I was delivering a script over the hill (killing trees and generating about 31 pounds of carbon dioxide).
The actor’s house was in Venice, and I could literally smell the ocean breeze wafting through my open car window (with gas prices what they are, I sure as hell can’t afford to use the air conditioning).
Anyway, it was 70 and sunny, as it always is in Los Angeles, the palm trees were swaying in the breeze, and I just couldn’t help myself.
I played hooky.
I wasn’t out for long, maybe twenty minutes. Just enough time to squish some sand between my toes and dip my feet in the ocean.
It’s one of the few joys afforded to PAs and not the higher ups. I knew I wasn’t going to see the UPM or EP out there.
It probably doesn’t sound like a big deal, but I spend twelve hours a day sitting at a desk. Seeing the Pacific stretch on forever, I was able to remind myself that it’s just a TV show, and none of it really matters.
Then I got a phone call telling me I had to drive to fucking Culver City. Thanks a lot, universe.
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