It's my birthday dammit!

Whenever I talk with someone about my blog, their first question is always, "Why did you start it?"  My answer is always the same, "I knew it was a certain path to the fame and fortune I so desire."  Once the laughter dies down, I explain that it was cheaper than therapy because I have the worst health insurance money can buy.  As that's a substandard answer and doesn't deliver any of the story telling skills I hope to one day capitalize on, I expand with a tale of humor, lies and gastro-intestinal complications.  This usually helps or helps to ruin the conversation.  Either way, they remember me.


Today marks three years since the start of the Hollywood Temp Diaries.  And what a three years it's been!  I went from being a Temp to taking a go-nowhere job that paid $425 a week to being a Temp again.  I've suffered countless anxiety attacks about my career and the decisions I've made.  I've borne witness to some of the strangest things Hollywood has to offer including an executive asking for directions from ICM to CAA (they're across the street), angry notes from a bank about [PRODUCTION COMPANY'S NAME REDACTED] breach of their $150 million credit line and marijuana sent via Fed Ex.  But there are positives too.  My blog has entertained somewhere between six and eight people while being viewed by millions.  I've helped many find jobs and many more get interviews.  I've gotten hate mail from the lowest of the low -- Nikki Finke.  I've angered countless with the Brown List and I can't wait to do it again this year.  I helped get unpaid, under-appreciated cogs drunk at the Hollywood Assistant Beer Pong tournament.  I bestowed the honor of the worst in television on deserving recipients, knowing the true irony that I'd give my left testicle to write for any of these shows.  There's oh so much more, but I gotta start getting ready for work.   


So until the day I get a paid writing gig, I'll sit here at my desk -- a bowl of crusted-over bean dip to my left and a blinding halogen desk lamp to my right -- typing away with Sisyphean determination.  Will year four of the Temp Diaries deliver the success I so crave?  I hope so because then I can stop writing this fucking thing.


And with that, I am happy to re-post the first entry into the Hollywood Temp Diaries...

April 10, 2008

"I think I have irritable bowel syndrome." This is never something you want to hear on a job. But this is life as a temp in Hollywood. Let's start from the beginning.

Today I started a 2-day assignment at a film production company that is responsible for a very successful film franchise. Anyway, the person I'm working for is actually quite nice (this is rare) and gave me real work (this is rarer). But while she was off at a meeting, I'm left minding the fort. In comes a person I don't work for, have never worked for and doesn't work for the company I am working for -- call her Madam Bowelvary. Let's write this like a screen play.

INT. PRODUCTION COMPANY -- AFTERNOON

MADAM BOWELVARY

Hi. Where's (name)?

TEMP

(Name)'s at a meeting. She should be back in a half hour or so.

MADAM BOWELVARY

Hmmm. Hey, mind if I sleep on her couch for 15 minutes?

Temp sits there and thinks to himself for a moment, "I don't know who you are or what your name is...Wait, are you homeless?"

TEMP

I don't know. I'm just a temp. so...

MADAM BOWELVARY

So can you send an email and ask (Name) if I can sleep on the couch? Just a quick nap. I'm having coffee in 15 minutes with (another Exec/COFFEE DATE) and I'm beat.

Temp notices MADAM BOWELVARY is checking emails on a Blackberry while asking this question. Temp ponders a witty retort like "You have fingers, don't you?" but decides it's not smart to annoy people who can buy your scripts.

MADAM BOWELVARY

Just write "(Name) is here. Can she sleep on her couch?"

Temp types this in and hits SEND.

10 minutes later. No response.

MADAM BOWELVARY

Hey can you send an email to COFFEE DATE and tell him to come down here when he's ready for coffee.

Again, Temp wonders "When did you become my boss? You don't work here. It's as if I went into McDonald's and said 'Give me a Whopper with Cheese....Yes, I know this isn't a Burger King...Now go over to Burger King, get me a Whopper with Cheese, bring it back to McDonalds and give it to me.'" Temp sends the email anyway for the same reason as mentioned above.

MADAM BOWELVARY

I'm gonna use the bathroom.

The exec goes to the john. While in there, the COFFEE DATE walks down and enters the office.

COFFEE DATE

Where's (name)?

MADAM BOWELVARY

(O.C)

I'm in here. I'll be right out.

Toilet flushes. The distinctive sound and smell of Lysol emerges. Bathroom door opens. A waft of disinfected air exits the bathroom with MADAM B.

MADAM BOWELVARY

(to Coffee Date)

I think I have irritable bowel syndrome...

The two execs exit the office. Temp is left there alone again. The fumes from the bathroom are almost overpowering. The toilet runs.

10 minutes later. Temp's boss returns.

TEMP'S BOSS

I got your email. Was that a joke?

TEMP

No. It was (name).

TEMP'S BOSS

Who?

-the end-