Languages in LA

The era of bare buttocks on billboards in L.A. has passed, apparently. Or maybe sex appeal is just a summer/seasonal thing. The current crop of roadside reading features ads that can only be based on snob appeal.

Sunglasses, of course, never go out of season in a city where rain is so rare that people come out and stare at it as if frogs were falling from the sky. So a drive along Sunset Blvd now offers humungous images of thin 12 year old girls with their hair slicked back and a giant pair of sunglasses perched on their tiny noses. I noticed, in particular, a pair which featured the initials of the designers in huge gold letters on the temples.

There is, as far as I can tell, no marked difference in these sunglasses and the ones you can buy for $9.99 at the gas station, except that the massive glasses worn by the starveling 12 year old have the D&G on them.

Lest anyone miss the point, value is now based not on quality but on exclusivity. This was baldly displayed by a nightclub near the famed Chateau Marmont which took for its name PRIVILEGE. Decked in white and blue, it had a grand opening last year, and even Keanu was there. (He has a friend known as a “celebrity wrangler” who has apparently made an entire career out of getting Keanu to go to nightclubs where he gamely has one drink and then vanishes, never to return.) I’m happy to note that PRIVILEGE folded almost the minute Keanu walked out.

But the baldest stance of all is currently on a billboard right over Gil Turner’s liquor store on the corner of Sunset and Doheny in Weho. Belvedere vodka is… “not poured into every martini. Only the right ones.” Alas, I’ll never know if it’s really that remarkable. I buy my shoes at Payless; surely Belvedere vodka would refuse to leave the bottle for someone like me.

Here’s more multi-lingual fun from the city of angels. I bought a sofa and loveseat today. I hate shopping with a passion, so when I have to do it, I do it quickly. I was driving down Hollywood Blvd when I saw a furniture outlet place, a tiny room next to a liquor store, most unpromising. On impulse, I dove in, browsed for about 3 minutes, and found a nice moss-colored set for a reasonable price.

The owner was Chinese, and seemed a little startled when I looked it over for about 10 seconds and said “You deliver?” He was happy to assure me that they did, however, and though his English was limited, as long as we both understood “Visa” all was well.

Delivery was set for 2pm. What was interesting to me was that the owner, who said his name was John but whose accent compels me to call him Djon just so the reader doesn’t slip into complacency, had a Latino assistant helping him unload the furniture. It was obvious watching the process of unloading that Djon’s helper didn’t speak a lick of English or Chinese. It seems fair to presume that Djon’s Spanish was limited as well.

I watched with great interest as they each stationed themselves at an end and Djon simply used hand gestures to indicate that they would hoist up the couch, rotate it counter-clockwise, and the helper should back in first. And this wasn’t a desperate, awkward bunch of hand signals. This was as smooth as American Sign Language. These two men had obviously worked together plenty. Djon simply indicated what movements he expected to have to make, the assistant gave a brief nod, and my new furniture glided in like a bird settling into a nest.

I am, however, still glad that my dentist and his assistant are not communicating the same way.

I spent the weekend at the Screenwriter’s Expo at the LAX Marriot. This is a strange place to be three days before a looming writers’ strike, but no matter. Strikes end eventually, and when they do, life goes on. Anyway, I was privileged to hear a seminar by Richard Walker, guru of script and screen at UCLA.

He was a great speaker, but he caught my attention particularly when he said, “Let me share something with you… and notice, in California, we don’t say things or tell you things. We shaaaare.”

Everyone chuckled, but I was cringing. This is true. I’ve been so inundated with “sharing” that I had stopped noticing enough to complain. But I hate it. Folks here don’t seem to “tell” or “say” unless they are relating a story wherein they said something, or are making an emphatic “let me tell you” sort of statement.

Even more obnoxious is the language at the school where I work. Excuse me, I mean in my community of educators. They like to “share out.” This is teachers going society one better, and you can almost hear the superior sniff that accompanies it. In countless meetings, I’ve been informed that I am expected to discuss this issue or that with my fellow educators seated near me, and then we would turn and share out what we’ve discussed.

This phrase is generally accompanied by an open-handed (both hands) gesture reminiscent of a hostess behind a well-stocked buffet table announcing that dinner is served.

I am a contrarian at heart. Being told to share out even random thoughts makes me want to skulk in my classroom and hoard pencils. I hearby make this solemn vow to the universe: you will never hear me say that I’m going to “share something with you” unless I am being very sarcastic and the next word is going to start with an F.

I work in Los Feliz and live in Hollywood. This is the tiniest of commutes. However, I’m considering moving to West Hollywood; I’m willing to pay more rent for less space if it means living next to a tree instead of a highway. This means, of course, lengthening my commute.

Commute is a dirty word here, and I understand why. In the afternoon, it takes 20 minutes to go three miles. If I hightail it to the land of Chateau Marmont and House of Blues, I can expect it to be 55 minutes for 7 miles. And there will be much honking. But I’ve come to believe there is value in the commute.

I often leave work brooding about something: a student whose health I’m worried about, or whose attitude is enraging me, or a new tedious administrative requirement whose arbitrariness is exceeded only by its futility. And my feet usually hurt. I get in the car with my face set in grim lines.

I pull out of the parking lot and turn on my stereo. Now, I’m one of those horrid people who get obsessed with one song, and listen to it over and over for hours on end, month after month. People have been known to try to get out of my car while it’s still moving, and it will come as no surprise that I’m single. But here’s the thing. After sinking into the trance that loud, dramatic, gorgeous, throbbing music can reduce one to, particularly in the enclosed and air conditioned space of a car… my troubles are gone. My memory is wiped clean. My mood is tranquilized. I’m barely aware of where I am (which may explain all the honking horns. They’re probably honking at me as I drive muzzily through my orchestral fog, dozing through left-turn opportunities and gliding calmly through red lights.)

But when I arrive home, my mood has lifted. And that after only a 20 minute exposure to my current favorite song (Eric Bachmann’s Little Bird) Imagine what a zombie I’ll be if I have a longer commute. I’m looking forward to it!

Ooooo, it’s almost time for Halloween. Funny how Hollywood and Halloween are such similar words… we should have a specific word for the stuff you see down on S&M Boulevard (Santa Monica Blvd, that is) at Halloween. We should call it Hallowood.

I toyed with calling it Holly-ween instead of Hallowood, but considering that around here it’s the official holiday of gay men with a lot of money and creativity and few inhibitions, there’s something just too good about a word that simultaneously suggests references to religion and erections. Let me tell you, Halloween on Santa Monica is like venturing into the Versailles section of an intergallactic arcade. The costumes are postively arresting (literally, as there is something about Halloween that brings out the handcuff fetish in certain neighborhoods.)

Last year at Halloween, my mother was visiting from the glacial purity of her cabin in the upper peninsula of Michigan. I decided to take her down to “see the pretty costumes” on S&M Blvd. Until that night, her nearest brush with decadence had involved slot machines. We camped out at a bar called Mickey’s and Mom got to see Hallowood, up close and personal. A guy in buttless chaps brought her a beer, and she accepted it graciously, though she looked like a startled prairie dog all night. Ah, that was fun night. You’re never too old to enjoy shocking mom.

This year, I’m trying to figure out what to do for Hallowood. I’ve finally found an apartment in Weho, so I’ll be near enough to walk to the festivities. If I were ten pounds thinner, I swear I’d squeeze into a black leather Trinity-from-the-Matrix outfit. As it is, however, perhaps I’ll just grab a beer and a camera, and send Mom some pictures from this year’s promenade of sin. There are a few pairs of buttocks she just might recognize from last year.

Many a night I have sat at a posh restaurant at Sunset Plaza and listened to my two best friends argue about the correct phraseology of certain kinds of government assistance. One of my friends is taking care of her elderly mother, Ms. H., a very sweet lady with a list of medications that should entitle her to at least a Christmas card from Pfizer.

Because she is a senior citizen, and because her medical needs strap even a well-employed daughter, Ms. H. qualifies for Medicare and Medicaid. This is known as being medi-medi.

My other friend, who works for those who translate bills from doctor’s office into governmental assistance language, insists that this cannot be so, that Ms. H. must be getting one or the other, and our friend only thinks her mother is medi-medi.

I have no interest in the logistics of the argument. What I enjoy is listening to them bat the phrase medi-medi back and forth. It’s amazing the different ways we refer to government assistance (the more blunt term being welfare.)

My school is called a Title One school. Sounds rather prestigious, doesn’t it? It’s not. It means that the majority of our students qualify for “subsidized meals” (foodstamps, essentially.) The school gets more money for each student that qualifies, so we are under pressure to get the students to turn in applications for foodstamps. Many’s the time I’ve heard a student protest, “We don’t need this,” only to be required to tell them, “The school still needs the application on file.”

More disturbing is when children do indeed qualify, though they don’t consider themselves poor. It’s quite a shock for them, sometimes, to be handed a sheet of foodstamps during homeroom. You can see the sudden dawning of understanding in their eyes: I am considered poor even though we pay our bills.

But I’m sure their self-esteem is a small price to pay for our school’s ever-increasing budget. And it’s not charity. It’s not welfare. It’s Title One. Not as catchy as medi-medi, but still, quite nice, yes?

I am trying to learn the lingo of the Hollywood screenwriting community. Quickly. Before I embarrass myself again. My first red-faced moment was a year ago, when I told my apartment manager I was writing a screenplay. She said I should talk to my downstairs neighbor, who already had an agent.

I summoned my nerve and asked my neighbor if he had any advice for me. Instantly he asked, “Is your script in final draft?”

I thought he meant Are you on your final draft, i.e., Is it done? I nodded.

He offered to look at it. “But this is in Microsoft Word!” He said.

Yes, it was. So? Ah, my first blunder. Final Draft is formatting software. Later, listening to him chuckle to his writing partner on the phone, “She thought Final Draft meant…” I vowed to learn more.

Since then I’ve picked up a few terms. “Pitch” is when you try to dazzle someone with a 30 second rendition of your story. Specifically, trying to dazzle someone who might be induced to give you money.

Now comes “hip-pocketed.” My first script has found itself an independent producer, and for a year he and I have milled about, trying to dazzle a studio who might be induced to give us money. However, most of them want “attachments”. That is, a director or well-known actor who has promised to participate… once we have the money.

I finally found a director at the L.A. Film Festival. My neighbor is now advising me that since I don’t have an agent, the director’s agent will represent me if it actually gets as far as money being involved (rather than the current flurry of emails and occasional meetings over coffee.) Should we get to this point, my temporary representation by the director’s agent is known as “hip-pocketing.”

“Oh, don’t worry, he’ll hip-pocket you for this project.” Who ever would have thought this is a good thing? I’m glad I learned that in advance, so I don’t huff “I beg your pardon?!” when he offers to put me in his pocket.

I notice that Arnold Schwarzenegger’s nickname has changed. When he first was elected, he was The Governator, a cute little nickname meant to reference his Terminator role in the movies. It was usually said with an accent, something to pick a little at his Austrian heritage. “Oh, ya, da Gahvahnatah!”

Sometime in the last two years, however, that faded off, and now he’s “Arnie.” And I’m not hearing as many jokes about the accent now. Now it’s more biting, sneering remarks about his supposed links with Nazis. I am not deeply invested in his career, so I don’t lead or steer such conversations. I merely note that the joking has faded and people are taking him more seriously, for better or for worse.

It makes me wonder what sort of nickname our next president will have. Bush has been called Dubya for so long I’ve almost forgotten what his name really is. I remember Clinton being referred to (not with affection) as Billory, a reference to his “two for the price of one” wife, and spelled, not by accident, to resemble pillory.

If Hillary is elected, whatever nicknames she has now will change. I’m sure of that. She has a few already, Shrillery, Hitlery, that sort of thing. But as her persona comes into focus as president, new nicknames will arise. And they can’t be prescribed. Molly Ivins tried dubbing Bush “Shrub” in her ill-predicted book about his “short political life.” He outlived her, as it turned out, and is Dubya. So if Hillary wins, her nickname will have to be organic, as such things are.

If Rudy Guliani is elected, that’ll be interesting, because Rudy already sounds like a nickname. No one will be content to let that stand, however. Some of the other contenders have much more promise as far as naming goes. I mean, come on… Mitt? Barack? Huckabee? This should be interesting.

While cruising the L.A. Craigslist hunting for this week’s four writing gigs that will be fought over by 20,000 frustrated screenwriters, I encountered a highlife-observing newsletter/website called Pocket Change. This glittering piece of frivolity is spreading, herpes-like, into Los Angeles via New York (oh, where else??) and features the biting commentary of a smirking fop known as Richard Nouveau.

Richard isn’t a real person, he’s a caricature who comments on “the finer things” in L.A., such as where to get good chutney, or a facial, or a spa where they put the chutney right on your face.

I should like this character, this Richard. Whoever is doing the writing manages to make every sentence count. Commenting on L.A.’s most expensive personal trainer, he writes:

You know, it’s a terrible shame that high-end breeding and bear-like musculature and athleticism seldom go hand-in-hand. Those of us born with a fashion acumen draped over a consumptive frame are fortunate enough, however, to be able to hire someone to do the pushups for you.

Clearly, this is Saki’s Reginald reincarnated. In an earlier paragraph he even simperingly mentions haemophilia and asthma… what clearer references to English noble blood can there be?

Yes, I should like him. But I already don’t, and I know why.

I can be a wee bit snippy but this fellow fairly oozes snark. I imagine him gliding along Melrose Avenue, perilously close to the Pacific Design Center, smirking at Urth Café and the incense-wafting bookstore nearby. He seems downright cruel, and I don’t like the current notion that wit equals sadism. There’s a difference. Witty people have cats. Sadistic people do too, but they refuse to have them spayed because distressed cats in heat amuse them. That’s how this Pocket Change Richard comes across to me. Oh, he’s funny. But I don’t like him.

There are many guns in Hollywood, and I’ve stared down the barrel of about 20 of them since I moved here. Fortunately, they’re all two-dimensional. I’m talking about billboards. Hollywood for some three decades now has had a tendency to produce action movie billboards with a hero pointing his gun directly in the viewer’s face. He’s usually making eye contact, too, leaving no doubt in mind that it’s you he’d like to blow away.

How this is meant to lure me closer, I’m not sure, but the film industry seems certain it will.

Those billboards that don’t feature guns directly pointed at the viewer sometimes include a gun simply pointed away, Jodie Foster’s current The Brave One being an example.

Occasionally, in the billboards, the viewer has the gun, which you can tell because some starlet is in your crosshairs. No wonder movie stars are scared of their fans. Half of them have faced us over a gun one way or another.

The other oddity that seems particular to Los Angeles advertising is the plethora of bare buttocks one encounters on Sunset Blvd. And these are big billboards. Big buttocks! Joe’s Jeans has run a particularly infamous ad campaign advertising a product I haven’t seen yet because most of the billboards simply feature naked buttocks. One featured seven naked butts of varying hues all in a row. It was startling enough to make you run off the road. Fortunately it was at an intersection, so you could rest at the red light and take in the huge butt rainbow at your leisure.

I wonder why they don’t combine these two most-favored images. I haven’t seen a butt and a gun together since James Bond was a brunette. I suppose, however, that it’s only a matter of time.