Argentina – Travel Vlog

Hi all!!

I always write the same blog lately: “I’ve been gone, sorry, been busy but am coming back and have big things planned…” Well, don’t call me the boy who cried wolf, but I’m BACK and sorry I’ve been gone. Lots of exciting projects in the works and I can’t wait to have more time to write again.

For now, I wanted to show you my latest travel adventures – Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA!

I produced this quick video to document our trip:

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Catsuit Vixen

Originally I meant to chronicle my Hollywood adventures on this site as I experienced them.

That didn’t happen – I was too busy experiencing them!

No matter – now I have a library of shenanigans to jot down. Allow me to proceed:


I enjoy managing talent because I become involved with many of their exciting adventures:

boob jobs, new businesses, public relationship scandals, cheating, lies, awards, wins, rises to fame, falls from grace

Yes, it seems like my life is a daily soap opera in a menagerie of personalities. Of course, often times their foils and fuck ups become my mess to clean up.

For example, I was recently in Hamilton (read: bumfuck) Ohio shooting a new YouTube series with a swath of the world’s largest male personalities on the internet. These guys are 18-22 years old and rich as hell, thanks to YouTube, but they’re boys! How could they not be immature? But what happens when you give immature boys a lot of money? The Justin Bieber effect.

Now when you shoot a series, you have long 12 – 14 hour days, so we wouldn’t get back to our fancy (read: shithole Courtyard Marriott) hotel until 9ish.

In a dilapidated town like Hamilton where only heroin goes to breed, the restaurants and bars close by 9ish.

So without a place to eat dinner or drink beer, I packed a rapper, a Minecraft player, and a man who has made millions off of Pokemon Go into my rented minivan and we caravanned thirty miles until we reached Miami University in Oxford, Ohio.

Miami University students all look a bit inbred and on this, Thirsty Thursday, the only happening club happened to be full of these inbred white folk – all decked in polos and khaki shorts. The theme of the night? Country.

We immediately walk in and glance around. Drunk midwestern girls and EVER SINGLE boy were belting Taylor Swift’s Our Song. The only thing gayer would have been a drag queen orgy.

It was going to take one thousand shots to have my talent (all of whom were from the UK) get into the country groove. Luckily, immature boys with lots of money can buy one thousand shots.

So he did. My minecrafter purchased one thousand shots of fireball for the entire bar, which consisted of 90% under-agers.

The bar smells like trash, farts, and shit – so I’m mostly just trying not to suffocate when I look over and notice some girl eyeing my rapper. She’s wearing a lumberjack button down over a tank top. Her dark messy hair is pulled into a loose bun and she’s wearing minimal makeup, besides askew winged eyeliner. I can tell she doesn’t know who my rapper is, so I play Emma and match-make.

We pull up the rapper’s twitter and the underage girl’s eye light up brighter than Vegas. His millions of fallers make her melt and suddenly she’s whispering sweet (read: dirty) nothings in his ear.

That’s when I book it home. I tell the guys remaining at the bar to take a cab and wake up for their early call times.

The next morning my 1000-shot Minecrafter is up first, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Shortly after my gamer is down. But my rapper is nowhere in sight!

I call his room. Nothing.

I call again. Nothing.

I call seven more times.


The front desk calls.


Finally i knock on his door a few times.


Defeated, I go back to my room to call him, a groggy, scratchy, British voice answers, “Oh fuck, what is it?”

I answer “Umm, Rapper, your call time is now. Time to get up.”


Click. He hangs up.

I rush back down to his room and knock on his door. Instead of answering it, he answers me from the other side.

“Fine. I’m getting up. Bloody hell. I woke up in my own vomit, man.”

And as soon as he’d finished washing his face, brushing his teeth, and shitting (still talking to me with door closed) he opens his room. A plume of stinky odor emerges and I see his white Versace outfit from the night before piled on the floor and covered in vomit.

The rapper smirks at me sheepishly and digs into his pocket, pulling out a card. I peer closer and notice it’s an Ohio ID. It’s the messy bun girl and it’s clear she’s not only lost her ID but that she was underage at 19.

I kick the rapper’s ass into a car and take him to set, only after picking him up some Pedialite and we head on to shoot a drone racing series for YouTube…


only to head back to Miami University that night where another round of 1,000 shots were bought and served buffet style, messy bun girl became stiletto-cat-suit vixen, and my production crew engaged in: bar fights, burglary, marijuana, and public urination.


I love this industry.

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Courtney Act – Don’t Tell My Mother

I loved this episode.

I’d just come from working with Courtney on RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 6. I was infatuated and believed she was going to win. She didn’t, but she made top 3 and is still an undeniable star.


Courtney was a delight to work with and we hope we can do so again.

Now enjoy this episode of Don’t Tell My Mother where Courtney shares a TRUE story she’d NEVER want her mom to know. This one is called Like a Virgin… 😉

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Mary Lynn Rajskub – Don’t Tell My Mother

I LOVE Mary Lynn – Every time she comes to our stage, she’s just so effortlessly cool.

Last time I saw her, she greeted me with this buttery-melting personality – it destroyed my usual awkward anxiety. Plus, she’s just a damn good storyteller.

Check out her story here about a terrible roommate situation:



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The Agency – Chapter 2

Hi Friend.

Losing my first internship ignited something in me – a burning yearning. I wanted to prove Entertainment Now wrong and show them how successful I could be. I was determined to nab a replacement internship immediately.

Jez trudged into the kitchen around 7 a.m. that morning, surprised to see me fully dressed. Warily ,she furrowed her brow and said, “You were fired. You are officially unemployed. What are you doing up so early?”

“Thanks for that perfectly stated reminder,” we exchanged knowing glances before I winked and continued, “A paid entertainment gig doesn’t just fall out of thin air, Jez. I had a dream stolen from me yesterday.”

Jez craned over the counter and yawned as she hovered over my coffee. “I remember. So why are you so happy and perky today then?”

“I’m going to steal that dream back. I’m going to get a new internship. I won’t be broken down in one swing. Maybe, this slight speed bump is part of my story.”

I stared at Jez who was still sniffing my freshly brewed cup of Joe. I didn’t want any of her more of her morning breath germs, so I snatched the mug off the counter with a kick of sass, and continued, “Oh, and I discovered coffee.”

Jez shook her head and laughed. She was the only girl I could be this kooky around without feeling judged. I love the vulnerable intimacy we shared. It was an intimacy that was built quick with sturdy bricks but would require much force and time to break apart.

Jez pushed herself up, “So I take it you’re going to do it? You’re going to take the temp interview?”

I beamed proudly, “I’m going to do it.”

“What about all your protests?”

“Protests?” I asked, my chin cocked towards the sky.

Jez rolled her eyes and taunted, “No, Jez. Don’t hack into that agency’s calendar. Don’t delete some poor girl’s interview and replace it with one for me. It’s not right! What about all THAT?”

I shrugged, “You did it anyway, might as well take advantage of the situation.”

Jez smiled proudly, “I thought you would do as much, that’s why I didn’t listen to you, it was in your best interest. So remember, your one day at Entertainment Now has to have been at least a six month stint, got it?”

“And you’re sure the temp agency won’t check into my references to uhh, I don’t know, confirm?”

Jez smacked her lips together, “Girl, you’re sitting down with some employee who is not there out of passion. He or she just wants to get through the day and get a paycheck. Hell no they don’t care about your references. You just need to ace that interview.”

I carefully sipped my coffee and reflected.

This was my opportunity for redemption. Maybe I could get a new internship before my school even found out I’d ever lost the first. That was the plan, at least.

As I rushed out the door, I glanced back and whistled to Jez. She whistled in return and shot her thumbs in the sky, calling out, “You can do it!”


The We Can Do It! Hiring agency had the same sullied carpet and flickering fluorescent lights since it opened its doors in 1986. The coarse, cigarette-stained voice of the administrator gritted, “Fill this out, sweetie, I’ll call you when an agent is ready.” Her hair was wiry and red. Lipstick smudges stained her crooked smile. Her skin was leathery and makeup was caked in the many, wrinkled valleys of her cheeks.

I imagined this woman as a doe-eyed twenty-two year old sitting down at that desk for the very first time in the eighties and lighting a cigarette, only to find she was wafting in the same brand’s fumes, at the same desk, thirty years later.

There were other interviewees already sitting down in the many plastic chairs lining the waiting room. One by one I watched them all placed with friendly recruiters until I was the only one left. Three Judge Judy episodes later, the receptionist croaked, “Honey Butter, you’re going to interview with Chris. He’s at the desk in the very back.”

I was ushered to the final desk in the farthest third row. I’m not going to lie, that coiled stomach, nervous feeling arose again. Why is “no” such a scary word?

Chris Heinz squeezed like a bulbous puffer fish into his restrictive desk chair. Rolls of skin and fat hung over his armrest. A forty-eight ounce drink rested on his mouse pad next to an oily burger wrapper and a tub of artichoke cream cheese dip.

When I sat across from him at his desk, or I assumed it was a desk, though it looked like he was using it as a cafeteria line, Chris was inhaling a turkey-bacon sandwich on a crescent roll. A thick goop of mustard launched at his shirt as he handled the meal and demanded, “Where’s your resume?”

He rifled through my application papers with his grubby hands.

I shuffled in my chair uncomfortably. Resume? I left it at the apartment! Of course I’d need a resume. Why wouldn’t I need a resume? You know what type of person gets jobs and internships? People with resumes.

My face flushed. “I actually don’t have a resume.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “This is what they give me? I have a quota to fill, Missy. How can I fill that if you can’t even complete the first step to landing a job? Step one, bring your resume. It’s not rocket science, sheesh. You pretty girls think the world will just hand you everything.”

I blushed at being called pretty.

Chris, now sweating from the exhaustion, grabbed a handful of Ruffles, soaking each one in a heavy glob of cream cheese.

In between chomps and mouthfuls of food, Chris said. “I’m this close to being fired, you know.” Chris pinched his greasy thumb towards his cheesy index finger. “I need to start filling some jobs. Do you have any skills? Any experience?”

My face lit up. “Yes! I’m smart, organized, and driven, despite what this initial gaffe might indicate. I’m a quick learner and know office software well. I recently interned at Entertainment Now – as a producer’s shadow.”

Chris interrupted. “Entertainment Now?!? Now THAT’s something. I can get you a job with an Entertainment Now on your resume. What do you want to do?”

I managed to refrain from admitting I’d only been at EN for one day. One day was enough to learn I didn’t want entertainment journalism as a career, so I said, “I just want to do something in entertainment.”

Chris rolled his eyes once more and shot me a very judging eye, sighing, “Entertainment. Figures.”

I really didn’t like Chris.

Not because he was a misogynistic pig (literal sense of the word pig of course) but because Chris automatically assumed I wanted to work in the broad sphere of ‘entertainment’ because of its glitz and glamour – or at least I projected him to hold these thoughts. There was something in his tone when he mentioned the whole pretty thing. His smug manner indicated he assumed I was a gold-digging airhead. That’s what it had to be, right?

But just to clarify, that is so not the case. I decided that after eating his chips, his burger, and his tub of cream cheese, I’d make him eat his words. I’d show him I didn’t want to ride on the industry’s coattails. I would become an industry powerhouse from my own work ethic and success. Then, years after this interview, after I’d already made it and he’d forgotten who I was, that would show him.

As I reflected on him, Chris reflected on me, evaluating for a moment as he seemingly contemplated over his options. He lowered his voice, “You’re sweet. I can tell. A bit pathetic, so unaware and in need of help, but sweet. Maybe we can help each other out.”

He looked around to make sure no one was listening. The other eleven job seekers were professionally interviewing with their agents. The scenes were buttoned-up and corporate, a stark juxtaposition from the scene where I’d found myself.

Chris continued, “There’s this job we can’t seem to fill or keep filled. It’s a new entertainment agency that’s seeking a temp assistant – three months. It’s an odd one. There’s not much face-to-face interaction and the work itself seems pretty dry – a lot of reading and writing recaps. But it’s entertainment. If you take that job and keep it until completion, the company sets you up with a week to shadow its CEO. This would be a huge win for the temp agency and it would be ME who filled the spot.”

My lips stretched to both ears, I was brimming with excitement.

Before applying for internships, I used to spend all my time at the Barnes and Noble bookstore, reading everything about the industry. I was too broke to buy the books, so reading them in the store sufficed for me. During one of these reading sessions, I learned that agency internships are extremely hard to come by unless the candidate knows someone already working in the industry. Whether it was serendipity or just dumb luck, I once again couldn’t believe an industry internship fell in my lap.

I stood up and cheered, “I’ll take it!”

A slight moment passed. Chris didn’t share in the enthusiasm and I began to feel stupid standing there. I smoothed out the wrinkles from my pleated pants and sat back down.

Chris droned, “Good. I’ll email you the location and information later. For now, I want you to go home and study up on all your office software – try and make it look like you know what you’re doing.  The pay is $10 an hour – not much, but better than an unpaid internship.”

I nodded and said, “Absolutely. I’ll study all night and look for your email. Thank you so much!”

In my excitement I jumped up and hugged a surprised Chris. In doing so, a goop of mustard transferred to my teal blouse but I chose to ignore it.

I flittered down the row of desks towards We Can Do It’s front door and before swinging them open with great élan, I turned around to wave goodbye to my benefactor.


But Chris and his desk of food were no longer there.

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The Agency – Chapter 1

Hi guys.


I wrote a book, which I think is AWESOME, but after pitching to nearly every agent I feel is a fit, I’m getting no interest. Well, while waiting for agents to respond, ANOTHER genius novel idea came to me and I HAVE to begin writing this. But The Agency is definitely on pause.

The Agency follows Emma Martinez as she begins her internship at a new boutique talent agency. Before long, strange occurrences force Emma to question the legitimacy and true intentions of the firm. After some investigating and a little help from new-found friends within theAgency‘s walls, Emma learns the CEO is a fairy queen who is using The Agency‘s talent to brainwash society into becoming her consumerist slaves. Emma realizes only she can stop this evil plan – all while balancing a scholarship, best friend drama, and the scary new world of dating.

Some of you may have read a version of this before BUT I wanted to put it here just in case. Would love your comments / feedback! Enjoy chapter 1:


Book Cover



Chapter 1

Hi Friend,


I’m calling you that because I don’t know your name and writing “friend” helps me feel like I’m not messaging a stranger.


I don’t normally leave letters behind for individuals I don’t know, but this exercise is mostly for my own benefit. I need to process what went down at The Agency. I also need to know someone knows about what happened to me.


It started the way any story would –  at the beginning. My beginning was on the first day of my first internship, when I left that unflappable Latina teenager behind and dove into the scary abyss known as #adulting.


As my dumpy Honda carved its way through the Hollywood Hills, a tinted Oldsmobile trailed closely behind. This wasn’t your irresponsible L.A. driver who was scrolling through his or her Instagram feed and following too closely. This wasn’t some granny driver who couldn’t see that her bumper was about to put its name to use. This wasn’t a near-sighted person without glasses, either.


This driver was different. This driver zeroed in on his target. This driver was spying. Had I known the implications of this little and hugely important fact at the time, I probably would have pursued every tactic to ditch my pursuer.


But playing the role of Ignorant Annie so perfectly, I dialed up my speakers’ volumes and blasted thrashing drums to help tune out the troublesome scraping noise of grinding metal my car was wont to make. You see, that noise meant my Honda would have to visit the auto shop soon and even with the discount Pablo gets me, I still didn’t have disposable cash to be spending on repairs. So I increased the sound level until I could tune anything out: honking horns, that irksome grating, and apparently stalker Oldsmobiles.


So I obliviously carried on, with my window all the way down, wind whisking through loose waves of thick hair. Feeling like a rock star, I nodded my head to the song’s beat. You wouldn’t know the band. It was frighteningly early in the morning and I hadn’t had my Rocket Fuel energy drink yet, so I appreciated the rock music and cool air’s caffeinating effect.


Bile swilled in my stomach, along with a jittery nervous feeling that only swelled as I handed the nice geriatric security guard my ID and he granted me access to the Entertainment Now studio lot – where I was about to begin my first internship.


Whoa, whoa, whoa. I know what you’re thinking:

What happened to that Oldsmobile? You just caught my attention.


Well, have patience. My stalker will be right back in the mix of things soon enough, adding surprises to my life as if he were making a smorgasbord stew.


For now, I was navigating my way through the sleepy Tinseltown, all the while mulling over the anxiety and excitement bubbling in my stomach.   Eventually I found a giant parking structure where I proudly stationed my tin can-on-wheels in between an Audi and Tesla and scurried towards the Entertainment Now hangar.



Before entering, I ducked into the alleyway behind the studio and gazed into my compact’s mirror, taking time for a reflective moment.


I was nervous, nervous enough that I could feel my palms sweating profusely and dreaded the moment I’d shake my first colleague’s hand. After fishing around in my oversized purse, I popped a couple Tums, took a deep breath and pulled open the glass door of Entertainment Now.


This was it.


Inside the surprisingly small and dated lobby, a perky receptionist greeted me, “Welcome to Entertainment Now! May I ask whom you are here to see?


I gleaned the receptionist’s name from the placard affixed to the desk: LUCY.


Lucy’s bright blue eyes looked like sugar dot candies. Her hair was the color of cornhusks and a candy-shell coated her voice so that it was sickly sweet. She reminded me of a baby doll and immediately annoyed me.


Leaning over her desk, I said, “I’m new and it’s my first day. Donna’s training me.”


“Donna’s the internship supervisor and a producer here. Hold on.”


Lucy tapped the phone board quickly and sang into the receiver, “Hi, it’s me. You have an intern.” Lucy glanced my way and I mouthed my name as she repeated, “Jenna’s ready for you. Right. Okay. Will do. Thanks.”


She hung up and offered with a hospitable, but fake, tone, “Donna will be out shortly, would you mind waiting here?”


Of course I didn’t mind. I was at my dream company, waiting to be greeted by a PRODUCER. It was an honor just to sit on their flimsy Ikea couches.


By the way, in case you didn’t catch it, our friend Lucy over there misread my lips. My name is not Jenna. It’s Emma.


Emma Josefa Maria de Martinez.


But just call me Emma Martinez.


Everyone else does.


As I sat in the reception, I perused entertainment magazines while producers connected from head to butt through Walkie Talkies bustled about, seemingly late for a —-


“Jenna?” A crisp voice entered the room, followed by a tall, Frappucino-sipping woman, who I deduced was Donna.


Donna stood tall in red stilettos and a black baby doll dress. Her bun was so taut, that I imagined her face collapsing each night after she released it. I didn’t especially j’adore the bawdy necklace of gigantic white beads she festooned around her neck, but hey, we each architect our own unique vision of style. I was wearing a red checkered shirt over a grey tank top and sporting loose denim jeans. Next to her, I looked like lumberjack’s assistant. So it’s not like my vision of style is the pillar to endeavor towards.


I glided to my new internship supervisor, leading with strong eye contact and a handshake firm enough to crush bone, “Hi! Yes! Actually, my name is Emma. I’m so excited to work here and with you. Please know even though I’m a USC student, I’m not entitled at all. I’m here to work and learn as much as you’re willing to teach me.”


Ugh, do you see what I did there? I dribbled incoherent, anxious syntax. Where Sally had that irksome scraping, I was wont to have those word vomit episodes. I quickly shut my mouth before anything else could come out.


Donna ignored my strong handshake and scrutinized me like a suspected spy, eventually saying, “Rule one: come off as a seasoned professional at all times. Even if you have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, act with confidence. You just came off as a desperate fan girl. Follow me.”


Donna hadn’t finished her sentence before she slithered out of the reception, leaving me alone with my mouth open. I quickly shook off the biting scene and followed.


“You of course have to want the job,” Donna said without turning to notice if I was following, “you have to always be hungry. Oh! And that reminds me; you literally have to be hungry.”


It was clear what she meant, but I couldn’t tell if she was serious. This woman’s dry tone was indecipherable. Donna smirked as she turned around, re-examining me to ensure I was indeed, not too plump for Entertainment Now. After I passed the test, she clucked her cheeks and carried on with a self-satisfied walk.


As we rushed through the newsroom, a large chamber lined with television screens and rows of desks, I noticed everyone’s eyes were baggy and puffy. I noticed everyone had a coffee in-tow, as if controlled by caffeine. I also noticed a lack of contentment floating like a thin cloud of misery over the entire hangar. I swear I could feel an ulcer of disappointment forming within my stomach, even just five minutes into the job.


We passed a glass panel dividing the newsroom from a producer’s office and I noticed a blonde bombshell lying facedown on a massage table. A brawny Swedish hunk rubbed her topless back as the bombshell lifted her botoxed head to scream out to her assistant, “Get me Beyoncé! I want the exclusive!” and we continued on, as if the topless woman in the office was not out of the norm.


Finally, Donna stopped at a corner desk and sat down in front of her computer. A second chair had been propped up but when I sat down in it, a vein popped from Donna’s forehead, throbbing violently as she hissed, “Why are you sitting down? Is your work done for the day?”


I stuttered, “I, oh, I’m so sorry. I thought – training?”


Donna turned back to her computer and clicked, clacked away at her keyboard. She muttered under her breath, “Did they even screen you?”


Donna’s mouth was pursed as she focused intently on an email, ignoring my presence for three minutes before she said, “Okay, let me tell you what I expect. I want someone who knows what they want. I want someone seasoned and experienced, but green, cheap, and ready to pay her dues. I want someone who eats, breathes, and sleeps entertainment news. But I don’t want you to sleep because that’s a waste of time. You should be working, planning, or planning on how you think you want to start working.”


As Donna spoke, she scrolled and typed, never actually giving the courtesy of eye contact. Her redundant monologue clearly indicated that I was not dealing with a sane person.


“If you want to work in this industry,” Donna continued, “You need to be willing to give up your personal life. There’s no such thing as a family emergency, BUT, if you are at a family emergency and news hits? Well, you better know your priorities. So tell me, Jenna, could you ditch your grandmother’s funeral to cover Lady Gaga’s pregnancy announcement?”


Donna stared at me, unflinching, waiting for an answer to her absurd questions, but I failed to say anything, assuming them to be rhetorical.


“It’s Emma.”


The vein engorged so much so, I thought it was going to explode before she fumed, “Sorry. I don’t teach entertainment 101. I need someone ready to hit the ground running. You can finish out the day, but this will be your last with Entertainment Now. Speaking of now, coffee machine is behind reception. Coffee – stat.”


Her words shot through me like bullets, and I was in a catatonic stupor after their impacts. How could I be fired so quickly? I hadn’t even been an intern a full hour. There wasn’t even enough time to prove how well I brewed a medium roast. None of her words seemed serious.


Donna’s mascara-laden, dark eyes didn’t imply jests of any sort. She was cold, stiff, and deadly serious, like a fashion-forward Judge Judy.


Mustering the last ounce of bravery I possessed, I asked with a high pitch, “You must be joking, right?”


Donna smiled and said, “I’m not one for comedy. Yes, you are fired. I’m sorry, but take this lesson and use it on your next shot in Hollywood, if you ever get one. Now while you’re still an intern here – coffee.”


I floated out of my body, trudging my way mindlessly towards the coffee station stationed behind the reception. I went over every conversation in my mind, unsure what I did that was so horrific.


As the coffee drained into a mug, my dread, feelings of serendipity, and excitement drained alongside. I felt myself breaking as my dreams cracked beneath me.


Donna didn’t want to give me a chance. Donna was a deranged producer on some sick power trip. Contempt expanded within me, and like the scalding coffee, I was fuming.


Donna didn’t deserve fresh coffee, Donna deserved earwax. So I licked my finger, stuck it in my ear, and gooped out a waxy coat. I shoved my finger in the mug, immediately shrieking from the burning sensation, “OUCH that’s hot!”


Lucy squealed in surprise behind me.




I was foiled again.


The day passed as a blur, but at some point I rose once more and found it within myself to attempt another tactic: to work diligently.


Perhaps if Donna could fire a girl in the first five minutes, she could rehire her in the first eight hours. I decided to win Donna over through work ethic and a charming spirit. I made copies, pulled footage from the tape vault, and transcribed monotonous interviews. All my work was done with a sense of urgency and a smile.


At two p.m. the end of my first shift rolled by. As Donna packed her purse, she leaned in my direction and whispered, “You ended up doing a good job today, kiddo.”


I graciously responded, “Thank you.”


Then I stood there expectantly waiting for the announcement as Donna stared with a ‘you can leave now’ expression. Finally accepting defeat from the dragon-y producer lady, my shoulders slumped. I dragged myself towards the exit of Entertainment Now carrying with me a bit of that cloud of misery.


Before I reached the glass doors and fully exited, Donna ran into the reception and yelled after me, “Wait!”


I quickly swiveled and a smile beamed across my face.


This was it.


This was my Ugly Betty moment. Pollyanna paid off! Of course I proved my worth. My passion for this internship emanated from me. There was no way I could have worked so hard, dreamt so long, and pleaded so much for it all to be swept away like dust in the wind on my first shot. I beamed with pride, envisioning my True Hollywood story:


I was going to make it after all!


But Donna said unapologetically, “Before you go, will you remember to leave your parking pass at reception? We can give it to your replacement.”







The universe never gives us more than we can handle.


I’ve certainly heard that motto enough in my life, but the words resonated with me clearly for the first time as I drove back to my shoddy apartment in Koreatown.


I didn’t live in K-town just because it was close to campus. It was also the only place I could find an affordable apartment that wasn’t in the valley (ugh, the valley) while also being moderately safe. I mean, very rarely there are random drug shootings and car break-ins in the vicinity of my apartment, but hey, there’s laundry onsite. It all evens itself out.


Luckily my rich best friend didn’t mind slumming it in K-town and agreed to move with me. I just couldn’t afford the swanky places her mother’s money could, so there we were, relegated to the Fairville Estates, renamed shortly after moving in to the Dingeville Estates. The parking sucks, but we live above an awesome cook-your-own-food, all-you-can-eat restaurant, which is pretty rad when you get the munchies.


It was early afternoon, but there was still plenty of traffic on the road, thanks to LA’s many rich, fun-employed kids.


Spoiled pricks.


Traffic was actually a saving grace; I wasn’t in a hurry to get home. I needed to mentally process the day. I needed time. My best friend and roommate, Jezebel “Jez” Johnson was home and I wasn’t in a hurry to recount my humiliation to her. I hadn’t even figured out my own POV on the matter.


I had some time to ride around in my dumpy Honda and free myself. With that being said, it was comfortable knowing that when I did end up divulging the news to Jez, she’d offer the best advice out of anyone in my social circle.


True, my social circle really only consisted of Jez, but still.


Jez was technically a fun-employed kid, but she wasn’t like the other FK’ers who attended the University of Southern California. To start, she didn’t have that glossy, ennui-glazed personality. It’s so strange to me that the kids who have it all, the kids who grow up with every opportunity, they seem to be the most bored. Jez’s fun-loving eyes sparkled and her smile was contagious. She was still fascinated and astounded by life, despite her (as all filthy rich people seem to label it) fortunate upbringing. I appreciated that.


I feel like if I were a FK’er, I’d take advantage of the advantages, but maybe there’s something about growing up with a silver spoon in your mouth that prevents the development of that burning “oomph” we call drive. I don’t know; I’m not a psych major.


My point is, Jez wasn’t like those other FK’ers at all. Jez was the kind of girl who would walk in to the ice cream store, ask the about every exotic flavor, requesting for a full SWOT analysis on each choice before finally settling on something classic like vanilla. It was her nature.


She was a tormented soul who cared not about visceral materialism, but was captivated by artistic endeavors. I’d never met someone so driven by passions, and it was our mutual respect for our determined dreams that sealed our friendship. Basically? She was my BFF – even though I’d only known her a year.


But she was more than a BFF and the year felt like an eternity. She was family. She was like a sister.


She was all I had.


I drove around for about an hour until the rush hour traffic was just about to hit. My angry music made me less so. Eventually I reached the mental space to find peace. Losing Entertainment Now was a good thing. It was the next step in my journey, leading to something bigger. It had to be. I had to hang onto that belief.


And I was ready to confront Jez with the news.


When I parked tandem to Jez’s BMW, I failed to notice the same Oldsmobile from the morning had parked across the street from my apartment complex.


Strike two for oblivious Annie.







Jezebel Johnson’s bedroom served as a vast emporium filled with artistic bric-a-brac and scientific oddities: fractal renderings, robotic machines, lines of codes, molded art figures, half-painted easels, telescopes, and other such bewildering things.


My knock was drowned out by the Jez’s stereo, so I quietly entered. Once inside her artistic lab, my eyes had to readjust. Jez covered the windows with blankets, closed the curtains, and kept the lights off. Her room was completely dark. I blindly felt my way towards the light switch and flipped it on.


At this, Jez shot up and squealed, “What the hell, Emma, you can’t just barge in and disrupt the process! You scared me!”


At this point I was dying of laughter. She screamed so loud, her eyes about popped out of her head as she fell back, falling onto her squishy, big butt.


Jez quipped, placing one hand on her hip and hoisting herself up the other, “It’s not funny! I could have really hurt myself, or even worse, broken an art piece.”


Gasping for air I said, “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. It was just so…”


I then cackled and mimicked her scream and fall.


Jez jabbed my rib with fingertips and teased, “Careful, Martinez, you’re just a skinny little chick. You couldn’t take me even if you tried, so don’t try me.”


We both were breathing heavy now, red faced and laughing in the fallout of our taunting match. Just like sisters, right?


When I’d finally calmed, I sat down on her flaccid mattress and deflated a bit. Jez sensed my energy and sat down next to me. She grabbed my thigh and looked me in the eye with concern. “What’s wrong, Emma?”


I sighed and said, “Life. I suck at it.”


“Okay, girl. I want to help you, but I’m going to need you to be a bit more specific.”


I whined, “I lost my internship today. They fired me!”


Jez gasped and said, “That’s impossible. You’re a genius with an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture. A top outlet like Entertainment Now would see the value in someone like that.”


I assured, “It’s possible and it happed.”


I went on to share the tale of Donna and the coffee burn and the Swedish masseuse, up until “and then, they asked me to return my parking pass.”


Jez gasped, “Ouch. Entertainment Now is a well-oiled machine, isn’t it?”


I nodded, “Chewing up and spitting out people like soggy sunflower shells since 1982. What am I going to do? I CAN’T lose this internship.”


I really couldn’t. The University of Southern California was hosting me on scholarship, there was no way I’d be able to afford community college, much less one so prestigious and private as USC. With a school so competitive, poor smart girls are a dime a dozen and once one fails the internship class, the funds dry up quicker than a flaked off scab.


I grimaced at Jez in despair and she smirked at me. It was devilish and I knew what she was thinking.


I said, “Jez, no.”


Jez propped herself up and hobbled to her laptop, rubbing her bum’s sore spot. When she’d sat down, she inhaled deeply, shook out her hands and bent forward, frantically pouring code into the computer, each finger constantly in motion, typing, hacking.


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Alison Becker’s Sleepover

I loved this show. The energy was incredibly high.

As were the owners.

Yup, when we got to our venue, the hipster twenty-something owners were sitting in a bathtub … in an alley behind the building, toking it up. The lights were all messed up, there was rubber tarp covering the beautiful stage, no toilet paper in the bathrooms, and we hadn’t heard from one of our flakier talents.

I was in crazy producer mode, solving the toilet paper emergency when Alison Becker walked into Cafe Fais Do Do (this strange theater off Pico Blvd. that feels like a Bayou Cabaret Bar shot straight from the swamps of Louisiana). You know Alison as the VJ from VH1’s Top 20 Countdown, MTV’s Boiling Points, and Parks & Recreation.


Alison was calm and just cool – the whole night. Her energy was full of positive vibes, as they say, and it shows in her stage presence the way she easily and confidently can share a simple growing up story that involves Cheerios and handcuffs.


Please enjoy Alison Becker’s Sleepover.


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