Walking on a Sea of Thin Ice

Walking on a Sea of Thin Ice

A short biographical account of 19 months in Los Angeles,
May 1992 - January 1994

by Clarke M. Smith

Edited by Leilani L. Smith

First writing: Summer 1995

Second writing: Summer 1996

Final writing: Spring 1999

PROLOGUE

Graduating from college was not really a very successful thing to me.  Sure I graduated, but according to my then philosophy, unless or until the certificate gets you a good paying job, it’s not worth that much.  If anything, all the celebrating and congratulations afterward was even more pressure to go out there and pound that pavement, succeed, show everyone what you are, and what you will become in the career world.

For seven years, from 1985 to 1992, I studied film and video production at the University of Arizona.  Made lots of short films and narrative videos, and worked part time a plant maintenance company owned by my stepmother.  I couldn’t wait to graduate, move out of hot Tucson, and get to Los Angeles to find my career in the entertainment industry.  I’d say I was a different person then. Now that it’s all over, it’s hard to write about it from the point of view of who I was then.  I was pretty optimistic.  I wrote the following biographical account a year before this prologue.  When I first wrote the account and sent a copy of it to my mother in Tucson, she thought it was well worth sharing and encouraged me to send it to something like Reader's Digest.  It needed a little brushing up, as well as an introduction.  Hence, here it is.

From June 1992 to February 1994, I had some experiences in the town known as L.A. that were, shall I say, interesting.  Descriptions could run the gamut… unreal, pathetic, maddening, crazy, ridiculous.  It was almost two years after I left L.A. that I got the itch to write down the story.  There was a lot I never told anyone.  I suppose this was a way to come to terms with it all, and sort of purge it from my system.  I didn’t want to talk about a lot of it, much of it shameful and embarrassing.

“You’re crazy,” my family told me, as I prepared to drive out to L.A., not knowing a soul, having no place to live and of course no job.   The L.A. riots from Rodney King were a mere six months ago.  It was my girlfriend, Leilani, who drove out there with me.  We arrived and stayed at the Westin Century Plaza hotel.  We were lucky enough to stay there for free (except for some $10 or so for daily parking), since Leilani was a Westin employee in Tucson.  That was probably the extent of my luck in smog city.  A few days later, it was time for her to leave.  It was a painful and tearful goodbye at LAX.  Not only would I miss her terribly, but I was all alone in a huge city I knew next to nothing about (I had only visited there 4 or 5 times in my life).  I got an education in no time.

This is not a hero’s tale.  I accomplished no great feat, and certainly made no name for myself.  But I survived.  That can say a lot when you’ve lived in Hollywood, California…

A

lmost two years have passed since my experiences in L.A.  It all seems like a distant dream that never really happened.  On one hand, I wasted my time, and lost a few years of my life.  On the other hand, I grew up, got introduced to reality, and hopefully took something back with me.  It really was a daring thing to do.  Looking back on it now, it was a one time thing.  I was 25 years old.  I could never do it again, going off somewhere with no job or place to live.

One of the only times I had any luck was when a friend of a friend got me a place to live for a few weeks.  Hopefully I won’t offend this friend of a friend, but I stayed at this stranger’s house while trying to get settled.  This guy was some kind of burnt out stoner who carried a gun everywhere he went.  First, he sent me on a wild goose chase trying to find his place.  He lived in the Wilshire District on Wilton Street, but his directions landed me fifteen miles away in the middle of downtown.  I am actually grateful to the guy, and he never asked for any money or anything.  But he was a little scary, typical of many locals.

During those two weeks in that house, I got immediate indications of my future in L.A., a sort of warning sign from above.  It was a very small earthquake.  I’d never felt one before, kind of like being rocked in a hammock.  No big deal at the time, but a haunting foreshadow of more to come.

While at his house, I went out and got myself a job.  The money I had with me was running out very fast, so I got what I knew - plant care.  It entailed driving around to local offices and homes to maintain their plants.  It was similar to the job I had in Tucson during college.  But I hated it, driving all over creation in my car.  To get the job, I had to conceal the fact that I had a college degree.   They thought I was just some drifter who breezed in from out of town that loved plants.  Perfect for the job.  It paid $7.50 an hour.

With a secure paycheck now, and the job being part-time, I used my extra time to get serious about finding an internship in my field.  Through various leads, I got my very first one.  The phrase ‘internship’ should be used sparingly throughout this story, because it was all a joke.  In this industry, most people start out in unpaid positions as interns, and this was the route I thought I’d try, not knowing a soul in the business.  It was called Draizin Company.  ‘Company,’ meaning one guy trying to be an agent for directors, writers, and actors.  I guess he was having some success.  But what a waste of time.  I sat there in his puny little side office answering occasional calls and reading scripts.  One of the scripts I read did eventually get made, and Mr. Draizin produced it: “Fools Rush In,” starring Mathew Perry and Salma Hayek.  I did have a few interesting things happen.  I talked to producer Debra Hill, and I got in touch with John Carpenter’s agent to see if he hired interns (‘well, not really,’ he said).

On my first day, Mr. Draizin called in from his cellular phone and asked, “What’s up?”  Simply trying to make conversation, I said, “Oh, not much.”

He got all flustered and barked, “I’m not calling to hear ‘not much’.  I wanna know who called, get my appointments, and hear what you’re doing.  Its expensive calling from my car, you know?”

He did give me some true advice that I took with me.  He said I’m years from making any kind of money in this industry, starting at the bottom.  Years.  People have to spend some 10 years to get anywhere here, and he could probably tell I wasn’t willing to be broke that long.  Most people in this industry don’t seem to care about money or living conditions.  But I think life is too short. 

When my two weeks was up living at this guy’s house, I moved into my first apartment, still in the same general neighborhood.  He was the only person I knew and I didn’t want to be very far from him.   That didn’t matter, because I never did see him again.  I didn’t know, except by obvious ugliness and filth, that it was a crime-ridden area known as Korea Town, on Ardmore Drive.  Such a dumb name, I always thought.  Various spots had riot damage.  I could literally feel how the locals didn’t take too kindly to me.  Knowing nothing of L.A., or that there were much better areas for the same rent, I moved in.

It was an old, dinky, air-conditionless dump that smelled of ancient rot.  The only things that filled the place was me, a couch with a stain that looked like blood on it, my small TV, and a little 6” house plant that someone left behind.  I watered the bone-dry thing, and considered it my only living friend in L.A. And I took care of it as such.  Incidentally, that plant still exists.  With its sentimentality still intact, it now resides in a new pot, safe and sound at home.

A week passed.  I was still in my first month in the city.  I got up one Saturday morning to go see the location of the scene of the then recent “Terminator 2”, where the truck crashed through into the flood channel and chased the kid.  I had discovered the filming location in a book, and I’d found it on a map.  I’m going to spend one day, I thought, sightseeing and messing around.  Not job hunting, no worrying about money or career.  I walked out in my Hawaiian shorts and had an Igloo full of sodas, and a sack lunch.  Had a great attitude to just try and make the best of things.

Then I stopped.  Where did I park?  I could’ve sworn I’d parked there...maybe over there...no...maybe I was towed for being slightly in the red zone.

Then it hit me like a ton of manure.  Stolen!  One cannot imagine the sensation, the horror.  Your brain goes in circles a million miles an hour.  Where is it?!  What did I leave in it?  Oh no, my stereo!  I still hadn’t unloaded all of my clothes!  A box of tapes for the cassette deck, an expensive pair of Raybans...all gone.  And that wasn’t the end of my nightmare.

All of the supplies I used for my plant job had been left in the car, along with 20-25 keys to client’s houses!  The company was upset.  I was very lucky I didn’t get fired.  But my supervisor felt sorry for me I think.  They had to pay to have new locks installed for each house.  From that day on, they reminded me, and others, to bring the keys in at night, every night.  And I did.

After the initial shock, I called the cops and my insurance company.  Talked to my folks in Tucson.  I sat stranded in the apartment the whole weekend in a daze and watched a “Twilight Zone” marathon, hoping the car would be found, waiting for the phone to ring.  The one good thing that came out of this was that the insurance company provided me with a rental car for a month.

By this time, my then girlfriend, Leilani, moved out to L.A. after getting a job as a nanny for actress Catherine Oxenberg  (known mostly from the "Dynasty" TV show).  Leilani had been in a few of my college films and was excited about my film company experiences as of late.  She couldn’t get past that no-pay part though. 

At the same time, my folks brought out a bunch of my things from Tucson in their old Buick.  They arrived, took one look at my pathetic apartment, and were completely mortified.   They actually cried over it.  I had literally conditioned myself to not see what a rotten place I had been living in.  As fast as they could, they searched out a better place to me in  Hollywood and single handedly moved me out of that godforsaken rat hole.  I couldn’t believe it.

My parents were exhausted, but happy to have helped me.  They got me into a better place with a kitchenette and onsite laundry, on the west area of Hollywood Blvd.  They arrived on a Saturday, and were gone by Tuesday.   Today, I can’t see why I put up with so much crap and misfortune.  I probably should’ve gone back right behind them.

Twenty days after my car was stolen, the cops called me at midnight to report it found.  My father and family were in town that weekend, and they took me to the junkyard holding place the next morning.  The car had been gutted out and it looked irreparable.  My heart sank and I just wanted to kick something.  It was the first car I ever bought and I was quite fond of it. Glass everywhere, some one’s filthy clothes left behind, the paneling and seats slashed, the dash all cracked up.  I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked away.  To my amazement, my insurance company opted to fix it instead of paying it out to me.  Yet another unbelievable thing.

While working at Draizin Company, Mr. Draizin loaned me his Columbia Pictures guest pass that he had, and I actually got through the security gate after a few failed attempts and wandered all over the studio (outdoors).  I dropped off my resume to a couple offices, not having a clue what they even did.  Most of them were nice about it, but some just said, call the employment hotline (a hopeless dead end).   The only time I got kind of excited was when I stumbled upon the Zucker Brothers office.  That was cool.  But I soon quit wasting my time at Draizin Company and continued to look for work at studios and television stations.  

I ended up getting my second internship at New Horizons Corporation in hopes of a better future and experience.  It was a big dump of a building in Brentwood, owned by legendary low budget king Roger Corman.  The starting place of many current success stories like Ron Howard and James Cameron.  What a great place to intern!

Well, I sat and read scripts all day.  No one cared about the other two ‘interns’ and me.  Didn’t talk to us.  Gave us no work of any kind.  We read scripts that I guess they were considering, and had us as the first time readers.  We then filled out an evaluation form.  These scripts were awful.  That may sound somewhat interesting, but we sat wasting time rotting in a dingy, little spare office doing this.  It felt like a huge waste of my time.

Then there’s a sad and somewhat angering story I heard there through the grapevine about two former interns that got a ‘great chance’ to actually work on location on one of their movies.  It was on a strait to video cheapo called “Ultraviolet”, a rip off of “Deadcalm,” but set in the California desert.  This company shot the film out there for two months with two unpaid film hopefuls.  These guys were worked fifteen hours a day with very little food.  Since they weren’t on the payroll list for the caterers (because they weren’t paid employees), there wasn’t enough food for them.  They had to scrounge on the crew’s scraps of whatever they were given.  They returned to L.A. sunburned, and a lot thinner.  “Well, you gotta pay your dues around here,” they were told.  I had thought slavery died out with the Civil War.  I borrowed a copy of the tape and took it home to watch.  Pretty pointless garbage.

For a very short time, I then interned with New Line Cinema.  More of the same free labor, but I got to meet Charles Dutton, from the TV show “Roc.”  I didn’t know what to say because all I could think of was how much I despised “Alien ³,” which he was just in.  It is and was my most hated film of all time.

Meanwhile, Leilani was still living with and working as a nanny for Catherine Oxenberg.  She lived in Beverly Hills.  Leilani had to be on the job twenty-four hours a day.  It was like she was in prison.  She took care her daughter, India.  It was said through the Beverly Hills grapevine, that Oxenberg would ride in a separate car on outings to avoid being around her in the first few months of life.  The nanny before Leilani had to take the baby in another vehicle, a Montero, and follow right behind Catherine.  She didn’t want to be near India unless there were scheduled press meetings.  That kid bonded with Leilani like you wouldn’t believe.  India thought she was her mother instead of Catherine, calling her ‘Sheesh’.  I became known as ‘Cark’.  

When Leilani first started, the three of them took off to London and Scotland to film a TV movie.  I was alone again for a month.  Back in Tucson, my stepfather Ande suffered a slipped disc and was in all kinds of pain.  To make a long story short, he was thrown out of University Hospital while he was there, screaming in pain.  They wouldn’t treat him because of something to do with insurance red tape.  My grandfather thinks it was racial and based on Ande’s looks (Hispanic, and long hair, etc).  My folks ended up suing.  Anyway, when I heard about all of this, I was furious and worried sick.

To add to this wonderful month, there were fraudulent charges on my credit card I thought I’d be liable for. It turns out that I wasn’t.  It was taking forever for my car to be fixed.  The coverage on the rental car I was driving was expired so I was paying out of pocket (credit card) for it.  It was a crappy Ford Escort with really bad, squeaky brakes.  I complained about it, but they said it was normal for an Escort to do that!  This car squeaked and squealed like you wouldn’t believe, and it was ‘normal.’  So, one day I made the huge mistake of letting it all get to me.  I kicked the damn car, and apparently did enough damage to get charged $120 from Enterprise Rent-A Car.

Leilani returned from London a month later.  She got to be an extra in the movie, and we saw her when it came on TV.  It was about Prince Charles and Princess Diana (long before she died in real life). She had told Catherine I studied film and television in college.  So Catherine helped get me yet another internship at a zero budget movie company she had worked with called Crystal Sky Communications.  I had thought the last place I was at made bad movies.  I had no idea.

But when I originally called them, they said they didn’t need anybody.  They were also concerned about the illegal free labor part of it.  By now, I’d learned that you don’t take no for an answer, that you be a pain in the ass, and persist to the end in this business.  So I went back to Catherine and told her.  She told me to call back and ask for some guy named Eric and tell him I’m calling in regards to Catherine Oxenberg and that I’m the new intern.  And it worked.

On my first day, I had the strangest feeling I wasn’t too welcome.  Leilani had the feeling that it had to do with the connections that I had tried to use to get my foot in the door.  Whatever it was, it was such a strange place to be, and I felt extremely uneasy.  The main job was that of a messenger.  One of the countless, nameless, thankless jobs in the city of broken dreams.  Anyway, I did more of the same worthless trash everyday.  But this is where it got bad.  Crystal Sky was a turning point. After a while, they had me running errands all over the city.  And they were so damned cheap, they would split parking cards for the building.  That is, if say thirty people worked there, they told the building owners that they had fifteen employees so that would be all they had to pay for.   And we interns sure weren't going to get a parking card.  There was absolutely nowhere else to park this being right in the middle of Century City.  I guess the building owners never wondered why the underground lot was always so overcrowded with cars.

So they told me when I come in to park, to drive really fast past the security guards (you're supposed to flash them your card, and remember, I didn’t have one).  I was very nervous when I did it, and I could often see them in my rearview mirror, yelling at me to come back or something.  And at the end of the day, or to just get out to go do errands, I had to borrow someone's card, which was needed to open the exit gate.  Then, I had to park in the loading dock or red zone, walk the card back up to its owner, come back and leave, and hopefully not get a ticket.  Then there were times when I'd have to wait for some other employee to leave.  I had to closely follow the person’s car in front of me on the way through the gate, and narrowly get out of there before it closed.  Once, I was inches away from needing a new paint job.  All this is much more interesting to write about than anything I did as an intern.  A few other interesting things happened there, like talking to actor James Brolin on the phone, and meeting Robert Rodriguez.  Also, the chubby guy with the gun in the Twilight Zone Movie (John Lithgow plane segment). Those were the better, but few, moments of this wretched internship.

The repair shop finally finished my car and I had it back.  I was running more and more errands. I started seeing what a cheap, non-compassionate industry this was.  I used my own gas, and my car endured a lot of wear and tear just to run things all over.  To make my money situation worse, good ol’ California has this little $330.00 charge for registering your car there. I was told it was kind of a penalty fee for simply moving to an already overcrowded state.  So the company kept telling me to keep track of mileage and that I'd eventually get paid for it, at eighteen cents a mile.  It's two years later, and I never saw a penny. I was living on $7.50 an hour from the plant job, twenty hours a week.  My folks were paying my credit card and gas card bill.  It was so unfair, especially to them.  Finally, I put my foot down and said, “I’m broke.  I don't have any more money for gas. I can't run anymore errands until I get paid.”  So my errands career ended.

Poor Leilani had simply had it with unfair working conditions and lack of pay with Oxenberg, and quit. She immediately got a cool job with a high-end boutique called “ICE,” at the Beverly Center in West Hollywood.  It had poor management, but she essentially enjoyed it and made some friends.  She basically had the choice of moving in with me at my apartment, or going back to Tucson.  She moved in and we hoped we could make it together in L.A. if I could only get a damned full time job in my field.  In the meantime, she started making cool purses and sold a few to the company.

Still interning at Crystal Sky, they were in pre-production of a film called “Bitter Harvest.”  It was a pointless, kinky, violent, little gem of a movie starring Stephen Baldwin.  At the same time, they were preparing for another film called “A Million to Juan.”  For my first time doing something out of the office, and hopefully moving towards being a full time, paid PA (production assistant), I was asked to spend a whole day with the crew in Culver City.  They had to move and assemble set pieces for the films.  I think the company purchased these things from a theater supplies warehouse of some kind.  For the first time, I felt like I was going somewhere.  So, all the other interns and PA's were full time.  But most of these people were wastoids, high school dropout types with no film training or college education.  None.  I have no idea how they got involved.

So, I worked outside all day in the heat lifting heavy pieces of stage wall and artificial furniture onto trucks and getting filthy.  They even asked me to put things into my own car and drive them some twenty miles away to Santa Monica.   I didn’t have much money or fuel, but I said ‘sure.’  We made a few trips and took lunch.  No offers of food from anybody, nothing.  I barely had enough money for a pizza slice at some hole in the ground.  All afternoon, in talking with different interns and PA's, I discovered the pleasant arrangement that they were all on the payroll.  Minimum wage or below, mind you, but getting paid for the labor.  But not me.  Not even lunch! I was so angry and frustrated!  I told some of them point blank, “This is bullshit!  I'm sorry, but something is very wrong here.  I'm the only one with a college degree, yet the only one not getting paid!”  I didn't care who I offended.  People knew I was disgusted, especially Don, the Production Manager overseeing the move.  He knew what I knew.

I approached him and said, “Why am I not a paid PA?  I want to work here full time so I can finally quit my stupid plant job, and then I'd be available full time for whatever you need.”  He knew I'd wanted it all along.

He just played dumb and said that I needed to talk to Eric.  “It's his decision, not mine.”  We both knew damn well the name of the game was free labor.  I could see it in his eyes.   It was so painfully obvious, as cheap as they were with everything.  They knew I wanted to be a full time employee all along. They kept saying maybe, sometime. They even wanted me for more hours.  Unpaid!  I told them not with my part time job, I sure can't. Little thing called bills to pay.

I wish I'd just walked out right there.  I worked the rest of the afternoon in silence and disgust.  A few people could definitely feel the uneasiness in the air.  I was just so sick of being used.  They continued to work into the evening, but I had to pick up Leilani at work by 6:30.  I left, and that was the last time I saw anyone at Crystal Sky.  Leilani convinced me to quit because she could see what it was doing to me.  I called the following week to say I wouldn't be coming back. That I couldn’t continue without any money, and its just not working out.  The girl I talked to, a recent hire, was stressed out, needing people to help, this being in the middle of pre-production.  I said I don’t really even want it anymore, and she seemed to think I should care and have some sort of loyalty.

All I had left was the plant job. The only career prospects I had going at this time were the freebies.  The last place I interviewed at was Lightstorm Entertainment, founded and owned by one of my favorite filmmakers, James Cameron.  I made up this scenario that even though I already graduated, I had a class designed for a post college internship for class credit, so they didn’t have to worry about the illegal stuff.   They really wanted me, but I painfully had to turn it down.  They wanted me for a specific schedule, many weekdays, unpaid, and couldn't settle for less.  I couldn’t have kept the paying plant job.  They said the chances were slim to none that interns ever got hired (they basically go back to school).  And at this point, I couldn't handle that.  It came along just too late.

Sadly, I had to settle for an internship at “Love Connection,” in West Hollywood, because the hours were good with my job.  But it turned out to be really the best and most interesting one. The problem was that I thought it was a stupid show and wouldn't want a career with it. I got to go behind the scenes and sit on Chuck Woolery's stage couch.  I got a little star struck meeting him.  He's tall—like 6'4”.  Thankfully, no horror stories came from this one.

One afternoon, on my way to my weekly meeting with my plant job supervisor, my life almost ended.  In Culver City, I was waiting at a red light.  It turned green, so I figured I could go. It seemed like the thing to do, right?  The woman driving the other car must've been doing more than 45, because the impact to the side of my car threw me to the passenger seat.  I'll never forget what song I had blaring on the radio, from the “Cirque de Solei” soundtrack.  I was covered with glass.  I struggled to get back in my seat to start the engine and pull out of the way of oncoming traffic.  By the way, I'd like to thank any witnesses out there who may be reading this who could've spent 10 minutes giving their testimonial.  I ended up having to sue this rotten lady for my $1000 deductible in a small claims court, and didn't see any money for nine months. This time, the ol' Honda was totaled.   This, a mere few months after State Farm paid all that money to have it repaired from its earlier theft.  After surveying the damage, and not admitting guilt, the lady left, expecting me to drive to a garage with an obviously bent trans-axle.

I had to walk to a pay phone to call my insurance agent. And then it was back to renting a car again.  Right about now would've been another good chance to get the hell out of here, and go back to Tucson.  But I guess I needed some more L.A. insanity, and I got it.

Here I was with no car now.  I decided to payoff and buy Leilani's little Ford Festiva, which was in Tucson.  I got $4,000 from State Farm for the Honda.  The day I was flying out to Tucson to go buy it, they gave me the check. When I took it to deposit it, the teller wouldn't take it because the damn insurance agent accidentally post dated it a  month!  I had to go back to my agent, and he was already gone for the day, but someone else signed for the date change.  At any rate, we ended up going back and forth from the bank to State Farm three times trying to settle this.  Three times. Meanwhile, my plane was about to take off.  Without this deposit, I have no way to make the purchase in Tucson.  I finally snapped at the bank, and freaked out. A different teller saw the potential scene about to surface and finally took the deposit. On the way out, I crumpled up the receipt and threw it as hard as I could on one of their tables, furious. I don't think Leilani had ever imagined I could get so mad. But she had another thing coming...

The now famous laundry incident.  One evening, I was washing a load of darks at the apartment complex.  I went down to get it out of the dryer.  The dryer was empty.  EMPTY!  It was that same sick feeling when my car was missing.  There's just no describing it.  This time, I wasn't so calm.  I believe L.A. can get under your skin, because I haven't gone out of my mind as much before or since living there.  Luckily, it gets out from under your skin once you’ve left. That is why I don't feel entirely responsible for the complete loss of temper that transpired moments after my discovery.  All of the frustrations of the past year didn't help either.

In a sentence, I annihilated the laundry room in a fit of pure rage.  I bent the dryer door so it couldn't close.  I ripped pictures and other stuff off the walls.  Knocked over a table.  All this to get back, I suppose, at the thief, and to scare him/her into thinking twice the next time he/she thinks of totally disrespecting someone else so lowly.

Being the sensitive, sentimental type (usually), I was most upset and saddened because the shirt worn by the lead actor in my short college film, “Arizona Smith,” was in the wash.  And now gone forever.  I proceeded to walk through the halls on all three floors of the apartment complex screaming, “Who the f--- took my f---ing laundry, God dammit!!!  Where the f--- is my laundry, you f---ing  son of a bitch!!!”   I was crazy, screaming at the top of my lungs.  Beside myself with fury.  Everything bottled up inside had finally erupted in a most ugly and pathetic way.

No one came out into the hallway.  Not a soul in sight.  I simply wanted to ensure that the thief heard me.  It had to be a person living there because the whole building was card entry only.  I hoped that coward was frightened and regretful.

After walking each floor and looking for the culprit, who is damn lucky I didn't find because I would’ve beaten him to a pulp, I headed back to the laundry room.  On the way, I went through the parking lot and pool area to shout some more obscenities.  I grabbed a big, black magic marker and wrote right on the laundry room wall, these exact words:

LAUNDRY THIEF: IF I CATCH  YOU, YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD

When Leilani came home an hour later, I looked at her, exhausted, and could only say two words: “We're moving.”  When she asked why the sudden decision to move, I told her about my rampage in the laundry room.

I expected her to be cheering me on at that point.  Instead, she said, “Well, Clarke, that's just brilliant.  Now, instead of two washers and dryers for the whole complex, we have one.”  So much for learning not to damage what isn't yours when you're in a fit of rage.  I even wrote notes and pasted them around pleading for the thief to at least return my shirt to the laundry room because of its huge sentimentality.  A really futile attempt, but I was heartbroken.  Another thing ripped away from me by this rotten shithole of a city.

I put in our month notice.  But before we could get out of that thieving dump, Leilani had to have her turn at petty theft.  UPS had delivered a pair of boots she had ordered to the apartment.  We weren't home, so the guy left it with a downstairs neighbor, a Mr. Bringas.  We got the little, yellow note which said where it was left, and who signed for it.  I went to his door and he denied ever seeing any box, any UPS guy, or anything at all.  Fine.  Leilani called UPS, and to make another long story short, they put a tracer on the package.  Since our signatures didn't appear anywhere, they decided to refund her the cost of the boots and consider them lost.

But the story doesn't end there.  An amazing coincidence happened the afternoon of the next day. For no reason, I went to look out my window for a moment.  It was just like a scene from Hitchcock's “Rear Window.”  I watched that Mr. Bringas walk across the street with another seedy looking individual. Nothing unusual about that, except that he had a pair of women's black boots in his hand! In plain view, not even covered!  I was literally speechless and dumbfounded.  Pure shock.  I'm ashamed to admit it, but I just stood there and watched them get in their car and drive away with what appeared to be Leilani's missing boots.  Maybe I should've yelled at them, but I just watched in disbelief.

Instead, when he returned later, I knocked on his door a few times, but he wouldn't answer.  So I wrote him a little note about how I saw him and caught him red‑handed.  He wrote back, calling me names and denying it, but that's about the end of it.  Leilani got her money back.  It just felt really good that he knew he was caught.  More than likely, he was the 'laundry thief,' too.  On Melrose Avenue there are tons of buy and sell, used clothing stores.  That's unquestionably where he took them.  So my privately famous “Arizona Smith” shirt is probably on the back of some unsuspecting Angelian somewhere....

It seems petty and pathetic today, but back then I became very revengeful.  I discovered that Bringas was a wannabe rock star, when I saw a package at his doorstep once.  Naturally, I grabbed it and took it to my apartment.  It had a reject letter from a record company and his returned tape of his music.  I thought that was funny, especially when I listened to the goofy recording of his cheesy keyboard and voice.  I took his package and threw it in the garbage.  I then came up with a most Grinch-like idea.  I dreamt up this emotional revenge of rewriting the letter, saying how ‘impressed we were with your tape, and are prepared to offer you a 3 year contract with ABC Records,’ etc.  I figured he’d get all excited and call them up, only to find terrible disappointment and embarrassment.  However, it only remained an idea. 

And talk about a city of upstanding pillars of society. In three separate occasions, Leilani was flashed.  Only in L.A., or mainly in L.A., I should say.  The guy would be in his car, and as she walked by, he'd ask her something. Being the naive, helpful girl with the Tucson mentality (Leilani's own comments), she'd turn and acknowledge the guy, and walk closer to the car.

When she got there, she'd discover that he had his pants around his ankles.  The great part is that instead of screaming and running away, she would just roll her eyes and say, “Get a life,” or “Is that all you got?”   Her reason for not reacting differently?  She didn't want to get a rise from them, no pun intended.  Some sick people in this world.  It's really disgusting and pathetic.  I wished I had caught one of them in the act.  I would’ve knocked the crap out of them.

I continued to look for jobs in my field.  The atmosphere in the city was tense lately, with the world waiting for the verdict of the two cops accused of beating Rodney King.  I got more hours doing the plants, and met some more celebrities.  I did the plants at Johnny Carson's office.  I saw him there only once, as this wasn't long after his final day on the show.  I also did Kenny Roger's management company.  I met him as we moved passed each other in a narrow hallway, his big tummy brushing against mine.  Lastly, I did the home of retired actress, and former wife of Ronald Reagan, Jane Wyman.  I made the mistake of telling her of my film and television aspirations and training, in hopes of getting possible help or direction.  Soon after, she requested a different plant tech, other than me.  No proof, but I suspect that, by the way she was almost anal about her plants, she wanted someone who was strictly a plant person, with only plants on his/her mind, and nothing more.

I’ll take this opportunity to mention all of the other celebrity encounters that Leilani and I had. In a publicity stunt, Dan Aykroyd drove up in his big motorcycle at the premiere of  “Coneheads.”  It was at the Mann’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood Blvd.  He was in full makeup with the big head.  After the screening, several celebrities came out: James Caan, Kathleen Turner, Ed Begley, Jr., Billy Crystal, Roseanne Barr, Armand Assante, and others I can't recall.  The biggest thrill of the evening for me was at the Hamburger Hamlet across from the theater, where Richard Dreyfuss held the door open for us.  I was tempted to say, “Hey Hooper!”  He was there with his family, waiting for the film to start.  At Leilani's job, she helped the likes of Teri Garr, Bonnie Bedelia, Jonathan Frakes (Star Trek: Next Generation), Jennifer Tilly, Holly Hunter, Cher, Winona Ryder, Stevie Nicks, and most of the cast of “Melrose Place.”  And once, we saw Christopher Walken at LAX.  Movie site-wise, we found the mall that was used for “Terminator 2,” and of course the famous ‘Die Hard’ building, as it was called.  Oh, and decades later, I finally did get to see the flood control channel from T2, which I tried to go see a year ago in 1993.

We were still living at the Hollywood apartment.  Life was becoming a living hell.  We were beyond misery with more neighbor problems, just waiting for the month to end so we could move.  These absolute lowest of low life bastards had been renting the apartment below us.  The rest of the complex was pretty quiet, but we had to be right above these loud, rude, partying lunatics who would laugh, party, scream and yell, and crank their stereo into the wee hours of the night.  During weekdays, too.  We'd hit the floor, yell, or bug the drunken on-site manager.  He said to call the cops, which we did on two occasions.  These were total sleepless nights.

After the cops would come and go, these guys would pound their ceiling and threaten to come up and ‘f--- us up’ if we didn't leave them alone.  One day, the one guy that was actually living there and paying rent came up and pounded on our door.  I was freaked out and felt very outnumbered.   His name is forever engraved in my mind. Jerry Russo. It even sounds like some criminal asshole.  He barked at me and said no one else ever complained, what was my problem, and I'd better stop hitting the floor.  I tried to be civil and said to please not party so loud and late.

Another time, right after the cops left, they would drive a broomstick into their ceiling on the hour, every hour for the rest of the night.  It woke Leilani and me up just as we'd drift off to sleep as a subtle way to make us crazy.  Or maybe it wasn't so subtle.  It was scary, and I finally snapped at about 5 AM, pounding the floor with all my might.  The place shook, and I think I sprained my wrist.  This guy and his cronies were the absolute scum of the earth, without question.  For a long time after this, I would dream up revenge, somehow, sometime.  But I was in fear that he would do something to my car, which was basically my livelihood.

Russo finally got evicted for not paying his rent.  The apartment manager just needed a reason to get rid of him.  He knew Jerry was horrible.  That was probably the darkest, most miserable, ungodly time in L.A.  We were just beside ourselves, stressing every single night, worrying that there would be another episode, or that they would play the mind games again.  Either that, or someone was going to get hurt.   If I had a gun, I was ready to break down the door and threaten them.  Imagine that.  We were desperately looking at other apartments.  It was absolutely awful.

One of the most thrilling days of all had to be when I was hired at a company that did movie posters and theatrical trailers.  This was Dazu Advertising in Studio City, and I was their new runner (messenger).  And I was on the payroll!  I was told by lots of people that being a runner at an advertising company was a great way to get into film and video editing.  It just felt so good to be paid for something in my field for the first time.  It was $7 an hour, ironically less then the plant job.  But as usual, it turned out to be a dead end job for non‑degreed, non‑career types.  The management had an attitude.  The owner was the daughter of a millionaire, obvious from a delivery I made to his gargantuan estate.  

It was nearly impossible to keep my plant job.  To do both, I worked 12 to 13 hour days all week.  On my lunch hours at Dazu, I would change into my plant uniform and go water a few accounts, shoving lunch down my throat as I drove. Then I'd change back for Dazu.  This craziness went on, and of course, the quality of my plant work really started to go downhill.  It was almost a year of doing it, and I was so burnt out and sick of it.  I couldn't believe I was doing this crap with a now year‑old college degree.

Leilani and I found a nice apartment in Hollywood Hills for a little higher rent ($575).  It was larger than the other place, and had a modern kitchen, but it was also unfurnished.  Once again, my folks helped by driving a U-Haul truck from Tucson to L.A. full of furniture they were giving us.  That was one exhausting, crazy trip.  And the biggest mistake we ever made, short of coming to L.A. in the first place.  Once we were all in, they had one day to recuperate, and then they flew home.  Such a waste in hindsight, but appreciated forever.

My mentality, my self esteem, and hopes were dwindling fast.  I was working hard for beans at total dead end jobs.  I realized very soon that Dazu was worthless.  I started blowing off plant accounts, doing some of them every other week instead of weekly (with the hopes that my boss wouldn’t find out).  Not too healthy for the poor plants.  I'm ashamed to admit that the company lost some accounts because of my poor performance towards the end.  I knew I needed the money, so I kept holding on to the job.

One week before my earned one-week paid vacation was to begin, they called me in to fire me.  It was humiliating and shocking, but then, an intense relief.  Nothing felt better than dropping off the plant equipment and keys, and leaving forever.  I was pathetically burnt out and they knew it. They must've felt some compassion for me because when I went to the unemployment department of California to see if I could collect benefits, they told me that my plant company had agreed to let me have them. Companies don't have to pay if they fire a person, rather than let them go from lack of work.  So I was surprised.  I remember being so serious and humorless around them, unhappiness written all over my face.

I hadn't a clue how we'd make it on Dazu's three day a week salary.  Then, they cut me back to two days!  I was out pounding the pavement, applying for everything from pet stores, to the FBI, to part time Christmas help, desperate for any part time or weekend job.  Never happened.  Forget internships.  Forget the entertainment industry.  Things were at an all time low, financially.

We started to hate our new neighborhood with a passion.  Literally every other night there would be a loud episode at the sleazy Hollywood Bowl hotel next door below.  Prostitutes screaming, couples having violent fights, gangs holing up for the night, windows smashing, punks playing rap music, cops busting drug addicts.  You name it. One guy, crazier than a shit house rat, would frequent the hotel and walk around without a shirt, ranting and raving insanely for hours.  He'd go back in his room, come out, walk all over the parking lot, then back inside.  All the while, screaming about nothing.  It was unreal.

Then, one of the hotel rooms caught on fire and nearly got to our place.  I was home at the time, and was seconds from grabbing the cats and bolting when the firemen finally came.

The last memorable incident at that hotel from hell was late one night, about 3am.  All of a sudden this intense car alarm goes off, jolting us wide awake.  We went to the window to see what was going on.  About 4 or 5 Hispanic kids were messing with a car.  More than likely, it was stolen, because it was a very nice, compact car, and they looked like a gang with the ridiculous baggy pants.  God, I hate those.

The damn alarm was on for over an hour.  They couldn't get it to go off!  Neighbors and other people were literally hanging out of their windows, yelling at the kids.  Absolutely impossible to sleep.  Another great all nighter in the city.  They just kept tinkering away for another 90 minutes.  They'd get it to stop, and then it would start up again. Finally, I'd had enough.  I simply snapped (again) like a twig from the frustration, and the disturbance to my much-needed sleep.  I jumped up, threw open the window, and screamed louder than any other time in my entire life, “WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?!!”

Everyone stopped. The scumbags looked up at me.  I think I really scared them.  My words reverberated throughout the buildings.  The alarm actually went off for good a short time later.  The next morning, after maybe an hour of sleep, I got up and looked out the window.  The boys were quietly pushing the car away from the hotel. They were literally afraid to let that horn go off!  They probably had to cut a cable to the battery or something. And before they tried to do any more to the car, they pushed it to a safe distance - perhaps to get it away from me and my unpredictable rage.  When I told Leilani about it, she thought the whole thing was hilarious.

I was increasingly unhappy and disgruntled at Dazu.  I constantly inquired about becoming an editor or at least, an apprentice for their theater trailer department. I told them about all my video editing work in college.  They kept saying not for a few years, if ever.  The guy who had my job before I came aboard, moved into a nothing job of mixing chemicals for the posters.  So I guess that's where I was heading.

I saw a nifty ad in the classifieds for an ‘Account Executive: College grads, will train.’  I'd like to thank the world of education and career preparation institutions of America for not letting me know that that crock of a phrase, ‘account executive’ really means ‘cheesy salesman.’  Nothing more.  It might've saved me four months of grief and destitution.

So, that fancy little ad turned me on to an interview.  I figured, college grad...?  Hey, I'm a college grad! This is a company that will finally appreciate my degree!  The company was Fortis Financial Group, way out in Agoura Hills.  I was sold immediately.  The job was setting up retirement funds for people (IRA's, mutual funds).  I was so blinded by the way they “cared” about me and my career with them, and their plush office, that I somehow missed the part that the job was straight commission.  No wage, no salary.  Nothing.  So until your first sale, you're broke.  Dumb move on my part, but then, they had convinced me that I'd get paid in no time.

The second interview was done with a group of some 15 other applicants.  Later that day, they called and offered me the job.  Another guy and myself were the only ones picked.  That's what they told me, but I suspect all the others had smartened up and said, no thanks.  So I took the job and put in my 2-week notice at Dazu.  During those 2 weeks, I had to take a class at the company.  I had to study like mad to prepare for my Series 6 license, which allows me to sell securities.  I even asked Dazu if they minded if I were to quit a few days before the 2 weeks were up (as if I’d be missed).  Things were really slow, and they said sure.  The last day went by, and it was time to take the test.  It was so hard.  I took it in Glendale.  After you take it on their computer, you have to wait for it to tally up your score.  The shocking word flashed on the screen: FAIL.

I could literally feel my world come down around me.  An intensely bleak moment I'll never forget.  There I was. I studied my ass off, I failed the test, I have no job now, and hardly any money left.  All I had was $143.00 a week from the unemployment compensation benefits from my plant job.  I had counted on passing!  But then, Fortis told me that 40% of everyone fails the first time.  You can study and take a retest one month later.  So they said to relax.  Meanwhile, I'm looking at my wallet and saying, “Uh, thanks.”

It was also during these classes that Leilani was supplementing my measly $143.00 a week income, and my folks were paying my credit cards.  I remember the car’s brakes constantly squealing.  No money to fix that.  Stressed beyond belief, I went back to the California Unemployment Department in Santa Monica and pleaded for additional benefits.  According to state law, I had to inform them of the changes in my job status anyway.  I told them I quit my part time job to start a new one, only I failed the job entry exam and I had to wait a month, etc., etc.  They laughed at me and said, “You quit before actually having the job?”  Benefits were denied.  I was hoping for an increase to the $143.00 to compensate for the loss of income from Dazu.

Then all hell broke loose. They said, “Dazu? What's Dazu?”  They claimed they were never told about this source of income I had all along, and that my $143.00 a week should've only been $10!  The $10 being based on already having a steady part time job.  Then they said I'd have to pay back all the money they gave me, and that future benefits are denied.

I was a little upset.  Of course I had told them about Dazu.  I know I did.  They sent me this ugly, ugly letter of how much they disapprove of people like me (who lie about their income and try to pull a fast one on the government).  They then demanded a $200 fine on top of all I was paid.  This ballooned into a nightmare.  It ended up going to their small courtroom where a judge questioned me and made me tell the whole story.  Even George, the Assistant Manager from Dazu was required to be there.  The sleazebag tried to get out of the ensuing possibility that he'd have to pay unemployment to me by saying that I never gave a two week notice, and simply left, making me look like a bad employee who was quite capable of lying to the government!  So I was ruled the same.  The judge brought up the fact that I was a college graduate, insinuating that I should've been smart enough to have not done this terrible thing.  Whatever.  I appealed, to no avail.  Incidentally, California never got a cent from me, and they sure as hell never will.

I was going through all this bullshit instead of working on important things, like maybe my career.  So now, there I was without any income at all.  Leilani was frustrated that I wouldn't even look for a part time job to help us get by while I studied for the test.  I was so brainwashed by Fortis that I was sure if I could just pass this test, I'd be making all kinds of money, and then we'd be fine.  So, I studied my ass off again for the whole month, harder than for anything I had studied for in college.  I thought if I had distractions, I was never going to pass this test.  I finally took it again and waited, terrified of failing again.  The computer screen clicked...PASS!!  That was my happiest moment in all of the L.A. experience.  I was on top of the world.  I said screw Hollywood, screw the Unemployment Department, and to hell with you all!  I'm going to make money now!

Even when I realized it was commission only, I didn't care.  Under intense sales training, my boss and my assigned helper forced me to call everyone I knew in L.A. while they listened.  I had to set up appointments at people's houses to go and sell the funds.  Never take no for an answer.  Insist on a quick, harmless appointment.  It won't cost anything but your time.  Only hang up after exactly 3 negative responses.  In other words, be the kind of annoying jerk I can't stand to listen to when it happens to me.

Calling past co‑workers was a good place to start, they told me.  So after calling about the fifth person I knew at Dazu to get them to just meet me at their house, that rotten creep George gets on the phone.  “Clarke?  I'm getting all these complaints that you're soliciting our employees.  Look, I don't know what it is you’re selling, stocks or something, but don't call here again, is that clear?”

I knew then what a crushed ant feels like under someone's shoe.  He hung up and I just sat there with the phone to my ear for a while.  I felt like the lowest form of life.  And then, I was angry at all these so‑called friends who tattled on me.

I actually did get a handful of appointments that I went out on.  But I did not take home one red cent from Fortis.  Not a dime, you understand.  We were sinking faster than ever.  I desperately looked for jobs and lied to my boss that I was out on appointments when I was actually interviewing for other jobs. That’s when I learned that this great Series 6 thing I worked so hard for was good only for commission/sales careers.  No salaries.  Granted, some people make a killing doing it. But in my case, I got killed doing it.

For the first time, I seriously considered throwing in the towel and going back to Tucson, back to my folks' house to start over.  I just wanted relief.  I hated the city and all its rotten people.  We were way over our heads in debt.  Only in retrospect do I see what a dreadful life we had there.  We saw a handful of movies, went to the beach only once, and a rare night out was nothing more than dinner at Sizzler's.  We rented lots of movies and stayed home all the time.  Leilani made two friends, but I didn't make a single one.  There were a few memorable good times that should be included.  The dramatic opening sneak preview of “Jurassic Park” at Universal Studios was the single most exciting film going experience of my entire life.  They had the Ford Explorers and other props from the film on display.  The sound system was tremendous.  The movie was like this decade's Star Wars.

We had a good time taking India to the zoo back when Leilani was with Oxenberg.  We took the kid all over the place.  Long time buddies from Tucson and Connecticut came and visited us a few times.  It meant so much to have a social life for a change, albeit, short lived.  We also got two cats to keep us company.

Something kind of amazing happened to me during the second time I had to use a rental car.  I blew it the first time when I kicked the car.  This time, I wanted no problems with it and I was always very careful.  Driving to an account while working for the plant job, I somehow ran my passenger side's front tire into something.  I couldn't believe it!  “Here we go again,” I thought.  It's always something.  The hubcap cracked and fell off.  Destroyed. There was no repairing it.  I figured I was screwed, and that Enterprise is really going to love me now, and will charge a lot for it.  I did my work and moved on to the next account.  As I drove up to the building, there was a hubcap lying in the spot I was going to park in.  I laughed and thought, “Imagine if it fit my car.”  And it did.  Perfectly. Devine intervention?

Still trying to make Fortis work, I was at an appointment in Brentwood.  It was 2 weeks before Christmas, 1993.  I always took my pullout stereo with me everywhere I went.  Today, I was in a nicer part of town, in the middle of the day.  I was a little late for the appointment.  For reasons beyond me, I left the stereo in my car for the first time ever.  The appointment was, of course, a failure, and I went back to my car, frustrated.  Pure horror and disbelief struck me as I sat down and saw wires and plastic shrapnel sticking out of the dash.

“DAMN!!!”  I screamed, as the fury shot through me again.  Total blind fury.  I had to have just missed the thief.  I jumped out of the car, into the middle of the street, looking around frantically.  I was literally ready to rip this individual to pieces.  I ranted and raved, yelling about how thieves like him are scum of the earth, chicken shit assholes who sneak around breaking into cars when the owner isn't around, behind their back.  Come out here and take the stereo from me like a man instead of being a gutless, piece of shit!  I don’t think it would have mattered even if the guy were some gorilla, I felt completely invincible and ready to beat him to a bloody pulp.

I walked around, challenging this non‑entity to a fight.  But nothing.  I'm normally the most peace-loving unit you could ever meet.  But I do have a few buttons that are known to cause me to self-destruct.  Breaking into my car is my primary button.

I drove home in a daze, on the verge of tears.  Okay, so maybe more than just on the verge.  It was my own stupid fault, leaving it in the car.  I was so worried about being late to the stupid sales appointment.  A lot of good that did.  I canceled all my remaining appointments and interviews, and slept the rest of the afternoon away in the darkened bedroom.   Never did get the stereo replaced, and drove around from then on in silence.

Leilani and my mom were the only ones who could see that Fortis and sales were not for me.  Others encouraged it, based on my initial excitement and enthusiasm.  But a mistake with it being straight commission at a time like this.  The thing is, at the time, the company was so much more higher class than the low class film companies.  They made me feel good and needed for the first time in L.A., something virtually nonexistent in the entertainment industry.  They spent so much time with me in the classes, and I basically got a free education in finance.  And all the previous jobs treated me like dirt.  It's my fault for doing it, but I can't forgive them for seeing something in me that wasn’t there, and for aggressively encouraging a commission job on people who may be hurting for money, and purposefully avoiding any kind of warning that a paycheck may not show up for a long time.  I couldn't have sold 10 bucks for 5.  In the interview, they specifically said it wasn't a 'hard sell' kind of job, and people would come to me to buy funds.  A total, outright lie.  I was reduced to cold calls in no time.  I literally held on and held on to the job.  I finally realized it wasn't going to work.  So in a microsecond, I decided it was over.  Time to quit.  But it was very hard giving up.  It was like surrendering.  Failing.  I spent no time thinking about it.  I had to end it.

For the weekend, Leilani was in Tucson with her family.  I had spent hours writing down what I was going to say to my boss, Ryan.  He took it unexpectedly cold and emotionless.  I was beating around the bush when he finally said, “What is it you want?”

When I went in to drop off my sales materials, his tone was different than ever before.  For the first time, I could see that I wasn't cared for so much to begin with.  As soon as it was apparent that I wasn't an asset to the firm, I was dropped like a leaf in an East Coast winter.

Anyway, back to the night I had quit the job on the phone.  It was Sunday night, January 16, 1994.  It was such a relief, having told him.  I was alone.  I went to bed emotionally exhausted around 11pm.  A curiously quiet night next door. The cats kept me company.

4:31am.  Sound asleep.  Imagine waking up from a dead sleep in pure darkness, a resonant rumbling like T‑Rex's footsteps in “Jurassic Park,” and two people on each side of your bed rocking you back and forth like crazy.  You can't see. You're half out of your mind.  It's thunderous.  You hear glass shattering, plates falling out of the cupboards.  CRASH!!!  The glass hutch piles over and lands on your kitchen table, destroying it, and shattering your chair.  You cannot move from your bed.  Your heart rate's quadrupling in a matter of seconds.  And all in pitch blackness.

This was the Northridge earthquake of '94.  I'm surprised people don't die of heart attacks more often than by being crushed.  Unfortunately, due to my shock and terror, I can't remember any details of the next few minutes.  The next thing I remember was sitting on a chair by the window.  I apparently had put on some clothes and crawled over there.  I kept praying for light, praying for the tremors to stop.  The cats were nowhere to be found or heard.  I figured that they had to have been smashed and killed by the hutch.  I couldn't move.  I sat there in the dark until neighbors finally knocked on the door.  They were carrying flashlights.  They brought me out to the street where there was kind of a vigil.  Everyone strongly advised against going back into the buildings until daylight.  There were no pay phones in sight.  Not that they would’ve worked anyway.  It was very cold and oddly quiet, except for the distant sirens up north, where the damage was much worse.  I was worried about the cats, and about calling people in Tucson.  As it turns out, the wonderful media inflated the damage to the Hollywood area.  When I could finally go back inside to call, my folks were in hysterics.  My poor mom had to give the phone to Ande just as soon as finding out I was alive, to go cry in private (and probably thank the Lord). The cats were okay, but frozen with fear in a closet.  There was glass everywhere, doors and cabinets open, cracks in all the walls.

I got the hell out of there and flew to Tucson that night.  The streets and airport were as empty as a post apocalyptic science fiction movie.  Frighteningly surreal.  L.A. had a curfew.  Everyone was sure there was more to come, and even be "the big one".  I really felt bad for the cats, leaving them behind.

Leilani and I returned a few days later.  We slept in full clothing with our shoes right by the bed.  My mind made up to get the hell out of Los Angeles as soon as possible.  What a horrible place!

I drove to Tucson in the Festiva with the two cats and whatever else would fit.  They were pretty good for the 8 hour drive.  I turned around the next day with my dad and his suburban and trailer to go pick up the remainder of our stuff.  L.A. was like a crazy movie, and this was the final scene after the climactic earthquake.  The next morning, we loaded up and were on the road before noon.  A truck load full to the hilt.  My dad really rescued us.

I watched the city passing away, never dreaming it would end like this.  But there was no sadness.  I was emotionally dry, not happy or sad.  Leilani was depressed.  It was a pretty abrupt departure, and she barely got to say goodbye to her friends.  I'm always amazed at how much happened in only nineteen months.  And still many things were left out of this account.   A few cans of worms are left unopened.  Let it be known that not an ounce of the proceeding was exaggerated or made up.

I felt my film and television career was over.  I had no further interest whatsoever in pursuing it.  Life is too short.  But I was so disgusted and bitter afterward, I went to Tucson and put together a sort of farewell video anthology of my college video production work, thanking everyone who helped make my films.  I was also indicating that this crazy chapter of my life was over.  I was saying goodbye to the art of film making, to creativity, to the whole industry.  In retrospect, a pathetic pity party of a project. On to the hopefully bright, unknown future.  Nothing more to offer, my creative juices gone stale.

Those were my thoughts two years ago.  But as I finish this story and shut off my computer, I prepare to head off to continue working on my hobby: film and video production.