Hot Points.

Yesterday was fun, today was frustrating.



Yesterday I began the day laying on a porch in the sun, looking down on Silverlake while the sun warmed my body. I then headed to the LA Zine Fest, making a quick stop at a swap meet down the street first. I was literally the only white person in the swap meet, which is still a little novel to me. I don't think I ever went anywhere in Portland where there were 1,000+ people and I was the only white person. I paid a dollar to get in and another dollar for a fresh coconut to drink from. The woman gouged a hole in it with the butt end of a plastic fork, inserted a straw and handed it to me. Sadly, there was nothing else I wanted to buy but if you've never walked around a public place drinking from a coconut, your shirt half-open down your chest I suggest you try it. You'll feel pretty good.

The Zine Fest was all I wanted it to be. I sought out cool-looking people and talked to them about all their amazing work. I was actually in a headspace to be friendly which, for some reason, I haven't really been before when dealing with zines. The Portland zine community has always seemed so insular and twee and self-satisfied to me. It's probably my own personal hangups and insecurities but I just never jived much with most of what I saw people were doing. Yesterday, though, I saw a bunch of rad stuff and found three and a half different artists/publishers that I like and admire, talked to them and made contact for whatever it's worth. Tomorrow I'm gonna email them and talk about the future: collaborations? a reprint of my coloring book? so many possibilities!

After that I had band practice with the band Max and Patrick started which left me pretty tired and irritated. It was at Grant's amazing converted warehouse-house and only the second time we've practiced as a five-piece. I'm playing analog synths, which I'm pretty ignorant about, so that's a shaky start. Plus they're Max's synths so I don't know them very well, I only took one to the space and it was the glitchiest, most temperamental of them (though the coolest sounding) and I was playing through an amp I've never used in a room I've never played in. That said, it's fun to play music again and I definitely think people are going to like this band. The songs get stuck in my head wicked easy and we've definitely got a good chemistry.

All that feeling stupid and helpless from the synth playing carried over into today. It was my second time volunteering on a film set out here and I sure ate a lot of humble pie. I was "hired" as an art PA but they were full up so I was put on G&E again. That's cool because I picked up some lighting and electric know-how on the last set and so I'm building on a knowledge base but most of what my job involved was people asking me to get things that I didn't know what they were then fumbling to set them up. At least, among the three G&E volunteers, I was the most enthusiastic, fastest and, unexpectedly, the most knowledgeable. Still, I'd end up getting bored from standing around and/or frustrated with being the person who doesn't know what they're doing and sulk off to look at my phone while tape was rolling.

I think the feeling of being out of my depth and useless is heightened on the first day of shooting. If I'd been on set the other two days and built relationships with people and learned their specific wants and needs and lingo things would have been more copacetic. I think 50% of learning to work crew is just knowing what all the industry terms for objects and phrases mean. There's actually no list I can find on the internet that even has half of them (though many lists full of other film terms I don't know). I started to my own mental list today of some of the terms I need to keep in my head:

• Apple/Apple Box/Full Apple: a box with no apples in it
• Half Apple/Quarter Apple: smaller boxes apples couldn't fit into
• Pancake: unfortunately just a very flat version of these empty boxes
• Inky: a small spotlight
• Barn Door: black doors for lights that open more like a Predator mouth than a barn door. They should be called Predator Mouths.
• Scrim: mesh things that go in front of lights. Past simple tense: scram. Past participle: scrum.
• Flag: a black piece of fabric of which there are a gazillion different varieties and sizes. One of them is called a "floppy" because it's floppy. The black fabric is called something like "divutine" but I can't find that term in any spelling on the internet. Other small flags are called "cutters" or "siders", depending, I think, on size and placement. Mostly people say "Get me a twelve-by" and then you have to get them a flag that's twelve-by-something-you're-supposed-to-know.
• Bounce: a white piece of card that reflects light, softly
• C-Stand: a stand that almost every lighting-related thing goes on. Not, however, shaped like a C.
• Crafty: a name for craft services (the job and the area) that everyone uses but sounds silly to me
• Gator Clamp: a clamp that looks like a gator
• Abby Singer: second-to-last shot of the day. 
• Martini: last shot of the day (because the next shot will be in a martini glass, har har har)
• Stinger: a power cable with an undeservedly cool name
• "Points!": I'm carrying something through here!
• "Hot Points!": I'm carrying something hot through here!
• "Fly these out of here": move this shit somewhere else
• "Kill that": put that shit away
• "Wrap that": put that shit away

The thing is, making that list I kept thinking of things I saw that I don't know the names of. Oh my goodness. At least I'm learning a lot; probably more than I would if I took a class. And who knows where it'll lead. Trying to keep my chin up and keep saying yes to things even if I feel like a fool doing them. Maybe feeling like a fool is a sign that you're learning.

Forward.

So much to catch up on! Let's start with this song by Skip Spence from an album I discovered in high school but never connected with. Years later Skip makes a lot more sense to me.



Confidence, persistence, bravery, faith, stamina - these are my watchwords right now as I'm looking for work. I had a job interview yesterday for a full-time office job which is promising but what is really stoking my fire right now is the shoot I participated in over the weekend. When I'm working crew on a film set - working freelance in any capacity, really - everything just feels like it clicks into place. I don't want the security of an office if I can sell myself from project to project, working with awesome, talented people to achieve their vision. Then some day achieving one of mine... The biggest stressor I have right now is the uncertainty of how to start getting freelance PA work. I guess I just gotta keep getting out there and keep saying Yes to everything.

Speaking of which, I'm trying to put lots of energy into the different pots I've got on the stove. I sometimes wonder if I busy myself with so many things because I'm afraid of committing to one and getting sucked in and stuck (probably why I'm scared of an office job, too). LA is such a self-centered place because everyone is selling themselves and I think I say that from a place without judgement. We're all so driven and hungry to make some sort of deeply personal dream come true. It's beautiful and inspiring and it's why I moved out here but those dreams take interpersonal connections. And that creates a weird social culture where every human interaction is being weighed and assessed by what one person can get from the other. And that feels yucky.

It also creates a culture of people talking a lot without really having conversations. I chatted on the phone with my mom yesterday and I heard myself spouting the same dialogue I keep finding myself on the receiving end of out here: what am I trying to do professionally and personally; how it's coming; people I've met who can help me with it; people I've met who can't; oh yeah, and how are you? It's gross to just unload on someone; it's selfish to just use them as a sounding board. I guess when you're in your head so much it's like you need a pressure release valve but it's definitely something to be aware of.

I'm really pumped at the idea of making music out here. There's so much potential for it. While out in Santa Monica last week I walked along the rainy pier thinking about the cultural differences between New York and LA. I decided NYC is like a grand, forceful object; a rolling, cultural snowball. LA is a cultural void, constantly devouring itself. NYC has an overabundance of culture and history; it's personality assaults you from every street corner. People like me move out there and do things and those things become a part of NEW YORK CITY.

On the other hand, people like me move to LA and the things they do remain theirs. LA rejects its own culture and history, recycling and paving it over. It's one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world yet the city feels supremely uncomfortable and unsatisfied with itself; a wallflower smiling behind a facelift.

That's not to say the people are unsatisfied with themselves. I think a lot of folks out here pride themselves and being a place where things are happening and on being people who make them happen but their connection to the city itself is minimal. LA and its sprawling emptiness is viewed as a cipher for greater things beyond it. Compare that to how New Yorkers see NYC as the be-all/end-all, the Greatest City in the World.

When I was in Santa Monica I met with a woman my cousin Josh introduced me to who runs a bar out there. In about a month I'm going to play an acoustic show at her spot and I'm pretty psyched about it. Even sooner I'm doing one at Hotel Cafe, which is a singer-songwriter hub I guess. Not sure if I'm going to keep the moniker of The Robinson Age or be Dave Bow of The Robinson Age (implying that you should have heard of my last band). Probably the latter.

Trying to record a new EP with my super talented friends Max and Miles for a new project with a new name I've got gestating. Slow going cuz of schedule differences. Also officially playing synth in Max's primary project which doesn't have a name yet but has some shows lined up at The Smell and other prestigious LA venues. That's exciting if frustrating because of all the personal dreams I'm waiting on, just bubbling up in the background.

Besides looking for work and making music I've also gotten a creative jolt in my art. Returned to ink and watercolors and feel really good about it. Starting making self-portraits (oh how fucking fitting), which is something I've never felt comfortable doing before. I feel really good about them and maybe I'll have an OK portfolio shop around to galleries in the coming month.

And while we're on pipe dreams, Kevin and I have started a sitcom spec script that we're planning on shooting. Plus the house is hosting a show on Friday for my roommates' band. I've been consuming much less movies/TV than I was in Portland (which feels awesome) and have been reading another Robertson Davies book, What's Bred in the Bone. Whenever I've felt adrift in the past few years his books have always righted me and put things in perspective. They're books about achievers and dreamers presented with warmth, wit and a humble humanity that always makes me feel grounded and makes dreams feel achievable, even if they manifest themselves in ways you never would have expected. Confidence, persistence, bravery, faith, stamina.

Wrong Guy.

On Monday I received a most unexpected call. I'd applied for a runner position with a big recording studio down here with several branches. I had a few friends who'd worked with them so I thought I might have a chance at getting in on the ground level but the woman on the phone was talking like I was an important person. In fact she was seeing if I was able to come in and engineer a session! What? Me? I mean, I have some experience with this stuff but these people had never met me. They'd never even emailed me a response to my runner inquiry! This was all happening so fast!

Woman: Hi David, this is [important studio].
Me: What? Oh, hi!
Woman: I don't know if you'd noticed but we put your profile up on our website.
Me: Um... no, I didn't notice that... [pulling up the website to see what she's talking about]
Woman: There's a session in a couple of weeks, a 17-year-old girl is laying down some pop vocals. She saw your profile and requested you. The pay is $25 an hour. Are you available?
Me: Well... sure, but I've never been in the studio before. Which one is it?
Woman: It'll be in Studio A.
Me: [wondering what I'd thought that question would answer] OK, well I don't know if I'd feel comfortable getting paid for a session if I have no experience with the board. Is there any way I could familiarize myself with the studio before the session?
Woman: Sure, why don't you come in Wednesday morning and I'll show you around?

Clearly this was madness or providence. Or both. I knew I was in over my head but if I could get a passing knowledge of the studio itself - what equipment they have, what plugs into what, etc. - I could probably engineer a pop vocal session. I mean, tracking vocals just requires a good mic, a preamp, a compressor if you want it and some patience. I'd just spend the next couple of weeks re-familiarizing myself with ProTools, get a cheat sheet of some hot keys and walk tall like I knew what I was doing. For all I know this is a Rebecca Black situation - I bet this girl's parents just bought a shmancy session for their pop-star wannabe daughter and no one will even know the difference. And if I screw up... well, I can't be double-unemployed.

So I braved rush hour traffic this morning in what felt like an inaugural sally into the ranks of working Los Angeles. The studio sits near Hollywood and Vine, imposing behind its wrought-iron gate and non-descriptiveness. The buildings around it scream for the attention of passers-by but this place is clearly a Members Only club. I try the door and press the intercom. Though I can't really hear the voice on the other end over the noise of the street it doesn't sound like I'm expected.

After some back and forth they buzz me into a lobby, all modernist furniture and gold records. The woman behind the desk is confused. Why am I here? I was told to come check out the studio, I tell her. I have a session in a couple of weeks. "Yes, I know," she says, "I set up the session."

Before things can get completely Kafkaesque it becomes clear that this woman had actually scheduled the session with an actual engineer over email but had made the initial phone call to me, not realizing we weren't the same person. You seeee, she thought I was Dave Dominguez, who made his name engineering Papa Roach's Infest and Staind's Break the Cycle. He also engineered Guns n' Roses' Chinese Democracy, Tupac (posthumously, I'm guessing) and, most impressively, Weezer's Pinkerton.

That is not me. I have never engineered Pinkerton and I would've felt stupid standing there but I just smiled and nodded because it all made more sense than what had previously seemed to be happening. Upon realizing her mistake the woman came and gave me a hug, which wasn't exactly what I needed at that moment but a nice gesture, I guess.

"Do you have any runner positions?" I asked. "I, uh... went to school for this stuff and I've worked in a studio before." She promised she'd put my resume at the top of the pile. And I'm calling that progress!

Cosmos.

Like Jules in Pulp Fiction I'm in a contemplative and transitional period today. Last couple of days of unemployment limbo have weighed on me sort of heavy and I needed to shake them off.

Yesterday I did that late in the day. My flu is still hiding in the back of my throat and I feel like all the progress I'd made from running every day has been nullified by these weeks of nothing. I dispelled my blues in a common way: spending money I shouldn't. I went to Amoeba and bought the new Tomahawk album (was all ready to buy in on vinyl but had to settle for a CD, which feels silly nowadays). Listened to it this morning and was underwhelmed. Muddy production and listless songs but... what's done is done.

After my trip to Amoeba I went to Trader Joe's to finally buy some more groceries. I came away with what I thought was a healthy bounty of food that's easy to prepare and was alarmingly cheap. I guess that's why people go there. Frozen Indian food is nowhere near as satisfying as a home-cooked meal but it was a situation I came out on top of. Plus the parking lot tried to charge me $2.50 to park there for a half an hour but fortunately(?) my card wouldn't work at the gate and the robot just lifted the gate for free. I basked in my small victory.

Came home and went with Max and Kathryne to a local show. Max and I discussed our mutual response of standing in the audience thinking how much better a show we could put on. We talked about the "scene" here and how undercooked it feels, like a half-done pie. It was a good moment.

Had a series of long and frightening dreams about the end of the world. I saw the apocalypse and I cleaned up after it. Then I prepared myself for the next phase of existence and wondered if I had everything I needed. Woke up unnerved.

Plans for today fell through but I finally got some recording done. Drove out to Griffith Park, got stoned and hiked up the trail. Think I looked like a strung-out greaseball in my leather jacket and Chucks to all the trail-runners but I didn't care. Took the time to contemplate my next move and dictate plans and affirmations to my phone to email to myself later. The sun set and I looked out at all the shimmering lights - they actually shimmer in the smog and heat and whatever, it's beautiful - and I felt better. Think I need to reevaluate my relationship with failure and my fear of dealing with disappointment. Think I need to be less lazy and driven by my perception of how I'm seen. Think failure is a self-fulfilling prophecy when you don't think of it as a step to eventual success. Think I know what I want and what I need and it's not going to come through a regular job. Divorce the two but get a job (1) that helps make in-roads where I want to go (2). Believe in yourself and stop fighting your stupid dreams.

When you feel like a bum it's good to go somewhere that makes you feel small. All the other bums in the city were smiling back at me and everything felt closer to OK.

I decided to catch a planetarium show since it was closed the last time I came up. Holy smokes that was the best idea I've had in forever. I ended up sitting between a group of teenagers and their cool-mom (Lisa) as I watched the universe unfold in immersive but rudimentary computer graphics. For whatever reason the soundtrack is prerecorded but the narration is done live by a smirking, silver fox who carried a little lamp a la Dean Stockwell in Blue Velvet. In a patient, self-satisfied voice he explained spacetime to the teenagers and I as if talking us down from some hysterical ledge. No, the world didn't end on December 21st, 2012 and it may not end for thousands of years, he said. It's all part of the cosmic cycle of death and rebirth. Spent the whole production with my mouth open in awe and kitschy pleasure. Again, I felt more at peace with my insignificance.

At pizza and kale salad and watched Pulp Fiction for the first time since high school. Ready and waiting for the next phase of the cycle.