Hazing on the hit TV show House

I usually work on reality shows, just because there tend to be more of them and are easier to get on, but every once in a while I’ll get a stint on a scripted show.  As an aspiring writer, I cherish these moments just because they seem to come right before reality sucks my soul completely void of all zest for life.  Last summer I had the pleasure of filling in for a friend of mine on “House” for a month as the set building department’s Production Assistant.

It was a pretty rad gig, my bosses were fun and I basically spent all day laughing at the half-hearted, harmless advances of a bunch of married construction guys…TEAMSTERS! My favorites!  Personally, I would like to see teamster culture overtake the current hipster trend. Why wear skinny jeans and big sunglasses when paint covered Dickies and baggy Bud Light t-shirts with torn breast pockets are all the rage?  It always amazes me that no matter where you are, a teamster will say “hello gorgeous” in a Brooklyn accent.

I’ve always been the kind of girl that becomes “one of the guys” pretty easily, and am luckily used to a little hazing as the newbie.  So on my second day there, Danny, the “Grip Gang Boss” (how SWEET of a title is that?!?! I feel like it should come with a coin to flip ominously) came in and told me it looked like someone had scratched the hell out of my car. I didn’t believe him at first, rolling my eyes and laughing him off, but he was persistent about it and looked pretty concerned, so I got anxious and walked out…  I’m talking to him and then I see it - a giant 6 foot long, 1/2″ wide scratch down the side of my car, to the metal.

I started cursing like the dirty sailor that I am, walking down the ramp to get to my car, Danny following. As I got closer, I could almost see the bill adding up for my car. Cringing, I felt the scratch to see just how bad the damage was…

It was fucking paint tape that they had thinly ripped and lightly tinted grey and red so it looked like a deep gash. Ridiculously impressive looking, these guys were talented.

The next day, I got the following phone call:

Me: House Construction, this is Brandie.
Guy with heavy Indian accent: Yes, is this House construction?
Me: Yes.
Guy: I need you to build me a house.
Me: I’m sorry sir, this is the televisi-
Guy: Money is no problem, but I need a house. In a week. I pay you anything you want. You build me house. In one week.
Me: Sir, this is a TV Show about a pill popping doctor NAMED House… we don’t build actual houses here.
Guy: But you say “House Construction” - you build me house or you liar.

At this point I laughed and figured it had to be a prank call… that damn Grip Gang Boss was at it again, he had gotten me twice now!

But victory would be mine, because of a little game they liked to play called “Paycheck Poker”, which is basically five card draw with the last 3 digits of your check number and the 2 digits of change in your paycheck. The last digit of the date is the wild card, and whoever has the best hand, wins 10 bucks from everyone playing.

I was only there long enough to play once, but when I did, I totally won $150.

Take that, teamsters.

Elvis Lives, A Little Part of Me Dies

My very first steady TV gig was a sketch comedy show for NBC called “Thank God You’re Here”. I went to college (Drexel University represent!) with the creators’ Executive Assistant, so just goes to show, making friends and networking definitely pays off. The show is originally Australian, so when it was time to shoot, we had the two Australian Producers in town for the tapings to make sure we didn’t fuck up their baby. It was a dream job, I got to geek out over different comedic icons coming on the show every week, and everyone on the crew was fantastic. I wish it had gotten picked up, I loved every minute of it… except for one nerve-wracking incident.

About a week or so into the gig, the Aussies’ regular PA driver had to call out for an emergency and I was given the privilege of being their personal driver and driving them all over town in a brand new SUV. Black. Tinted windows. 245.7 miles, total. No plates. This is the car that you see coming and you know it’s either someone REALLLLLLLLY important or the baddest drug dealer in town. (You don’t hear it because this car is virtually silent when it’s running… gotta love that green movement!).

Now imagine me driving it, in a tacky t-shirt and torn jeans. With a giant belt buckle. I am a classy lady.

I pick up my Aussies at Barney’s where they’ve been buying jeans and lotions for their wives back in Australia and jokingly say, “So, what’d you get me?” One was amused and laughed, the other, did not. I dub the unamused one, Angry Ben Kingsley. Because he was bald and looked like Ben Kingsley. And didn’t think I was funny. He sat up front.

So I drive them back to their hotel and they drop off their bags and make some phone calls and then I take them over to the studio, making small talk. But Angry Ben Kingsley interrupts me and my friendly Aussie Exec in the back seat and says loudly, “I will need 20 minutes of utter, complete silence for meditation. Please, do not talk. Thank you.” And he closes his eyes, lowers his head and folds his hands. I thought immediately to silence my cell phone and go for it in the center console, but -

It’s touching his leg.

To risk going for it would mean I could possibly brush against ABK’s leg, jarring him from his meditation and having to explain why exactly I was caressing his leg… thereby almost certainly incurring a wrath I don’t even want to think about. The windows are tinted and I think the car is soundproof, no one would see or hear me scream.

So I chose to drive from Beverly Hills up through Hollywood in this all-encompassing, terrible, terrible silence, alternating my severe anxiety between the horror that is LA traffic and the horror that would be my phone going off in the car and ruining ABK’s meditation session. My stress level was through the roof, because I even posted a bulletin that morning on myspace saying that it was my day off and people should call me.

Well I’m glad no one likes me enough to call me, because thankfully the 20 minutes ended, without my phone going off. I was sweating bullets as we pulled up at a stop light next to the Hollywood museum when Angry Ben Kingsley lifted his head and read the billboard to his right.

The first words I heard after 20 minutes of silence were in an Australian accent.

“Elvis Presley’s bathrobe has a peanut butter stain, does it? Huh.”

We finished the drive to the studio without incident.

Tires of the Vanities in Hollywood

I want to talk for a minute about vanity license plates out here in Hollywood.  Everyone’s got them, they’ve become as much a status symbol in as the BMW’s and Mercedes that people lease to look successful.  I’ve noticed a trend recently though among my fellow production people:  vanity plates related to their jobs on set.  In the last 2 months I have seen the following around town:

LA  EDTR
MOOVSTR
FLMMKR
HT   EXEC
FLMDRTR
SCRNWRTR

And my favorite:  IMDB ME.  You would think after spending the money on the plate, they would think about maybe displaying their name somewhere on the vehicle.  Nope.  I can only hope the guy driving was one of those crazy movie extras that comes to set with handwritten rambling scripts for the Lead Actors to read… which I am then given to dispose of…  and when I say dispose of, I mean I take them home to amuse myself when I’m feeling down on my own writing…  at least I can spell, and don’t do final drafts in crayon.

Whatever though, as long as IMDB ME isn’t someone I end up working for someday…  it can be hard enough to feign respect for someone who’s an egomaniac, but it’s near impossible for someone whose a stupid egomaniac.

I personally would love to go get a vanity plate done for MY Hollywood occupation.  What would it say?

PROD ASS

I’d be a hit in West Hollywood.

Introducing Brandie! (What A Fine Girl)

On November 10th, 1995, I watched Jim Carrey fall out of a rhino’s ass, and it changed my life forever. Stop rolling your eyes and judging me like my pretentious film school professors. Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls is my most influential movie of all time, it was the first time I can actually remember laughing until I cried. It was my epiphany, I wanted to help bring that kind of joy to other people’s lives… and now I’m starting to live that dream, being a Production Assistant (and sometimes Coordinator) on television and films in Los Angeles. You older, jaded production peeps might scoff at that, but hey, I am loving life in this crazy city.

I’ve been living in Los Angeles for a little over a year now, and during that time I’ve had a two hour heart to heart with Jerry Springer, babysat transvestites so they wouldn’t do drugs on set, watched Patti LaBelle sing live and get paid for the ensuing goosebumps, and been hit on by more teamsters than I can count.

I didn’t come to Los Angeles to be a Production Assistant obviously, but it’s a fantastic way to break into the business, if you don’t want to be an Executive or Personal Assistant. I love being on set and the crazy little odd jobs you get to do as a PA… literally everything under the rainbow. Some people find it to be a demeaning job, but I think of it as a humbling experience that everyone goes through… I don’t ever want to get cocky about succeeding; otherwise you get sloppy and lose sight of the goal. That doesn’t mean people walk all over me, I’ve quit jobs before because of being treated poorly… DON’T be afraid to do it either, because someone else WILL hire you, and respect your spunk.

What do I really want to do? I am a comedy writer, so moving to Los Angeles from Maryland was pretty necessary. I could have done New York, but I much prefer paying $800.00 a month in rent for a decent sized apartment in Hollywood versus a closet in ghetto Brooklyn with a community restroom. Plus, as everyone knows, you can’t beat the weather. Oh, word of caution, DO NOT move to LA if talking about any of the following four things make you uncomfortable/angry:

1. The weather
2. The traffic
3. Cell Phones
4. Cleansing… aka pooping for rich people.

You will not believe how often those topics come up in discussion… I guess it’s just common ground among people out here… Frequently on these gigs you sign onto them and lose any sort of personal/social life, so talking about the new blackberry is just easier than admitting you work for the movies, but don’t have time to SEE any movies.

Not to say that I don’t love freelance though, because I do. I sign onto a 6/8/10 week gig, then take some time off to write fulltime until the next one comes along. Last year I voluntarily only worked 37 weeks out of the year, and the rest was time taken off to work on my own projects… and I still finished out with money in the bank! At first it was scary not knowing where that next paycheck was coming from, but after a few gigs I had enough contacts that liked me that all I have to do now is put out an email that I’m looking for work and I’ve got something within a day or so, it’s great! And I’ve met some great people too, both talent and production-wise.

Anyway, that’s me. Keep reading this blog and I’ll dish out all kind of salacious behind the scenes stories and opinions on everything from celebrity firsthand gossip to rants about the idiots I’ve worked for ::cough cough:: looking at YOU, Deal Or No Deal… for you film students looking to move to Hollywood, I have PLENTY of advice, all of which you should take because I am doing damn well out here for a sweet little girl from Maryland. So stay tuned, I promise to entertain.