, I'm not calling her for Scorsese's digits, but she was and still is my current 911 speed dial operator who happens to have all the answers no matter how paranoid mothers can be. She'll know what to do. She just said "oh well, what can you do?" I laughed. Its true "oh well" is the optimistic mind frame a buddhist would have taken, but I was not a buddhist, I was a temp so it was perfectly acceptable to carry-out the anxious drama and glass half empty mind-set in this particular situation.

Buddhism aside, I was entering the danger zone within the Top Gun's office. The phone rings again and its his incompetent assistant. I tell her the problem and she's silent, says nothing. Her heart probably stopped, as did mine! I finally get into the rolodex with her missing password and dial Mr. Scorsese's number. I anxiously await his answer only to get his assistant. Slightly relieved, I leave the "late" message and breathe a sigh of relief.

The phone rings again and its Joaquin Phoenix. Yes. YES! The only moment in my life where I thought "I love Hollywood!" We actually chatted a bit...well...I told him Mr. Hammer-Head wasn't there and he said "thank you." As far as I'm concerned, he and I are now BFFs.

To add insult to embarrassing injury, I really needed to use the bathroom, badly. I drank too much diet coke out of nervous infused energy that somehow didn't allow me to run down the hall fast enough, so I decided to use Shark's private bathroom. Not really allowed, but I was already in his bad books, so in the words of Juno, how many more shenanigans could I possibly get into?

The toilet wouldn't flush. WOULD NOT FLUSH. It was broken? Oh Lord. I frantically fiddle with the flusher, open up the top portion of the toilet only to find...well...nothing I could fix. DOOMED!! I call my mother, again, out of panicked desperation. How was she going to help me all the way from Canada? If he found out I used his PRIVATE bathroom, "off with her head!" I call my mother every five minutes to give her the toilet update. This guy was full of crap anyway, so it was perfectly fitting that the toilet would break. I decided to go to the fridge to look for comfort food, but as soon as I opened the fridge, the door falls off. What is happening?! The negative energy is causing a massive influx of break-down central. Alice ain't in Wonderland anymore. Wow. Gotta get out of here. What's next, peeps?

OH, Mr. Shark Tooth decided to head home early from the Big Apple and jet into the toilet-plugged, fridge-broken, computer-jammed office. Lucky him to be heading into such Hollywood glamour. His dramatic entrance was not a greeting of niceties. He sarcastically asked if I "finally figured out how to work A computer." Gee, thanks. I rudely replied with a very fake "yes, thank you for asking. Your assistant finally called me back." No response from Mr. Wicked Witch of the West. He was giving me the silent treatment...how machiavellian of him. He then gets on the phone and yells at his assistant saying "I have two F*&@## assistants and not one of you could figure out how to use a F*&@# computer? You two are F$#%#%@@ useless." I had never heard so many profanities come out of a family man's mouth. Maybe those photos in his office came with the frame. 

Was I really one of the "two" F-ing assistants he didn't like? How could this have happened? I type 80 words per minute! Doesn't anybody care? Didn't matter. Where did I make that wrong turn in the road? This couldn't possibly be the road less travelled, because I didn't feel as though I was the only one who had experienced his vulgarity.

That moment probably wasn't the best time to plug my actress status as I had already plugged his toilet. One plug a day gives plumbers their pay. At that moment, I hear the toilet flush by itself. A metaphor for my perfect temp record being flushed down the loo. What should I strive for now? I have to admit, if we do have guardian angels, there was one on my side right then. He didn't even seem to notice the toilet flushing on its own. Thank God. I just wanted to scram, and I had no shame in telling him "I need to leave early" and that I did, never seeing the guy ever again, and never telling anyone I plugged his toilet except for maybe EVERYONE I know.