You Never Ate Lunch in This Town to Begin With…: An Outsider's Inside Look at the Outside of Hollywood

You Never Ate Lunch in This Town To Begin With…

An Outsider’s Inside Look at the Outside of Hollywood

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Nicholas Kolya

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN: 0-595-24967-1

ISBN: 978-1-4697-4785-9 (eBook)

Contents

INTRODUCTION

1991

1992

1993

1994

1995

1996

1997

1998

1999

2000

2001

INTRODUCTION

In the autumn of 1991 I moved to Los Angeles from New York with the dream of becoming a paid comedy writer. I was 22.

It is now 2002. I am now 33. Of that lofty goal I’d set myself as a young man full of hope and vigor, half of it has been accomplished. I’m a writer. I write. And though you’ve never seen my films, or an episode of one of my television shows, or read one of my articles, I assure you, I am a writer.

No, you’ve never heard of me by name, but you’re surely familiar with my type, cliched at this point. I am one of tens of thousands of youths who annually pour into the world’s entertainment capital, inflamed by the desire to become actors and producers, music stars and film directors, to grab fame and fortune. Of those tens of thousands some actually make it. One or two. The vast remainder end up in amateur porno, or return to the dreary towns they originally came from to work in the mines. I fell somewhere in the middle, which is more boring than either.

Over the years I gained a sort of affection for this city. At parties I didn’t meet insurance brokers and probate attorneys and bond traders like you do elsewhere in urban America. No, I met cab drivers and waiters and bartenders…who were actually screenplay writers and actors and lead guitar players. No one was really anything, and everyone was something else. It was exhilarating and it was fascinating. For a while.

In the summer of 2000 I went to some offices on Sunset to meet an acquaintance for lunch. He was working as a writer on a television show for Universal. It was one of those reality-dating concepts, with clever comments popping up on your screen during the course of the televised date. A dreadful program, still being produced actually. Still ruining lives.

The room I entered was hot and airless. It was filled with greasy food and with ugly weirdoes wearing weird, ugly clothes and their hair was messy and their skin had that shine and some were fat and certainly none of them could get a date without using the massage ads that populate the back pages of the LA Weekly. But that wasn’t where the irony lay—in the fact that unsightly oddballs were making fun of attractive people who would later have sex with each other. No, the bitter irony was the fact that these guys weren’t funny. These were highly paid, union television writers—comedy writers—and they weren’tfunny.

In the editing bay I watched some footage of a handsome couple from Atlanta. For their paid date they’d gone to the city’s zoo, where at one point they’d watched the antics of the caged monkeys. The Far Side nerds gathered around the editing machine, all sniffling and rocking back and forth and wheezing to themselves. The group goal was to think of a humorous pop-up comment for the scene.

You know what they came up with? Guess. Some play on the fact that primates crudely resemble humans? That we’re similar? You’re getting there, keep going. The fact that monkeys are lesser beings than we, and that it’s insulting to be referred to as one? You, sir, are a monkey! Hey you, monkey face! That type of thing? Well you’re right! You should move here and work in television. After some ecstatic concurrence, a thought bubble was sketched above the monkeys’ heads reading, "Who are the real monkeys?" The implication was, of course, that the good-looking blonde and her handsome date were the real monkeys.

That group of waxy misfits stood around and laughed and laughed like there was no tomorrow. They had just written a monkey joke.

The Writers Guild weekly minimum wage for a staff writer is $2, 872.

A monkey joke.

That was the day I gave up, I think. There was nothing for me to aspire to anymore. Nothing. After years of reading headlines in the trades proclaiming sales in the six figures range for scripts about kooky parrots or FBI agents trailing serial killers, I decided to stop trying. No longer could I stomach having fellow writers relate to me how executives had told them they could get their work green lit if they’d put in more fart jokes. The studios are really big on farts now. Make the main character fart more and I think I’ll be able to get a go. I couldn’t take more instances of development friends passing me television and film scripts that were eerily similar to projects I’d already written—without the thought, structure, and comedy—yet already optioned, or in production, therefore rendering my own work moot. No more. Although I still found the metropolis amusing, I sold my house shortly afterwards and left the country.

Somewhere in Malawi, as I tried to describe to some curious Chewas what exactly it was I did and where I came from, I got the idea to write this book. Pen, pen, they shouted, feverishly making writing gestures with their empty hands. It was clear that they wanted me to pen a Hollywood tell-all, a tell-all from the point of view of someone with nothing to tell. I’ve seen celebrities.had encounters with them.know gossip about them.Not big celebs, but is there really any difference between famous and once-famous or kind of famous in Los Angeles? The very concept of celebrity is increasingly extremely fluid. You get a reaction if you’re Tom Cruise or Gary Coleman or the Irish guy from the second Real World—and I’ve encountered them all. Have you? The Chewas hadn’t. I’ve worked at film companies large, medium and small. You’ve probably never done that either. I’ve been to world famous clubs on the Sunset Strip and the dirtiest of junky bars downtown. I’ve lived that sad life of the Los Angeles failure, though to keep my spirits up I refer to myself as bohemian. All in all, I can say one thing—for most of the time, it’s been fun. I can say another thing too—that last sentence was a lie.

As I punch away at the keyboard here at my mother-in-law’s house, I realize that this book will probably never sell. Why would it? Nothing else has. I don’t care anymore. I’m a writer, as I’ve told you. Just not a paid one.

This is my Hollywood Story…and it’s shocking. Sort of.

1991

The first place I lived in the City of Angels, young and fresh-faced, was Venice Beach. A couple years earlier, during Spring Break, I’d met one of those traveling-the-world British types shooting pool in Florida. We’d kept in touch over time, and it just so happened that his postcard from the garbage-covered sands of Venice was the impetus for me to leave the coming New York winter and get out to the West Coast. On the back of the postcard with the funny slogan and the woman’s ass, he promised that I could stay at his place—a dingy youth hostel one block from the boardwalk. I took him up on the offer, eager to finally pursue my three-week-old dream of being a comedy writer in Hollywood.

Soon enough I was there, Jim Morrison’s old haunt, Venice Beach. Sun, junkies, syringes, bikers, that roller skating man with the guitar and the turban, hot dogs, tourists, bikini chicks, scumbags, incense, B-ballers, hemp shirts, drug dealers, Hare Krishnas, gangsters, muscle dudes, dwarves, chainsaw jugglers, tattoo artists, inline skaters, sand sculptors, film sets, Rastas, breakdancers, and of course, writers. So many writers.

After catching up with my friend, I quickly got into the daily routine of eating breakfast at the popular Sidewalk Café, staring out at the Pacific while jotting down funny ideas. Life was good in those early days—those early twelve days. After deciding between the Kerouac special or the Hemingway at the Sidewalk, I’d go sleep on the beach, dreaming up still more ideas. At night I’d hit the local bars, drinking like my whole life was Spring Break, and laying my East Coast accent on thick for the foreign chicks. The booze almost made me forget the fact that I didn’t have a job. And that I now kept my clothes in a locker. And that I slept in a dormitory bed between a bail-jumper from Boston who used his food stamps to buy beer and a toothless Australian surfer.

It was around this time that I had my first celebrity encounter, which is usually a defining moment once you’ve relocated to LA. Unfortunately I’ll never know if mine was fully real. I talk about it like it was, though. I don’t care.

The gum-mouthed Aussie and I had purchased some tabs of LSD from a dubious hippie character working an incense table along the beach. We dropped them quick as flies, then hung out on the boardwalk for an hour, mesmerized by the black fellow scooching around on the ground to the music of Michael No Longer Popular Jackson. He was scooching on the ground because he had no legs. He didn’t have any arms either, in the traditional sense of having arms. There was a stub, or a proboscis, coming out of his one shoulder and that was it.

We quickly became bored of Hockey Puck—that’s what we called him—and found new entertainment by staring at our hands. Maybe Hockey Puck thought we were making fun of him, since he didn’t have any, but we weren’t. We just sat on the beach like a pair of fucking cretins, staring and staring at those hands of ours melting and glowing and throbbing and wondered about the meaning of it all, brother. Luckily, a friend who wasn’t dosing—the guy actually had a job—came over and invited us to the nearby Town House to drink some beer and shoot pool. Since the wide-open beach spaces were beginning to wig me out, I decided to take him up on the offer, and the three of us walked over to the bar.

Once inside it was a pretty typical late-afternoon Venice scene. Couple of bikers, some midwestern tourists. No one was using the pool table so we laid down some cash and played three-man cutthroat. I don’t think it was very fun for our friend. Every time it was the Australian’s turn he’d burst into toothless laughter. He’d laugh as he raised his stick, laugh as he studied it, laugh as he missed the cue ball, laugh at his laughing. I kept forgetting it was my shot, then nervously jumping whenever the balls cracked together on the table. Our responsible buddy quickly became frustrated with us and split. You guys are like the Doors, he said. My heightened senses told me he was being sarcastic.

That left us alone, floating in the big dangerous world, feeling naked and paranoid, yet not quite comfortable enough to take the two-minute walk across the street to the safety and privacy of our dorm rooms. We continued to play billiards, not really talking, occasionally giggling at the way a beer splashed or at the blips and boinks of the pinball machine. Sometimes we forgot what we were doing and just stood still, or checked the size of each other’s pupils. Finally, we began staring at our hands again.

It was at this point that we saw him. The Aussie whispered in my ear. Look, it’s Frasier.

I turned, and so it was. Kelsey Grammer, of Cheers fame, drinking a beer.

That was it. End of story. I tried to read his thoughts with my powerful acid mind—did he miss the deceased Coach, did George Wendt stink—but nothing happened. He left a few minutes later.

Later on, eating chilidogs and coming down from our trip, we told our friend about our sighting. He didn’t seem to care. I think it was because he was anti-drug and mad at us for not being top-notch billiards men. He was trying to ruin my experience, which pissed me off. We’re not so bad, you know, Ed. Kelsey Grammer does drugs too. I’d seen that in People magazine, and I knew that he liked Kelsey Grammer a lot, like most of America.

Ed didn’t say anything, nodding his head in an offhanded way and effectively ignoring us, which made me angrier. So then I said, Kelsey Grammer asked us where he could score some acid. I said more, too, lots more. All lies. Stuff about me and Kelsey and the Australian hanging out and laughing and talking shit about squares.

Eventually I got a job at the hostel, replacing that hard-working, anti-drug guy, who’d landed an analyst position at the financial paper

The Investor’s Business Daily. He went on to become my writing partner, and was even best man at my wedding. I’ve still never told him that I’d made up the part about Kelsey hanging out with me and asking career advice and wanting to score acid and all that. It’s so far in the past it would be awkward now. That’s how I justify all my previous lies.

* * *

While the job at the hostel gave me a free bed and a small hourly wage, it wasn’t enough to support my nightly boozing and hearty writer’s breakfast at the Sidewalk Café. So to make ends meet I went through Ed’s stuff occasionally, and I also took another job. Some hick who lived at the hostel managed a frozen yogurt store on the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica, Humphrey’s Yogart. He got me hired.

I was already making connections.

Although there were a couple of other guys who’d also gone to college working with me behind the counter of the yogurt place, most of my coworkers were rich teenagers from Malibu. The age difference didn’t bother me. I was serving and observing the rich and famous and besides, I dug teenaged girls. And teenaged girls from Malibu dug 22-year old guys who lived at the Venice Beach Youth Hostel and took the bus to work.

* * *

Henry Winkler came in to Humphrey’s once during my shift. He ordered a sandwich. I don’t remember what kind, maybe it was turkey. A lot of people got that one. The kid who took the order asked for his name. Fonzie was incredulous. My name?

The kid rolled his eyes. "Yeah. What’s…your…name? I have to yell it when your sandwich is ready. He said everything very slowly. Then you know it’s your sandwich."

Pretending to wipe up a spill, I eagerly waited for the Fonz to tell that rich Malibu brat to sit on it. It was clear the kid thought Winkler was yet another foreign customer failing to grasp yet another American concept. But Henry Winkler wasn’t some guy just arrived off the chartered jet from San’a or Tehran. Winkler was America, our own ambassador of cool. I wiped and waited…but there was no sit on it that day. Instead, the star of An American Christmas Carol (American Christmas Carol) turned to some customers standing behind him in line and ruefully shook his head. They were his age and, unlike the stupid teenager, knew who this man was. They knew his name, knew he’d been King of the Mardi Gras parade back in 77, knew he’d been the star of An American Christmas Carol, and they sadly shook their heads in commiseration. Kids today.

His gaze returned to the teenager. My name’s Henry, he mumbled. But it was a reproachful mumble.

* * *

I also sighted two A-List celebrities when I worked on the Promenade. One was Dustin Hoffman. He was short. The other was Goldie Hawn. She looked good for her age, just like the women’s magazines say.

Neither of them noticed me.

* * *

Within a month I was promoted to manager at the yogurt place. Unlike Dustin Hoffman and Goldie Hawn, my bosses had noticed me. Unlike Hoffman and Hawn, they knew talent when they saw it—the talent necessary to manage a small yogurt store. I was given health insurance and a raise to $16,000.

One night one of the Malibu teens gave me a ride home in his convertible Jaguar. This teen, Josh, had really been screwing up on the job recently. I hadn’t wanted to admonish him in front of his fellow employees, but still, he had to be set straight, and this was the perfect opportunity. With people skills like that, I have to believe my bosses were right in their decision to make me a manager. I turned down the stereo.

Josh, I wanted to talk to you about your attitude at work.

Oh yeah? What’s the matter, Nick?

Well, I think your effort’s lacking a little. Maybe you’ve got a lot on your mind, but the yogurt store isn’t the place for it.

Sorry, dude. I’ll try harder.

He flicked the necessary switches to make the car top go down. I had to speak more loudly.

I hope so, because you know, if you don’t have a good work ethic you’re going to encounter problems later in life. You won’t get very far. People are going to—oh, wait, here’s the hostel. Stop here.

We’d arrived much more quickly than I would have if I’d taken the bus. I hadn’t realized just how fast the commute was when you had your own car. Josh pulled to the curb. A homeless guy walked by screaming at something. Down the alley I heard glass breaking.

This is where you live?

Yeah.

There was a brief moment of silence. I opened the door.

Thanks for the lift. And Josh, remember what I said about straightening up. You don’t want to end up a failure.

No problem, man. Oh, and hey, remember not to schedule me until next Tuesday at the earliest, ‘cause I’m going to Maui with my parents. He gave a wave, cranked his stereo back up, did a U-turn and headed north toward Malibu. I walked upstairs to my dormitory room. Empty Budweiser cans were scattered on the floor. The Bostonian was whispering in his sleep. He stank of booze and sour cream.

* * *

Two weeks later I was fired from the hostel. I don’t want to get into it. The traumatic termination is somewhat referenced in my script Hostel. I was still allowed to stay there, but a bed cost $12 a night. It all suddenly seemed very Dickensian to me, like I’d become a common transient in the blink of an eye. Was the gin madness far behind? I paid up for a week and began weighing my options when BOOM—out of the blue a fellow manager at the yogurt shop told me that he and his girlfriend needed a roommate to share their apartment and cut expenses. Serendipity. The stars were aligning—and not the stars we got pasted by our names for doing a particularly good job at Humphrey’s, either.

It was time to move on. Time to leave Jim Morrison’s old neighborhood behind. Oh, I’d miss Hockey Puck and the bug-eyed guy who claimed he’d visited the moon the last time it was full and the recent spate of gang murders and the unshaven dude who informed me that he was a USC film student and that Laurence Fishburne had agreed to be in his short, then asked me for a hit of my malt liquor, just a sip, bro. I’d miss the hostel handyman’s dad and his disturbing Alzheimer’s displays and the Town House and Kelsey Grammer and everyone, all my newfound friends, the sort of people I’d referred to as fucking losers not so long ago in my life. I’d miss it, sure, but the place I was going to in West LA had it all—two pools, a gym, city views, Jacuzzis. I was like George Jefferson, moving on up. And like him, I wouldn’t forget my roots. No, the youth hostel was in me now, no matter where I went, and I’m not just talking about the asbestos.

There were other changes happening in my life. The owners of the yogurt shop decided to open another store down in Redondo Beach. My buddy PJ.woops.my new roomie PJ and I were going to be the two managers for the fledgling place. I’d recently bought myself a 450 Honda Nighthawk and everything was looking up. Everything except business. The new yogurt store folded really fast. The location was a killer the locals said. That made the owners feel better—whew, as long as it wasn’t the yogurt. It didn’t make a difference to me though, shitty location or shitty yogurt, because as sales plummeted, I was the first they let go. Great. How was I going to survive now? First the hostel, now this. That yogurt store had been my life, my whole life.

Fortunately, two positive things came out of my termination by the disloyal storeowners. One, through PJ’s help I was able to nab an entry-level job at Paramount Pictures. His uncle worked in the distribution division and I landed the position of Assistant Distribution Manager. Sound impressive? No? Well it wasn’t. My main function was being handed a computerized printout from some lady and walking back to the warehouse where I’d tell my crew of El Salvadorans and Chihuahuans how many Cool World or Beverly Hills Cop III posters we needed rolled up to be sent to the theaters in Iowa and Maryland. To make myself feel better, I’d call the posters by their film industry term: one sheets. "We need two hundred Cool World one sheets, rapido!"

Two, PJ was abruptly thrown out of the apartment by his girlfriend Allison for reasons I didn’t really care to know about. There was some stuff about him pulling her hair, and crying hysterically, and reading the Bible, sometimes all these at once, but it was none of my business. I was just a guy who slept on the couch—for the time being. The fact that during the increasing strains on their relationship I was at home nights, cracking jokes and serving up cocktails to the attractive, lonely Allie while PJ added chocolate chips or blueberries to people’s frozen yogurt down in Redondo Beach had nothing to do with anything. Was it a conscious decision on my part to only take my showers when PJ was out of the apartment, walking around in front of Allie with my hair wet and just a towel loosely wrapped around my waist, subtly flexing my abs and pecs? No, it wasn’t. It just worked out like that.

Pretty soon I’d taken his place as man of the house in every way. He moved in with his uncle—my new boss—while I remained at the plush apartment complex with the pools, the gym, the views, and the

Jacuzzis. Only now I’d moved into the bedroom, if you get my drift. No more couch. It was like being in the hostel dormitory again, except now I was having sex with my former friend’s ex-girlfriend and there were no vagrants who’d rifle