June 13 and 14, 2007

Hollywood is a throwback to the insecurity and superficiality of high school. As days pass, I start to wonder if I’m good-looking enough or well-dressed enough or if I have enough money to fit-in. Probably not, considering most of the kids have cars and I’m still riding the bus.

I think about things I’ve never thought about before, like does my shirt match my pants? Do my pants match my shoes? Do my shoes match my belt? Does my belt match my wallet?

Is this a step forward or a step back?

I go to a job interview today at Equinox Fitness in West Hollywood, a top-of-the-line fitness/spa/club/whatever that sells memberships starting at $130 per month. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m being interviewed on my looks. Not my appearance (i.e. am I dressed appropriately?), but my looks. Never mind that I have two college degrees and years of experience in the fitness industry. That doesn’t matter.

What matters is would somebody with money be able to stand the sight of me on a consistent basis? They’re forking over $130 a month for a fucking gym membership. The staff should at least be easy-on-the-eyes, right?

This is my best modeling face.


Do the piggish nose and black-man’s lips count me out?

The bus drops me off on Santa Monica Boulevard and I hike a half-mile to get to La Cienega. No problem, right? There’s always a fucking problem.

And that fucking problem is a giant fucking hill. I must climb it to get to my job interview. In the morning heat. While I’m wearing a heavy backpack, heavy jeans, and a long-sleeved button-up.
I start climbing. Not so bad at first, but the hill gets steeper the higher I go. I feel like the yodeling dude on that one Price Is Right game. Three-fourths of the way up I stop and lean against a telephone pole so I don’t go tumbling down.

Yes, the hill is that fucking bad.

I make it to the interview sweating like a fat chick in sixty-degree weather. I apologize, explain myself, and we begin.

The British guy interviewing me makes it a point to tell me I’m going to be dealing with “wealthy, beautiful” people.

“Actors and models. Britney Spears comes in quite often.”

Basically, in so many words, he says I have to look good and I have to put up with rich people’s shit. I tell him I’m from Fairfax County and have had to put up with rich people’s shit for most of my life. I have no problem being humble and modest and somebody’s bitch. I’m just tired of being cooped up in my fucking room. I could’ve done that at home. For free. And with air conditioning.

All in all, the interview goes well. I think. I’ll know if he thought it went well in seven to ten days.
After the interview, I check my missed calls. One. From UPS. My package – with my air mattress in it – wasn’t dropped off because nobody was around to sign for it. Understandable.

So today I’m around, waiting for it. Doesn’t come. I take a shower. Five minutes max. I leave. On my way out, I see something UPS-ish tucked in with Maurice’s mail. But it can’t be because I’ve been around all morning, right?

Either way, I have to catch the bus so I can’t check. But I check when I get back.

And yes, it’s from UPS. The motherfucker came while I was in the shower.

Fuck you, man. Seriously. I’m home all morning, waiting for you to show up and you come during the FIVE FUCKING MINUTES I’m in the goddamn shower. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you fucking piece of shit.

It’s like that brown-suited motherfucker is stalking me, waiting until I’m not around to pounce and leave one of his little piece-of-shit notes: “Oh, so sorry to have missed you. I’ll be back tomorrow sometime between 7am and 7pm.”

I’d tell him to leave it on the porch, but this isn’t exactly Pleasantville. Last night, walking to 7-11, I saw a team of sloppy-looking Hispanic women stealing from people’s recycling bins.
Literally walking around with garbage bags transferring shit so they could get the nickel off the deposit.

Do you think a package lying on a doorstep would survive for five minutes in this neighborhood? I should send myself a bomb and leave it on the porch.

I might do that.

Shit List:

June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset