That's a wrap...

I fittingly begin the last entry of this blog with a cliche for a title - I've been living in the land of cliches' so why not? 'At the end of the day'... 'Bear in mind'... 'INT: HOTEL ROOM -- MORNING'... not sure how to talk about today so maybe I will just reflect...

A fuzzy head lifts gently from a starched pillow and and listens to the sound of a hotel maid's hoover knocking against the door... it's time to wake up and get the flock out of here...

I had the foresight to pack my bags a day earlier and try to figure out how to cram the new bits of plastic in with the numerous amounts of plastic that I purchased for the kids at toy shops. The bags are twice as heavy as when I arrived and I had shed most of the load - not sure if I will get away with the excess baggage.

A day free - and Greg is coming to pick me up and show me the beachier side of L.A. before I leave... he is determined to make sure that I know it's not all desecrated pigeons and bums. He's right as it happens - L.A. is so much more than that - for all the lows there are highs... it's a city of contrasts and I'm pretty smitten by the variety as I wave goodbye to the smoggy city... for now.

After checking out the curious seals at 'Point Doom' I realise that the place is like a jigsaw puzzle - only the pieces are from all different sets. Each block is different to the last and even though they don't quite fit... they make for interesting viewing.

Back to Greg's for 2 hours of video games before I leave (I need the release) and he drops me off with a fond farewell at LAX. I kiss the visa in my passport and head to check-in with two ton bags at my side. Fortunately the guy next to me has a problem with his bag and mine get pushed through before anyone weighs them - someone up there (in air traffic control) finally likes me.

Sitting at the gate I am struck with the vision that I have come full circle in 3 weeks! I sit and observe the characters in the airport to play the game of airport boarding again. There they are! The old couple looking for the decoy kid... there's the gay couple pretending to be first class... and there are the 'deaf' pensioners that will choose not to hear the seat rows that are announced...

It all comes flooding back to me and I prepare for battle. Over half of the flight is going to be occupied with american retiree couples going to Sydney to start their 6 month round trip cruise. I know this because they like to announce it to the whole gate... they are american Damnit! and you are going to know about it. They push, shove, bleat, scowl and basically dominate the lounge area. They are rich, tanned, fit and healthy, but come the boarding announcement they will be frail, deaf and need assistance...

The announcement comes and they're off!! Rows 65-75 only but there are a hundred sundried olives vying to be first in line... its impossible that they can be all be in the requested rows... luckily - I am row 73 and I walk through waving the ticket above my head like a white flag. There is pushing, shoving and mumbling galore and its hilarious... the gay couple are screaming at the fifty people in front of them that have lower numbers, the fifty people in front of them have all lost the ability to hear... after much stepping on boat shoes and grabbing fistfuls of puttied skin we are through, victorious in our ability to be fair and just (albeit by assaulting pensioners, but lets not focus on that shall we?).

On the plane I get time to reflect on the trip and I sit back and close my eyes to review my time there. Its a funny old place yet full of surprise every day. Would I live there? Does anyone really 'live' there? It seems that L.A. is more about work than living, a town of industry that masquerades as a theme park. Would I do anything different? Not a thing... actually, wait - I'd take the family next time so that the rot of boredom would abstain from setting in...

One other thing... I would change the name of the Blog. 'Memoirs of a Short Filmmaker: To Live and Die in L.A.'?... not quite right... how about 'Tales of a Short Filmmaker'?... almost... Got It!! - "Confessions of a Short Film Maker: or 'How to sell yourself short in Hollywood'...

My advice? Look at the whole thing as an elaborate game (Not 'marbles' mind you, there are too many missing!) - L.A. is a monopoly board.... Set the dominoes up before you get there around the streets... Play a mean game of Bluff.... roll the dice and see what happens. If the dominoes fall at the right time and someone buys into another mans Bluff then you might just move a couple of spaces up the board.

And if not? Who cares... its all just a silly game.

With a contented smile on my face, and angry pensioners jostling for their seats - I wonder if the plane engines are the only things that won't stop whining until we land... nevermind - I'm drifting off... happy in the fact that there will be some sane people under 5ft waiting for me at the other end... and the last thought of advice that enters my head as I lose consciousness? Never - ever go to the cinema with a man armed with a pork pie... It's a funny old place...

Bits of plastic...

The meal over and we are on to the unfunny compare... he thinks he's funny but its pretty few and far between. So much so that in the first 10 minutes he has repeated 4 of the jokes. We all guess that our entry fee didn't go on the entertainment...

Then its the official welcoming and straight in to the first awards of the night - Best Screenplay. The short filmmakers are relaxed, serene even, bathing in our adrenaline pools that will turn to jacuzzis once we are into the Short awards... And the winner is... Its a short film!!! The Director stays seated... he thinks its a mistake and then goes up when prompted. He is literally stunned as he explains that he didn't even realise they were in that category as they are a short film...

The atmosphere of the room changes considerably as the balance changes... the shorts are being held in the same esteem as features - its unheard of and it has unsettled the whole room as heartbeats are increased knowing that anything is up for grabs. Wine glasses (all paid for) are skulled by short filmmakers, their arms shooting back like pistons. On to the next category - Best Editing... and the award goes to... No one. Nothing is said, that's strange. Maybe the mike cut out or the envelope was blank because at this stage there is no sound. There is however a bunch of people slapping me on the back and pulling my chair out for me - apparently we just won, except it didn't sink in, compute, or even register in my meagre little brain...

Its a weird feeling as I walk up to get the Award (for our editor) and stumble onto the stage. My mouth opens but I think I just kind of chew my tongue and make garbled noises. I mumble something about being shocked and then pick up the muster to praise our editor and what a wonderful job she did, and then... the website!!! Damnit the website!! I remember this time and tell them to visit the website to buy a DVD, help us get our budget back and see the wonderful editing... they laugh but then everyone laughs at these things, no matter what you say... it will do, it was in english and barely comprehensible but it will do, I make my exit and float back to the table like a bowl of jelly. Its weird but the whole place has changed as it is now realised that the short films are getting some serious hits in.

The next award - Audience Award and it goes to... Brad's film - woohoo!! another plastic award comes back to table number 12. Next - Best Animation goes to... an australian short film !! Holy shit - 2 aussie awards!! The night just escalates as a screenwriter at our table picks up an award... 12 is the lucky number. We relax, Brad and I know that we are done for the night as we have an award each and that will do us just fine. The awards get dished out to numerous films and the atmosphere has lifted to a crescendo just as we reach 'the big four' - The Jury Prizes... Best Feature, Best Doco, Best Short and the Special Jury Prize. Best Doco goes to a crowd pleaser, all the docos were good so it was a win win situation. Best Feature goes to the audience favourite also so the night is finishing on a high. Then Best Short - our table has already laid bets on where it will be going...

And the award goes too... damn that microphone as it cuts out for a second time except... holy shit!! that means we won right? I heard it this time though, it sank in, computed but also sucked the marrow right out from my legs and I can't get up. Its amazing how your body reacts to such stupid little things but hey, I take a breath and stumble up to stage again.

I am grinning so much at this point that I fit right in with the Beverly Hills set - eyes squinted, skin pinned back to my ears and neck stretched.

I don't know who to thank at first so I opt for the festival panel and directors. I'm alone, no one to celebrate with so I end up thanking table number 12 for providing intelligent conversation for the night, I thank the model handing out the awards for choosing to wear such a low neckline on her dress - they are laughing but I am rambling. The rest is a blur until I decide to finish by 'thanking the academy' - there are a couple of frowns until I tell them that "I know they aren't here but I've always wanted to say that..."....

As I sit back down to the table I have aged 5 years, lost 2 stone in weight and realised that I should never, never be allowed to talk to a crowd again. It shouldn't be this hard, this should have been a breeze to handle but it was torture, both for me and the audience.

That said - a feeling of elation took over and the nights proceedings moved onto the Crescent Hotel where people congratulated, sneered, celebrated and commiserated. Milli and Vanilli were there, Vanilli no longer as cold as before and telling me she was interested in whatever project I am doing next (only an hour earlier she had admitted to not have even seen the short). Amazing how a piece of plastic can change peoples minds?

I get as drunk as my other piece of plastic will allow me before the credit runs out and get a lift back to my last night of sleep in L.A.

Bye Bye, American Pie

I have hardly slept and tonight is the Awards ceremony... I have already decided that our film is not up for any awards, but then the standard has been great so there are no complaints. No complaints... just a nagging at the back of my neck as to what the judges didn't like. In any creative competition, every single creative person will think that their life is completely f*****d if they lose... its inherent, no matter how much you know that you probably should not have won - you take it personally... and you always, always blame yourself.

With that cheery thought in my head, I take a walk out into the sunshine to take a last minute meeting with a lady from the most influential film company I could imagine... I have nothing to lose at this point - everything about this trip has gone better than I could hope. The festivals have been great, and even the freaks and geeks have added an unexpected spice to the whole proceedings that has allowed me to write a (slightly exaggerated) blog.

At the cafe I hang around on a street corner like a rent boy as I curse myself for not wearing a carnation or at least something that would give me away as the filmmaker she is looking for... we have no idea what we both look like. She' s 15 minutes late but I don't know this as I approach every second person with a "Hi are you... no? sorry". I am just starting to think that this has been an elaborate set up by a mate - when she arrives. We sit and chat as I wonder whether I should be watching my P's and Q's, and talk film. I ask her what she does at the company to be told that she is the Vice President of Acquisitions... in medieval terms - she is the Holy Grail. She is the person that plebs like me never meet, she is like the President of the United States to aspiring filmmakers... except more important. I decide to watch my A-Z's instead and choke on my cappuccino...

The meeting went well and I get back to hotel to freshen up for the Awards - its a black tie affair and there should be plenty of networking to be had. I jump in a cab and we weave our way to the upper echelons of the Beverly Hills Hotel. The place is like a Chateau, a red carpet awaiting us. Gone are the baseball caps and cargo pants of the first festival - these guys are treating us like we already made it.

Inside I catch up with all the filmmakers and the competition that was so apparent at the previous festival seems to have subsided. Whether its the cocktail dresses and suits that has leveled the playing field, I'm not sure. Inside the dining room and we are led to dining tables, as always I am the gooseberry. Luckily the guy I met yesterday - Brad is at the table with his lead actress and 2 female producers. I strike up conversation with the producers but they think it's a pitch... it's not, just that we are going to spend the next few hours next to each other so we may as well be on first name terms. One producer (Milli) is nice enough, but the other (Vanilli) is a little colder. She's also a recognisable actress from some assorted TV police drama's and her light is obviously shining a little brighter than ours... That's o.k. though, she's not rude - just aloof.

The meals are under way and its service Beverly Hills style - that's right, exquisite, excessive, expensive... and rude. All the filmmakers have had to pay for their own tickets... and we are not talking small money. For the couple of hundred dollars we spent we are presented with Soup, a main meal, dessert and perculator coffee... oh, sorry, there is wine... but that has to be paid for. Everyone is stunned - there is no piss to drink.. how in the hell is anyone going to give an acceptance speech sober? Its unheard of.

I chow down on my $70 apple pie and wait...

Ashes and Snow

Today is the day... not the big day... but the screening day and I can't bring myself to watch any films before our slot - I need to feel human for half a day.

Greg and Di pick me up and we head off to Santa Monica - there is an exhibition on that I have seen plastered over buildings all over L.A. and it looks stunning - 'Ashes and Snow' is the name. All over town there are buildings that have amazing photography on a grand scale of a young tibetan boy in the cradle of an elephant - it is such a striking image. We get there and I know someone is playing tricks on me as I pass the 'Bubba Shrimp' restaurant. Yes - someone has bought the name and is capitlising on a 10 year old movie - its genius... and its packed...

The exhibition is amazing from the outset - around 50 shipping container are stacked together to form a building next to the beach, the interior is all wood, corrugated steel and stone - and all around hang the most amazing photographs. A violin score plays throughout and huge screens display moving pictures of the still shots. The cinematography is breathtaking I am so glad I came.

We all leave with smiles on our faces and marvel at the measly $15 entry fee... "How can they do it so cheaply", we muse as we walk away from the gift store with $250 bills on our credit cards... "How do they do it?"...

I get back to the hotel and have misjudged the timing slightly... shit... I really have to get a move on and chuck together whatever clothes are the least crumpled. I jump into a cab below the hotel with 'Steve', my new regular driver. he feels like my chauffeur I have been using him so much - a slightly odorous, wild haired, mumbling miserable old chauffeur - good old Steve.

At the cinema I have 5 minutes to set up our poster and get the hell into the cinema. We are playing in a really good block and many of the filmmakers that I have made friends with are screening too - this is it... this is where we stand or fall... this is the moment that we either all rejoice in each others work... or smile through gritted teeth and say how 'well-shot' each others films are? As with previous days at this festival, the filmmakers are called up to front stage to introduce themselves before the block starts. Our film has this knack of playing last in very long sets and I know the percentages are going to drop through the screening so I rack my brain with what to say in order to keep them in their seats... what... bugger... shit, what to say.

We are called up and I decide to talk last - the screening is packed, and most of them are here to see the 4th film. We are the 7th film, so we are looking at losing 30% of the audience at the mid-way mark... I am having non of it. I take the microphone and say hi, explain that I am her from oz, by myself and have no support. I then tell them that my film plays last and I would really appreciate it if they would refrain from leaving until they had viewed all films... in fact... I will buy a drink for every person that stays in the theatre til the end... oh - shit, what did I just say?

The crowd erupts in cheers and clap for about 2 minutes as I realise that I just made a potentially huge and very expensive mistake. I then retract and say that I am a filmmaker and... of course I won't be buying any drinks. They laugh and clap again and I realise that I have just embarrassed them all in to staying out. Who the hell is going to leave now - they will be on display... thank god.

The set starts and starts well - there are some really strong films and it feels good to know just that we are selected in the same category. An hour and a half later and our film starts... only 1 person has left...

We get a great reception, all the films get a great reception and I start to realise that this festival really only has a couple of turkeys - the rest is prime rib. Following us is another set which stands up too. A short of a guy that I met yesterday which is fantastic, followed by a feature that is quality too...

At the after party everyone is in genuinely joyous moods as we realise that none of us have to pretend for the rest of the night. The festival directors are getting drunk - the night couldn't have been better for them. We all hang out by the pool and drink martinis as guys smoke cigars and someone exclaims that we are standing in a cliche... they couldn't have been more right - it looks like hugh heffners pool party. Toward the end of the night, and many vodkas to the wind, I am approached by the festival director who lets me know in no uncertain terms that he loved our film... but that he had heard rumblings that the jury had some problems with it...

I head off home in a cloud of anti-climax, paranoia creeping in as to what the problem was - 4 hours of sleep later I am still wondering...

The Karma Chameleon...

After a quick snooze (yes, I slept on the goodies...) - I want to see a multiplex movie before settling in to the nights festival films - Its always a mixed bunch so I need some auditorium action first.

I opt for a new film called 'Lucky Number Slevin' - it's slick, funny, just what I needed. I grabbed a cab to the cinemas which are at 'The Grove' - a cool complex that is part fun world, part luxury shops. I got a cab as my feet are blistered from the walking. I re-emphasise my down-turn in attitude to walking in this town... its sucks... and blows... It wouldn't be a problem if you could a) Get a cab or b) Get intelligent directions from anyone. At this point I have walked into the Guiness World record books... Forrest Gump has nothing on me now... I have fried shrimped, boiled shrimped and bubba shrimped his ass. But I am over it.

I leave the cinema and start walking toward the festival to see some afternoon films, looking left and right for taxis'. It ain't happening and I am none the wiser as to just how far I am from my destination. But then - a lifeline! In the centre lane of the road - a four wheel drive has just broken down, a mexican lady driving and her husband trying desperately to push the two ton loader. No one stops to help - no one offers assistance. I gallantly leap into oncoming traffic and offer to help. Two hundred metres, a ton of steel, a strained back and a bucket of sweat and we reach a gas station (they ran out of gas).

The guy thanks me over and over, but there's a snag... I need a lift now. I ask very nicely if there is any way they can drop me off on Crescent Drive - its about a 3k walk and I just can't do it now. At first it seems as if its all too much trouble and I am ready to start pushing their truck back out on to the road, but then his wife calls out that it will be o.k. phew... 10 minutes later I am in the back of a strangers truck wondering if this was really a good idea? They speak spanish as I hand them maps as to where I am going. Its a simple route but I feel like she is heading the wrong way so I ask them if they can get me closer to Wilshire... "no mister... no mister... I know Crescent... is all good", she's very sweet but she's no A-Z.

Half an hour later and I can feel that the houses around us just don't feel like beverly hills. The faces are too 'real' - skin is too loose. Eventually, and after much debate, she dutifully drops me at Crescent. I jump out and say thanks but I already know this is not a happy ending... heading into the nearest Starbucks I am told that this is Crescent 'Heights', and I am in fact now twice as far away as I was before.... grr...

Heading off with a busted back I contemplate on how this was all supposed to turn out so much better - what's with Karma?

After another mile of walking I get a cab at last and head off to festival base just in time to catch a block of films. My vindication today will be that the films are good. A couple of beautiful spanish language shorts, followed by a hard-arse Brazillian film called 'Lost and Found'. Its brutal, brilliantly acted and apparently stars the brazillian version of Brando - I can't argue with that.

The festival party is at another hotel - but I can't stay longer than an hour before my wallet and body start to fail me...

Count a Monte Cristo...

There is only one word for my condition today... 'knackered'. My eyes are so dark I am starting to resemble a raccoon. Its a full time job to constantly go to screenings, enduring good and bad films all day, try to hunt down some food, go to the parties and try and make intelligent conversation, getting back in the early hours, sleeping and then getting up and doing it again. Its lost its novelty. I truly understand the meaning of the word 'junket'.

I've got a breakfast to go to this morning with the American Writers Guild so I get up really early and decide to walk, its a nice day so why not? To get there I take a diversion and wind through the backroads of Beverly HIlls to take a look at the houses - they are magnificent, huge structures. It's lifestyles of the rich and famous and its smells like... shit. This time of the morning there are Gucci tracksuited clad hi-lifers walking all kinds of canine exotica. The combination goes like this - You either need a dog crossed with a guinea pig wearing a diamond encrusted saddle, or... walk one of these rodent jockeys along with another dog the size of a canadian brown bear, or... a 'shrapnel' of around 5 rodent jockeys (I'm presuming the collective for these chihuahua gerbils would be 'shrapnel'? - correct me if I am wrong). Either way, this is Beverly Hills, so whatever you do - don't entertain the idea of poop-scooping (unless you have a handy home-help to do it for you).

This time of the morning, and down-wind - the roads smell like dog-shit. I am presuming that as the clock strikes 8 that there is a community poop-scooping division that scurry out from driveways and do it for you so that your manicured hands do not have to deal with it? Even the homeless guys have been draped in Armani in order to 'fit in'.

At the breakfast I get to meet some more australian film makers that are here with an animation. Last night I missed the most important block of films that I should have seen because I just couldn't keep walking any more. I had walked 2 miles to the hard rock cafe to grab some food and just couldn't make it the 2 miles back for the late show. Today I am determined to see all the films... maybe...

As we leave the breakfast, the festival organisers hand me a 'goody back' for the filmmakers. Its here that I discover the main difference between this festival and the last. At the last festival my goody bag was given away to someone who had nothing to do with the films, I never got it back - but I know it contained a DVD, a pack of cards and some film postcards so I didn't lose any sleep... Here it's different. Here I get given a bag for me... and one for my kids? Now, that's service...

At the hotel I empty the bag and it feels like I have been on a looting spree at rodeo drive - Sprawled across the bed are t-shirts, baseball cap, luxury skin care products, chocolates, cologne, a watch... and two monte cristo cigars.

lock, shlock, and two smoking piles of shit

Got a meeting today with a big, big agent - still no idea how the hell I got in there... I have a feeling that they misheard my name and think that they are in fact meeting Kirsten Scott Thomas but I'll go with it...

I spend the morning in Starbucks writing emails and drinking Mochas in preparation. I head in to beverly hills early so that I am not left in a rush and wander along rodeo drive. Walking past a lady in her forties I smile, but there is nothing back - I could see she wanted to smile but her face wouldn't let her (botox). I keep walking and the next lady nods at me (I'm wearing a suit jacket mind you), I nod back... wasn't that the same lady? Drifting past a cafe there are a couple of women drinking coffee and... wait.. is there some sort of cloning spa around here...

It suddenly dawns on me... they all have the same mouth. Every single one of them has the very same mouth - its like a mail-order plastic surgery style. The lips are shaped like the golden arches - the top lip up like a ducks bill - and there is no movement! It wasn't that the lady wasn't smiling... she physically couldn't... its bizarre... if not for eye colour and hair - they would look identical. I am in the Stepford wives...

Into the agency and this place is a whole different affair. Frosted glass, plush sofas, 3 floors... While I wait in reception, a few other clients come in and sit beside me in the waiting room. Each and every one is met by a PA to an agent, hand shaken vigorously, offered refreshments and led off to VIP rooms as roses are strewn at their feet... me... I wait...

and wait... and wait.... eventually I am told to take the lift to the 3rd floor. There is no reception committee, no horticultural passage and the only shaking is my fingers as I try to straighten my collar.

Upstairs I walk past rows and rows of people with headsets taking calls for Tom and Julia.. its probably not THE Tom and Julia, but definitely not the names I want to hear as I am lead to the glass meeting room. I need to hear names like Earnest or Elvira to make me feel better. In the meeting room and two agents come in - its apparent within seconds that I am punching above my weight division. They immediately tell me that they don't usually entertain anyone at my level... this is gonna be a tough fight. These agents are sharp - sharp suits, sharp hair, sharp words... but I am here now so I want a few rounds before they throw the towel in. I take a huge risk, the lady has an unusual name... one I heard years ago for a producer that I spoke to in america - I ask if she is related... bingo!! she is his sister so I launch into an anecdote about when I spoke to him almost 10 years ago... they relax and 45 minutes later I walk out with a request for some samples of work... Before I leave I am told that I have a good angle in L.A. as I am a 'multi-hyphenate'??? I am totally confused until they explain that its what they called Writer/Director/Actors... "Funny", I tell them... "In Australia we just call them 'Unemployed'".

I clearly lost on points but went the distance and it looks like there might be a rematch.

off to the festival to watch the first block of films.. the last festival kind of killed me... watching films non-stop - even for a film fan can ruin your view. I was looking forward to this block though - only 4 films, 3 shorts and 1 feature, an english film that looks like a fun lock, stock type thing - promising? We are given tickets to score the films poor to excellent. The films start and I discover again that its good not to go first as the projectionist buggers up the first 2 films. Then the feature begins and its like bad TV, its lock, shlock, and two smoking piles of shit. I want to find the filmmakers and get back the 2 hours of my life that they just sucked from me. Its the kind of film that makes it hard for filmmakers to get money for films. The whole crowd limps out and heads off to the hard rock cafe for free drinks...

At the bar I meet a journalist for the beverly hills courier and she starts off the conversation by saying "have you noticed how all the women in beverly hills share the same mouth".... I feel vindicated... She asks where I am staying and I tell her its Boys Town. And this is the funny thing... for the third time tonight, I have told someone where I am staying and each one has laughed and said "Girlfriend booked your hotel did she? Clever girl"... Apparently its a common trick. My head spins back to 2 weeks ago and I see Karen's Cartwheels as clear as day... Clever girl indeed...

'Russian' around in cabs...

I'm getting it in the ear about not blogging enough so I'll stay up late and do this...
Yesterday was a day that started with black clouds and ended with sunny skies - both geological and personal...

Its raining (for a change) and I slept in so I need to get a cab to a lunch meeting. The cabs here are weird - they are harder to find than a weapon of mass destruction, and cause more havoc. Every second cab is occupied by angry russian guys that grunt and snort but rarely engage in conversation. I order a cab with a credit card facility as I 'm quickly running out of cash. This guy drives off but decides he doesn't want to do the credit card because 'its not good for him'. I spend 10 minutes explaining that I ordered credit card specifically while he waves a fist at me... the cold war is still on apparently. I give him no choice (I have no cash!!!) and he mutters obscenities as I get out.

I meet with a producer for a pretty large production company and insist on paying for lunch (its all plastic now so what the hey?).

Back to the hotel and ready myself for a meeting with an agent. I need this one, this is why I came here, get in, get out, get an offer. Its a tough call but f**k it - what have I got to lose? Their offices are in a small business village that looks like disney land. High profile companies in ginger bread houses!! They are not a big agency, but big enough to make me feel important... I'm in and the place is stacked with scripts. I'm met by the agents who are very nice but I've been warned that EVERYONE is nice - thats 'what they do'.

The meeting goes well and I am there for an hour and a half... I'm dying to try and pull clumps of shortbread from the walls but it would not be professional. It all gets wrapped up very positive and I leave down the yellow brick road straight off to...

... the opening for the next festival. This is much, much different to the last one. Baseball caps and cargo pants are replaced with suits and cufflinks. Sidewalks are replaced with red carpets, and college students on the door are replaced with 6ft 5 security guys with walky talkies - this is the real deal...

I have missed the start of the opening film so duck next door into an indian restaurant for some snacks... beer flavoured snacks... well... beer... A few other people drift in and join me at the bar. It turns out that they are the festival directors (now THAT is a coincidence). Introductions are made and luckily they really dig the film and even end up paying for my drinks. I start to say that I can't accept but then remember how the last festival was decided and shut my mouth...

The after party is in at the Camden House - its plush, expensive and very cool. It takes me 15 minutes just to get a drink its that busy. Everyone is beautiful and everyone is rich, or in my case - pretending to be. I'm introduced to a number of people and suddenly realise the difference between occupations. When I am introduced as an actor - the conversation lasts 5 mins... max. When introduced as a Writer/Director... I can't get rid of them?

I am introduced to an actress/writer/model/belly dancer/medium... Apparently I have a good 'vibe', and she tells me all about a movie that she is down to the last two for. I tell her it sounds great until she describes that its a vampire thriller where her character has 'lesbian tendencies'. I figure the budget is less than the tab behind the bar... I need to go home and rest...

'Fruit' juice...

Its pissing down with rain today, the street outside is literally raining cats and dogs (But this is Boys Town - so thankfully there are poodles and siamese cats with waistcoats landing gently on the sidewalk)...

I need to print out all the documents I typed up last night so risk running out into the rain armed with nothing more than a baseball cap for protection. The nearest print shop is about half a mile away which is acceptable. I get there and am soaked - only to find that there is no one there and its shut... doh! So I wander back and get the other side soaked. Remember that comment a few days ago about how great it is to walk everywhere? - I retract it completely and utterly...

I change and go out again - grabbing a cab to Kinkos.

The kinkos etc are amazing here - I am in there for about an hour, writing, using the internet... I then print about 35 pages on a printer. I use the copier to print another 120 pages and get the guy behind the counter to punch and bind 3 scripts. At the checkout he passes me a bill for $2.64!!... I ask him how the hell they make money and his reply is "That's plus taxes?".

Back at the room and I package up 20 packs to send out to companies and send them off. I figure in this weather its best to grab a subway sandwich and head back to the room for the afternoon as my big important meeting just got moved again.. bah!!

The poodles are still falling so I figure its best to just get a tuna sub and go next door for a juice - Greg has recommended 'Jamba Juice'. Apparently they do the best juice around... if only he knew... I head in and get a mix of whatever there is going, the ticket is passed across to a nice mexican guy who does the juicing for me and makes light conversation. You know - all the usual questions... "where are you from?", "how long have you been here?", "Do you like L.A.?", "Have you hooked up with any cute guys yet?"... whoa! Back up there Billy Bob - what was the last question?

He leans in a little closer whilst pumping my carrots and lowers his voice, "Hook up with any cute guys around here yet?". Its not what I expected to hear... I only came in here for some refreshing beverages. I explain that I doubt my two kids would be surprised that I was shocked at that question and he throws his hands in the air with a 'oh... sorry buddy... oh...". I accept his apology... but I still have to pay for the juice. I suddenly realise why the Subway guy next door smirked when I asked for a 6 incher.

Its been a pretty boring day in all so I wander back to the Belmont for dinner and it doesn't disappoint - fish and chips, atmosphere and happy hour! I stumble out a few drinks to the wind and wind my way back... ready for the beginning of a new festival...

Extreme Akim!

I'm hitting a threshold now... boredom is setting in as friends that I have here are all gone on business trips and holidays. I'm going to get cabin fever any day soon - but its o.k. - tomorrow the meetings begin...

I get out and its drizzling with rain, I'm off to catch up with Bryan for lunch and its a bit of walk. I see the billboard as I leave and check my spurs - lets mosey on out of town...

I get to the restaurant and I'm pretty soaked, tired and hungry. I call Bryan but his mobile is off so I leave a message. Half an hour later and still no sign so I leave another message and head off to get lunch alone. The rain increases as I eat and by the time I am back at the hotel I am sodden... way to be stood up for lunch.

Its too wet to do anything much so I settle in for some afternoon television and find a new smorgasbord of visual delights - "An Eye for an Eye". This show is beyond tacky... this shows takes all the other Judge Judy's and Judge Alex's and sentences them to a few years hard labor. Its sooooo crap its genius.

The premise is that pointless cases are brought in and the judge hands out punishments in accordance with the crime. I.e someone complains about a wrestler being 'fake' and he sentences the guy to go in the ring and find out. The set is shit.... the titles are shit - its all shit... except they have one thing - the judge. "Extreme Akim"... I'm excited as the rent-a-crowd chant over and over "Extreme Akim!! Extreme Akim!" in anticipation of him arriving. I can hardly contain myself - who is this behemoth of justice and why is he so "extreme".

And then he comes out... All 50 pounds of skinny white home hubby. There is nothing extreme about akim. He is about as extreme as a paraplegic pillow fight... as dangerous as a wheat cracker. He talks in gang slang and he's "all dat", but I suspect he talks to other 50 year old white guys with muslim names on the internet at night.

Judge akim doesn't have a Gavel to strike his verdict... he has a baseball bat. I rest my case your honour...

I catch up with Greg for dinner and he shows me a great place within walking distance to the Hotel - The Belmont. Its rowdy, loud, with alcohol and red meat - just what I need.

After dinner I head back and for the rest of the night the hotel room looks like a chinese Nike sweat shop as I write letters, pack DVD's and scripts ready to send out the next day... I finish up around 2am and crash...

The Hills Have Thighs

Its Sunday so I figure out a day of last minute shopping before the next festival starts. The morning opens well with breakfast with Cameron. We go to a very funky cafe with lots of ornate murals of Boxers across the ceiling - its apparently quite well known. A breakfast of champions follows, best one yet.

Ready to face the day, I venture out of Boys Town and walk... and walk... and walk. Nobody here walks but I am finding it strangely relaxing and theraputic. Its a great way to see the city, many places that you would drive past rather than duck in to. I highly recommend it.

I end up at the Beverly Hills Centre - its like a layer cake. On the outside are signs for Macy's and Bloomingdales... they are the sponge layer of the cake. In here are Gucci, Armani and other 'designeri' clad shoppers. These are the upper echelon of consumers and boy do they want you to know it. As you move to the upper floors, you realise that these prime shops are separated by a couple of floors of car parks before entering the fruit layered levels. Here you have your more regular shops in a mall - and the consumers are not quite so rich. Then, the top floor, its the icing but someone has definitely had their thumb in there - licked it, and double dipped... It mainly consists of cinemas and food courts.

I need a break, my feet need a break - so I look for the next movie to start. The only thing of interest is the remake of 'The Hills Have Eyes' - the remake of one of my favourite 70's schlock horror films, its middle of the day and sunny so I should have the theatre to myself.

In I go and enter what is advertised as a 'theatre' but really amounts to little more than a living room. Its about 50 seats in total, the screen marginally bigger than a plasma screen - this is going to be personal. As the ads begin the cinema eventually fills to about 20 people... its almost like a sleepover. The credits roll and my very favourite thing happens - I have a couple of 'talkers' behind me and to the right. These aren't your regular untrained cinema talkers mind you - these are the harvard graduated cinema talkers with a PHD in stating the f**king obvious!

At every turn they set up the scene - A family drive a camper down a desert road (and in case you aren't concentrating), he leans over to her and says "That family is driving in the desert" - Well... thank F**K for that! because I was lost.

They pull into a petrol garage - Her - "That's a garage". They get directions from a creepy guy, Him - "He's giving them the wrong directions"... and so on. Now, ordinarily I would ask them to be quiet but I'm in a foreign country and flying solo. I wrestle with what to do for 45 minutes as the commentary goes unabated but I canna stands it no more I tell ya!! The film is at the crux of the attack on the family but even over their screams I can here them going "They're screaming!!" - so I walk over and lean over the chair so as not to disturb the other patrons... "Guys... is there any way at all that you can please stop talking". I feel great for getting it out but its at this point that my eyes adjust in the dark to the guy before me - Shaven head, tattoos, arms like bowling balls and thighs... well, thighs like canons. He looks like a kick boxer.

"Excuse me buddy", he asks as his girlfriend wisely tells him to "leave it". She has obviously seen my 5ft 9" frame, arms like ping pong balls and thighs like an 8 year old ballerina and is worried for his safety.

I compose myself and continue tact as the family behind me on the screen are getting massacred amidst a tirade of screams. "I'm just asking you nicely to keep your voices down. Its hard to concentrate on the film and you've been talking for 45 minutes... so, please - be quiet". I think I have handled it well but then he seems to think that the problem is not that I am asking him to be quiet but apparently that I am "all up in his face". I've only heard this line in movies before so I play on the accent, "Sorry dude, I don't understand?". I play dumb. "The problem is that you are all up in my face, hessay". I'm not in his face, his face scares me... And I still don't know who 'hessay' is but I'm not going to argue. "apologise" he tells me so I quickly leave with an "apology accepted" and hope that he doesn't realise what I just really said.

For the next 45 minutes I perform a physical trick that I have never mastered before - one eye on the screen, the other permanently twisted right to look over my shoulder. The film ends and I am pretty sure that he won't watch the credits - that amount of words will give him a headache so I sit them out - then leave, and go back to the hotel... one eye over my shoulder the whole time.

As I get back to the hotel, I notice a large billboard that had somehow eluded me : opposite the hotel stands a 50ft banner - A half naked male model with a stetson with the words "SAVE A HORSE... RIDE A COWBOY"...

I need some sleep...

In the Pink

Head is thumping like a jackhammer from the free margerita's as I drag my sorry arse out of bed and pack. All my clothes are dirty, I am switching hotels and will need to find a Laundromat when I get there. I grab the very last tee shirt I have to my name - it happens to be pink, I like to think that its a rusty buff colour - but believe me... today it will be considered pink.

Greg turns up and we go through our daily routine of channelling our energies as he turns the key on his car (this is the only way it starts - its a bit poorly). He drives me off to grab a good old fashioned american breakfast before we check in. We pull in to 'The House of Pies' - its sounds like Shane Warnes bachelor pad and is populated by roughly the same amount of bacon fat.

Walking in, it is like your quintessential american diner. The waitress uniforms, the decor, the greasy overweight woman behind the counter with bingo wings... it has everything. The counter is lined with bar stools which lonely individuals sit at whilst they push their grits around their plates. Black steaming coffee is continually poured and there is a paramedic on hand with defibrillators in case someone cleans a plate. We take a booth and Greg recommends the classic american breakfast - when it turns up, it arrives on 3 plates. One for the pancakes and maple syrup, one for the plate of eggs, strips of bacon and mound of hash brown, and one for the 3 slices of toast... I wrench out my intestines and give them a scrub before we begin.

Its debaucherous, its highly dangerous, its unhealthy... and its great. Its like being a kid again and mixing foods that you just shouldn't, as blackberry jam toast is spooned in with rashers of bacon. Pancakes and syrup meld with crunchy potatoes - I feel like I am in Wonka land. I bet Greg I can finish it but fall just shy of one pancake - at the point that my stomach lining pulls itself out onto the plate for fresh air I realise its had enough.

I feel green for the rest of the day. Speaking of colours...

Greg drives me to the Ramada where I am staying and as we approach, he grins and asks me if I realise where we are? Of course I do - we are on Santa Monica Boulevard, closer to the next festival at Beverly Hills. But do I know exactly whereabouts this bit is?

This is 'Boys Town' - the heart of gay Hollywood. This is the strip... this is the central point... and this is why my tee shirt is pink...

We drop my bags off and then head out for a bite to eat. Greg shows me the sights - there's the gay central cafe - The Abbey, conveniently in walking distance. There's the gay theatre, there's the gay clothes strip, there's the gay bars, and there's the gay coffee shop. In fact, every shop within a 2 mile radius is blissfully happy... We head a bit further out and off to find somewhere to grab a drink. Greg still thinks the shirt is funny, until he realises that he too is now considered to be 'with' me. We grab a coke (YES - I said "COKE"), and then I leave Greg and Di to do some shopping.

On the way back to the hotel it dawns on me that Colonel Sanders Mardi Gras is back in town and I have upgraded to a Zinger - where is J.Von Shay when I need sh-him the most...

I spend the rest of the day washing and drying my clothes...