Jeez Jon: One of Those Kinds of Parties...

A few Saturdays ago, my partner Tom and I went to a friend's birthday party. Let's call the friend Rex for the time being. Rex is an immigrant from the Carribean who possesses what I call "The Gift." No, not this kind of gift. Rex has the ability to schmooz and talk up anyone. He's a hustler in the truest meaning of the word. A lot of the wheeling and dealing in this town deals with this quality, and Rex has that innate ability to know the right thing to say to the right person at the right time. But, like the rest of us, he's on the periphery of the biz - eking out an existence without making it big.

Rex is pushing 40, so it struck us odd that he was going to share his birthday with some girl we've never met named Natasha. Rex knows an interesting set of people, so the fact that this Natasha girl is alien to Tom and I isn't new; I just figured shared birthday parties went out in high school, but whatever. Tom and I fly down to the West Side to the Brazilian restaurant where the party was going to take place. We stop on the way to pick up a gift bag, a card, a gift, and a pen with which to write on the card, and we make it only about 10 minutes late. This is a hole-in-the-wall place that I usually love, but there is something in the air that I'm just not digging. And the place got a B. Anyway, Tom and I arrive and we meet Natasha. She's the 21-year-old (!) fiancee of Rex's former roommate Pejj (no, that's not a typo). The bulk of the people there are Natasha's friends and friends-of-friends. And they are all in their early 20's, clad in Eurotrash knock-off clothes, bling, and attitude. We end up sitting at a collection of small tables that the restaurant has cobbled together to form (a la Vultron) one big table. Rex is sitting in the middle, and we end up sitting way towards the end, surrounded by Natasha's unfriendly and rather surly friends. Greeeaaaaattt.

Me: Tom, we're getting a separate check.

Tom: Oh yeah.

We wave down the only waitress around 7:30 and place our order. Remember this time.

Tom and I introduce ourselves to Natasha's friends, and in typical LA fashion, they show little interest in anyone else but themselves. Well, maybe they just lack the social skills to look outside of themselves for any length of time.

Surly Tool: So... um... did you guys just graduate or something?

Tom: What? We're [indicating he and myself] in our 30's.

Surly Tool: Oh.

ST#1's friend was a guy from Canada who barely spoke at all. The only one with a bit of life in the group that sat right by us was Drunk Nordstrom's Girl, who was somewhat bubbly when she wasn't getting small bottles of rum out of her purse and pouring it into her Diet Coke. I ask them about where they're going to school, and they mention it and quickly forget what they said. People usually love to talk about themselves and what they do -- this trait I rely on heavily when I'm meeting new people. This lot? They mention they go to school, mumble their majors, and then go back to talking to each other.

About 8:00 rolls around and the party has now grown to about 40 some people. And there's one waitress. No food yet. Tom and I exchange pained looks. None of our mutual friends with Rex have shown up. More and more surly Eurotrash Hollywood wannabes arrive. Errgh. Tom and I are introduced to Rex's friend British Tom. He's good-looking in a pasty, worn sort of British way. He actually makes the leap to engage us in conversation, and I breathe a sigh of relief... which turns out being shortlived. British Tom goes on and on about how he's been writing and how he has financing connections in Australia to potentially make his movie, yadda yadda yadda.

At 8:30ish, Tom and I get our appetizers. We snarf them down, and offer them to the other starving people sitting around us. British Tom starts going into his acting career.

British Tom: Well, I've only been out on 5 commercial auditions in the past 4 1/2 months and I've booked only two of them. One of them is going to be a huge [DVD Rental Service] spot I shot 3 weeks ago. But, I don't know, I'm thinking about getting a new commercial agent.

Me: Well, your booking ratio of 2 jobs out of 5 auditions is really good.

British Tom [haughtily]: I thought it was pretty awful.

Me: Nooooo.... it's good. Especially the money that'll be coming in from [DVD Rental Service] spot.

British Tom: So, when should I be getting the money?

Me: Well, you'll be getting your session fee [pay for the actual shoot] in about a week or two. The residuals come in on a quarterly basis.

British Tom: WHAT? I'm not going to be getting all that money right away?!

Me: Well, no, it doesn't work that way.

My Tom and I exchange a look and inside I simultaneously cry and laugh a little.

British Tom: Well, at any rate, they aren't sending me out enough. I mean, that just isn't enough auditions.

Me: Lemme ask you something. Are your headshots black & white or color?

British Tom: Black & White.

Me: Ahh. That's why.

As early as a few years ago, this was the process of how an actor was submitted for a commercial job. A casting director would put out a list of characters for the project they were working on, called a breakdown. Agents would then look at their clients and then messenger over a stack of client headshots to the casting director for them to go through. And everyone used black and white pictures 'cause... well, it's what people did. Not anymore -- everything's digital. Casting directors now put their breakdowns out through a series of websites, and the agents then e-mail headshots and resumes to casting directors. Since casting directors are now looking at postage stamp size headshots on a computer screen, black & white pictures don't pop anymore, so everyone's moving to color. All commercials in L.A. are now working like this, and more and more TV & Film projects. I explain this to British Tom, and how I have a great photographer he can use.

British Tom: How much does he charge?

Me: He's about $350 for about 370-some pictures.

British Tom: Oh! OH! I don't know if I can justify the EXPENSE.

And at the moment, I rolled my eyes, and did my best to keep quiet. Asshole, it's YOUR FUCKING CAREER. Things have changed. New headshots are a BUSINESS EXPENSE -- write them off. He's an example of the typical Hollywood pseudoplayer -- loves the idea of doing all the glamorous Hollywood things, but actually balks at the realities of doing a career here. This town is full of him, in male and female forms, and I try to avoid all of them. I half-heartedly try to explain this to him, and then he excuses himself to go flirt with some girls at the bar.

At 9:10, after half of the people around us are almost done with their entrees, our food arrives. My fries? Cold. My steak? Lukewarm. The waitress argues with Tom, saying he didn't order the vegetarian plate when he did. She finally acquiesces. Now, here's another thing that's really chafing my hide. The service is horrible. Yes, we're a large party taking up a majority of the tables in the restaurant. But, it's Saturday night. If we weren't there, shouldn't they be expecting/hoping the tables to be full since it's the busiest night of the week for the restaurant business? Tom and I chow through our food so we can leave.

I get our check, and with the pen given to me to sign my credit card receipt, I take one of the cocktail napkins and write down my photographer's name and website address to give to British Tom. As we're leaving, I swing by British Tom and give him the napkin, explaining who's on it.

British Tom [with two girls wearing knocked off Dolce & Gabbana in tow]: Oh. [He sniffs the napkin] These napkins here are so smelly, so chemical-ly. I don't know; I don't think this photographer is going to be any good. [sniffs napkin] I'm going to have the association of smelly napkin-smelly photographer.

WHAT THE FUCK? Asshole, I'm trying to help you out. I really like Rex a lot, so I'm trying to do you a solid 'cause of him, and you go shitting all over the nice thing I'm trying to do for you. I didn't HAVE TO do this, I didn't HAVE TO be nice to you, I didn't HAVE TO do you a favor. If you don't want this, just fucking say so. Well, this was all interior monologue. I just merely look at him and said this:

Me: You go to his website, you look at his pictures. You tell ME if they're smelly.

His arm candy laughs and giggles at my comment, and Tom and I leave. The highlight of the whole night was Tom and I watching a rerun of SNL. I can tell you one thing: I'm never going back to that restaurant ever again.