The Los Angeles working world is quite unlike anything else.
I’m not talking about jobs in fast-food restaurants, dry cleaners or on the threadbare public transportation system. Employers in those areas simply treat job applicants like trash - so, not surprisingly, they often behave like trash.
My experience, naturally enough, is in the media business and I have quite a few friends with much broader experience than I have.
This is no mere chattering-class clique, as it is in London, say, or Manchester. The film industry employs an estimated 10,000 in LA and you can add varying amounts for journalism, book publishing, the blogosphere and entertainment.
No wonder hopefuls pour off the trains, planes and buses, as hopeful as they ever were in the 1920s, 1950s or the 1990s. Most of them end up waiting table or working in shops – elbowing many of the less photogenic but probably more skilled sales assistants – and a high proportion buy the return ticket to Nowheresville, Noplace County, somewhere in the midwest.
The LA version of Craigslist makes a handy living out of this rose-tinted optimism. I got fed up churning through job after writing job, gig after writing gig, offering no pay but ‘a byline for your resumé’ or ‘exciting start-up, share in our success once the money starts to flow’.
Business plans and even PhD theses are regular topics, often accompanied by the giveaway ‘at least two years’ experience required’. That means that if you have more than ten years under your belt, don’t bother: they can’t afford you.
Hollywood looms over this whole scene. The big studios are cutting back now, postponing some pre-Christmas releases until next year, laying off scene-shifters and researchers, but they are still the big players, the ones most people want to get into bed with one way or another.
To cut their overheads they often prefer to rent studio time to independent producers, who therefore take the risk. They of course brag that they have ‘a deal’ with Paramount or Warner, when all they mean is that they have an option on some space.
Options are the currency of LA. Everyone from studios to property developers buys or sells options, most of which lapse. Meanwhile, though, they are pregnant with hope value.
No one is more hopeful than those actors who take part in the cattle market known as the audition. These usually take place in draughty old rooms miles from the bright lights. Candidates sit for hours on backless wooden benches, like some immigrant resettlement centre, awaiting their turn. A generous employer will provide drinking water to stave off the heat – it’s cheaper than air conditioning.
An hour’s journey each way, with a three-hour wait, can earn ten minutes in front of the cameras and/or microphone and an assurance from the director that ‘You were great!’
So many people turn up on the offchance of stardom that a central agency now logs everyone and gives them a barcode, like a box of cookies in Safeway.
Happily, I’ve so far resisted the temptation to pitch for an audition – I know my limitations – and, as in Britain, most journalistic jobs come via word of mouth and personal recommendation. Maybe that’s why my gigs have been few and far between, and they have certainly dried up since the credit crunch started biting.
But every Monday night I go to a diner in Pasadena where a bunch of us meet to chew the fat. I’m the only journalist; the others are writers, singers, voice artistes (including one talented chap who did the voice of Tigger for 17 years, nice work if you can get it), singers and radio show hosts.
Only three of us, though, have a regular income – me, a singer-cum-entertainer-cum-actor-cum writer, and a rehabilitation nurse at the local big hospital. Others have the odd scrap of royalties but most are living on their savings from previous careers.
What links us all, though, is that none of us is idle. For there is a definite pecking order in LA.
What you must never do, or admit to, is nothing. You must always have a ‘project’. LA being what it is, this means doing something for no pay, just for the chance to write, talk, act or sing. That gives you a show-reel, DVD, CD, even a book, to hand round in the hope that it will be picked up by someone with money and clout. It happens more often than you might think.
I’m working on a novel. It will probably never see the light of day, but the rejection letters are yet to come. This is the writing stage, when the flame of hope burns brightly. You can keep that going through several novels before you give up, so I’m told.
Then there are those with a contract. They are earning, however modestly. Money is changing hands and being banked, which merits anything from respect to jealousy. It means your work has a value and could lead to something even more valuable, You are on the upward path, which might take you who knows where,
Above them are the successes, which can vary from people you have never heard of but are constantly employed and are driven home each evening to a discreet spread behind a set of gates in Beverly Hills.
At the top are the few stars earning megabucks, anything up to $50 million a picture, with homes in several US states and foreign countries. Like that chap in his sixties with the dyed hair and toned-down Liverpool accent, who turns up from time to time at Mijares, one of our local Mexican restaurants. Says his name is Paul McCartney. Never done an audition, though, or so I hear.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
An evening with Ernie by Bill Kay
Scene: the community hall attached to South Pasadena Public Library. A long, high ceilinged room, windows high up on the left as you look at the stage, capacity around 200.
Doors open 6.30 for 7pm start. At 6.25 there is a polite, quiet line stretching from the door down the steps and out into the path through the greenery, maybe 30 people waiting. Our friend Jim Dawson is sitting in one of two curving stone seats either side of the entrance, so we take the opportunity to join him and probably jump the line a little. Edgar Bullington joins us, standing and chatting.
Dead on 6.30 the doors open and we file in firmly but in an orderly manner. We grab half a row of seats and another couple for Bobb Lynes and Barbara Watkins.
At 6.48 a side door opens - and there is the star, Ernest Borgnine himself, with that trademark wide gap-toothed grin, wearing a powder blue safari shirt. He milks the applause, which lasts about half a minute, then walks to the stage. He clearly intends to get started, but an official whispers in his ear that there is music first.
'Do you want to hear some jazz?' he yells. The audience, realising the situation, agrees.
So Borgnine's real appearance is delayed by 20 minutes or so while a young girl sings a few jazz classics such as All of Me, to a piano accompaniment. She sings well, but is too young to be credibly singing songs designed for someone with more life under their belt.
We are next given some clips of Borgnine hits, including Marty, which won four Oscars - Best Film, Director, Screenplay and Actor.
Finally Borgnine reappears, as cheerful as before, but flanked by fussing aides and a so-called moderator who is to handle the Q&A. An English-accented video company executive who ploughs through the career credits of Borgnine and his inquisitor. Happily, the star brushes aside all this nonsense and does his own thing, brilliantly and with real rapport with the audience. He is a natural star - as he should be, after more than 50 years on camera.
Recounting his Oscar win, he couldn't remember who gave it to him - 'that actress who became a princess'. 'Grace Kelly,' fans prompted. 'That's right,' he said, 'look - I'm 91, what do you want?!'
He didn't get on well with the director Richard Brooks, who dismissed Borgnine as 'one of those Goddam thinking actors' when he suggested how to play a scene. Next day Brooks began: 'OK Mr Borgnine, what do you have in mind for this scene?'
He beat Frank Sinatra to the Oscar, as well as James Dean, but he and Sinatra became friends and he recalled how the legendary singer paid for the actor Lee J Cobb to be taken to Sinatra's house in Palm Springs. 'Why did you do this?' asked Cobb. 'Because I like the way you work,' Sinatra replied.
The Poseidon Adventure, one of the biggest films of all time, nearly didn't get made because of a newly-promoted Paramount executive who tried to block it and was later sacked.
Borgnine has just finished shooting Another Harvest Moon in Harrisburg, PA - he said 'It's the state capital, you don't need to go there!'
On 3D: 'You just sit around longer for all the set ups and that's good, because you get paid for the extra time.'
Yes, it's true he used to get on a horse in westerns by climbing a set of steps - 'Bring on the horse, bring on the stairs!' adding that John Wayne used to do the same.
On the second day he was filming Marty, on location in the Bronx, someone asked him 'Are you the guy who killed Sinatra?' After many explanations that it was just only a film, Borgnine (real name Borgnino) was in danger of getting seriously beaten up, so in desperation he said 'I'm Italian!' and was swamped with pizza and salami, etc. But the original thug muttered 'I still think we ought to beat the he'll out of him....'
He is a great fan of Abraham Lincoln, and told us how he picked up a painting of Lincoln for ten dollars off a street market. The next day the stallholder tried to buy it back 'for a museum', he said.
Borgnine shrewdly held on to it, and was subsequently told it could be worth as much as $5 million. He has a room in his house devoted to Lincoln, whom he regards as a great source of 'calmness'. It is a rare solemn moment in an evening that was full of fun.
And no one asked him about his latest appearance on youtube.
Doors open 6.30 for 7pm start. At 6.25 there is a polite, quiet line stretching from the door down the steps and out into the path through the greenery, maybe 30 people waiting. Our friend Jim Dawson is sitting in one of two curving stone seats either side of the entrance, so we take the opportunity to join him and probably jump the line a little. Edgar Bullington joins us, standing and chatting.
Dead on 6.30 the doors open and we file in firmly but in an orderly manner. We grab half a row of seats and another couple for Bobb Lynes and Barbara Watkins.
At 6.48 a side door opens - and there is the star, Ernest Borgnine himself, with that trademark wide gap-toothed grin, wearing a powder blue safari shirt. He milks the applause, which lasts about half a minute, then walks to the stage. He clearly intends to get started, but an official whispers in his ear that there is music first.
'Do you want to hear some jazz?' he yells. The audience, realising the situation, agrees.
So Borgnine's real appearance is delayed by 20 minutes or so while a young girl sings a few jazz classics such as All of Me, to a piano accompaniment. She sings well, but is too young to be credibly singing songs designed for someone with more life under their belt.
We are next given some clips of Borgnine hits, including Marty, which won four Oscars - Best Film, Director, Screenplay and Actor.
Finally Borgnine reappears, as cheerful as before, but flanked by fussing aides and a so-called moderator who is to handle the Q&A. An English-accented video company executive who ploughs through the career credits of Borgnine and his inquisitor. Happily, the star brushes aside all this nonsense and does his own thing, brilliantly and with real rapport with the audience. He is a natural star - as he should be, after more than 50 years on camera.
Recounting his Oscar win, he couldn't remember who gave it to him - 'that actress who became a princess'. 'Grace Kelly,' fans prompted. 'That's right,' he said, 'look - I'm 91, what do you want?!'
He didn't get on well with the director Richard Brooks, who dismissed Borgnine as 'one of those Goddam thinking actors' when he suggested how to play a scene. Next day Brooks began: 'OK Mr Borgnine, what do you have in mind for this scene?'
He beat Frank Sinatra to the Oscar, as well as James Dean, but he and Sinatra became friends and he recalled how the legendary singer paid for the actor Lee J Cobb to be taken to Sinatra's house in Palm Springs. 'Why did you do this?' asked Cobb. 'Because I like the way you work,' Sinatra replied.
The Poseidon Adventure, one of the biggest films of all time, nearly didn't get made because of a newly-promoted Paramount executive who tried to block it and was later sacked.
Borgnine has just finished shooting Another Harvest Moon in Harrisburg, PA - he said 'It's the state capital, you don't need to go there!'
On 3D: 'You just sit around longer for all the set ups and that's good, because you get paid for the extra time.'
Yes, it's true he used to get on a horse in westerns by climbing a set of steps - 'Bring on the horse, bring on the stairs!' adding that John Wayne used to do the same.
On the second day he was filming Marty, on location in the Bronx, someone asked him 'Are you the guy who killed Sinatra?' After many explanations that it was just only a film, Borgnine (real name Borgnino) was in danger of getting seriously beaten up, so in desperation he said 'I'm Italian!' and was swamped with pizza and salami, etc. But the original thug muttered 'I still think we ought to beat the he'll out of him....'
He is a great fan of Abraham Lincoln, and told us how he picked up a painting of Lincoln for ten dollars off a street market. The next day the stallholder tried to buy it back 'for a museum', he said.
Borgnine shrewdly held on to it, and was subsequently told it could be worth as much as $5 million. He has a room in his house devoted to Lincoln, whom he regards as a great source of 'calmness'. It is a rare solemn moment in an evening that was full of fun.
And no one asked him about his latest appearance on youtube.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
LA theatres: Hollywood v Downtown by Bill Kay
It's a punishing schedule, but someone's got to do it: on Friday I went to the Kodak Theater, home of the Oscars, to see British comedian Eddie Izzard, and last night I was at the Million Dollar Theater in Downtown for tenor Michael Kleitman's Tribute to Pavarotti. Two very different experiences, and not just in what was happening on stage.
The Kodak, is next to Grauman's Chinese Theater and is set into the Hollywood and Highland shopping centre, one of LA's biggest tourist traps. It takes the modern approach of fleecing the punters for all it can get, so best to eat and drink beforehand. The full house was a mixture of Angelenos, tourists and Brits who live in the area. Izzard made few concessions to American ignorance, but most of his more obscure jokes were enthusiastically received. Mind you, he was wise enough to lay into Bush, which got some easy applause, and came out surprisingly strongly for Obama - but again, he had got his audience right and they loved it.
The Million Dollar, which was built for that price in 1918 by Sid Grauman before he moved westwards and built the Egyptian and Chinese on Hollywood Boulevard, is an old-fashioned theatre which the LA mayor, Antonio Villaraigosa, hopes will lead a revival of Broadway - something which I don't think will happen without driving out his fellow Latino shopkeepers. Meanwhile, though, this theatre is not yet into full ripoff mode: the front stalls tickets cost about the same as for the balcony in the Kodak - around $55 - and the charmingly unadorned snacks counter was selling bottled of Pepsi for a not too bad $4. Oddest of all was a sweet stall in the men's loo, presumably a Latino custom as they run the theatre: bar of chocolate with your loo paper, sir? It was more surreal than anything Izzard could invent.
Russian-born Kleitman has been touring with his Pavarotti show for some time, so it was surprising how badly presented it was. To save on an orchestra, he relied on recorded music which was sometimes as crackly as an old phonograph. And Pavarotti he is not: his voice is much thinner and has less range. The contrast was starkest in his attempt at Nessan Dorma. Kleitman fell way short of Pavarotti and indeed is much more in the style of Jose Carreras.
But the audience lapped it up. They were, as you would expect, much older than Izzard's, few tourists, plenty of Russian supporters. I don't think they filled the theatre, judging by the 30% off promotion they were running last week (to my annoyance, as I got only 10% off about a month ago).
Thankfully we were spared any standing ovations until the very end. Instead, from half-way through the first half, there was a regular flow of middle-aged ladies waddling to the front of the stage with bouquets which Kleitman seemed genuinely surprised and embarrassed to receive.
I'd have loved to see what Izzard would have made of the Million Dollar.
The Kodak, is next to Grauman's Chinese Theater and is set into the Hollywood and Highland shopping centre, one of LA's biggest tourist traps. It takes the modern approach of fleecing the punters for all it can get, so best to eat and drink beforehand. The full house was a mixture of Angelenos, tourists and Brits who live in the area. Izzard made few concessions to American ignorance, but most of his more obscure jokes were enthusiastically received. Mind you, he was wise enough to lay into Bush, which got some easy applause, and came out surprisingly strongly for Obama - but again, he had got his audience right and they loved it.
The Million Dollar, which was built for that price in 1918 by Sid Grauman before he moved westwards and built the Egyptian and Chinese on Hollywood Boulevard, is an old-fashioned theatre which the LA mayor, Antonio Villaraigosa, hopes will lead a revival of Broadway - something which I don't think will happen without driving out his fellow Latino shopkeepers. Meanwhile, though, this theatre is not yet into full ripoff mode: the front stalls tickets cost about the same as for the balcony in the Kodak - around $55 - and the charmingly unadorned snacks counter was selling bottled of Pepsi for a not too bad $4. Oddest of all was a sweet stall in the men's loo, presumably a Latino custom as they run the theatre: bar of chocolate with your loo paper, sir? It was more surreal than anything Izzard could invent.
Russian-born Kleitman has been touring with his Pavarotti show for some time, so it was surprising how badly presented it was. To save on an orchestra, he relied on recorded music which was sometimes as crackly as an old phonograph. And Pavarotti he is not: his voice is much thinner and has less range. The contrast was starkest in his attempt at Nessan Dorma. Kleitman fell way short of Pavarotti and indeed is much more in the style of Jose Carreras.
But the audience lapped it up. They were, as you would expect, much older than Izzard's, few tourists, plenty of Russian supporters. I don't think they filled the theatre, judging by the 30% off promotion they were running last week (to my annoyance, as I got only 10% off about a month ago).
Thankfully we were spared any standing ovations until the very end. Instead, from half-way through the first half, there was a regular flow of middle-aged ladies waddling to the front of the stage with bouquets which Kleitman seemed genuinely surprised and embarrassed to receive.
I'd have loved to see what Izzard would have made of the Million Dollar.
It's a gas gas gas says Bill Kay
One of the features of Southern California that I find most appealing is its child-like ability to go into obsession mode at the drop of a hat - or anything else that happens to be in their hand at the time. Currently it’s gas - petrol to Brits.
I know, it’s still half the price it is in Britain, but we have had a severe shock over here. When I landed just under two years ago, a US gallon (the British Imperial gallon is 20% bigger) cost $2.50 or less. It was recently as high as $4.40, although it has declined a little with the oil price.
So it’s the speed of the jump that has sent Americans into overdrive, so to speak. The price has been creeping up in the past decade, but not at a pace that most Angelenos noticed. You filled a tank for may $50, grabbed the receipt so you could claim it against tax (many more can here than in UK) and hit the freeway without a care in the world.
Now, though, you’d think we were in the middle of a world war with rationing just around the corner. TV news runs stories about a gas scam that you would think a 10-year-old would see through. Crooks steal credit cards then stand around filling stations offering petrol half-price, taking cash using the stolen card to pay for the fuel! I suppose people reckon they will be miles away before the villains are arrested, but they have clearly forgotten about CCTV and the fact that their number plate identifies them as accessories to a pretty obvious crime.
Back on the legit side of the fence, it is amusing to see Americans adopting British ways of coping with high fuel costs. People are walking their dogs instead of driving them to the nearest park. Others boast of going in for “Euro-style shopping”, which means they buy a carryable bag of groceries on their way home every couple of days instead of driving 30 miles to Costco and filling the Hummer with bulk quantities of pap. Farmers markets are booming, as are neighbourhood restaurants.
The LA Times today leads its Business section with first-person reports by two of its staffers who have moved into flats downtown, within walking distance of the office. Amazingly, they are saving money! They are losing weight! They are talking to neighbours!
My hunch is that it won’t last. Like the stories in London about middle-class people shopping at Primark, the novelty will wear off. Downtown LA is like a graveyard at night and at weekends - full of spooky people. I bet those flat-dwellers will be bumming invitations off their pals in the valleys for BBQs and pool parties. The lure of the SUV will be simply too strong.
I know, it’s still half the price it is in Britain, but we have had a severe shock over here. When I landed just under two years ago, a US gallon (the British Imperial gallon is 20% bigger) cost $2.50 or less. It was recently as high as $4.40, although it has declined a little with the oil price.
So it’s the speed of the jump that has sent Americans into overdrive, so to speak. The price has been creeping up in the past decade, but not at a pace that most Angelenos noticed. You filled a tank for may $50, grabbed the receipt so you could claim it against tax (many more can here than in UK) and hit the freeway without a care in the world.
Now, though, you’d think we were in the middle of a world war with rationing just around the corner. TV news runs stories about a gas scam that you would think a 10-year-old would see through. Crooks steal credit cards then stand around filling stations offering petrol half-price, taking cash using the stolen card to pay for the fuel! I suppose people reckon they will be miles away before the villains are arrested, but they have clearly forgotten about CCTV and the fact that their number plate identifies them as accessories to a pretty obvious crime.
Back on the legit side of the fence, it is amusing to see Americans adopting British ways of coping with high fuel costs. People are walking their dogs instead of driving them to the nearest park. Others boast of going in for “Euro-style shopping”, which means they buy a carryable bag of groceries on their way home every couple of days instead of driving 30 miles to Costco and filling the Hummer with bulk quantities of pap. Farmers markets are booming, as are neighbourhood restaurants.
The LA Times today leads its Business section with first-person reports by two of its staffers who have moved into flats downtown, within walking distance of the office. Amazingly, they are saving money! They are losing weight! They are talking to neighbours!
My hunch is that it won’t last. Like the stories in London about middle-class people shopping at Primark, the novelty will wear off. Downtown LA is like a graveyard at night and at weekends - full of spooky people. I bet those flat-dwellers will be bumming invitations off their pals in the valleys for BBQs and pool parties. The lure of the SUV will be simply too strong.
The best tip is to tip by Bill Kay
You’ve reached the end of a satisfying meal. You are nicely full without bursting. The couple of glasses of wine have gone down nicely. You may even have indulged in a liqueur. Life has dissolved into a pleasant haze. Then the bill arrives.
You knew it was coming, of course, because you almost certainly asked for it. All the same, this is the moment of sobering reality, when that blue or black folder lands, containing the business end of the evening.
Let’s assume that you haven’t been charged for anything you didn’t receive, and that the total is not wildly out of line with what you expected. The question remains: do you tip, and if so how much?
This is a world-wide question. Providers of service expect to be paid over the odds, often for doing no more than their job. After all, unless you are remarkably flush (or pretentious) you don’t tip the chef who produced your meal - so why tip the flunkey who walked it maybe ten yards?
This is an increasingly tricky issue in LA, where everyone who can is getting in on the act. It poses particular problems for an expat like myself, because it is not always easy to be sure whether you are being taken for a ride or confronted with a genuinely different custom.
I don’t know about you, but in London I never tip if I am collecting a takeaway meal from a restaurant. As far as I am concerned, I’m the one doing the waitering. I also hated the aggressive attitude of some of the people who delivered meals to my door, so I eventually stopped ordering that way. But in LA, in both cases you are politely presented with a bill which, surprise surprise, leaves room for a tip and the total blank.
Is it the local practice to tip then? So far I have stuck to my British habit and no one has given me a hard time as a result, but the only way to find out is to ask friends. The answer, so far, is to ignore the tip.
But, coming back to the end of our excellent restaurant meal, the moment the bill arrives can be deeply divisive. I go to dinner most Mondays at a scruffy diner in Pasadena, where a floating group of anywhere between 4 and 24 friends pitch up and at the end we get our own bills.
It’s not a fortune, $10 to $20 a head for burgers, salad, steak and chips, that sort of thing, and the same smiling waiter serves us all. But we discovered that some tip generously, some meanly, some a nominal $1, and some not at all.
After reading the latest US book on tipping - Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica -I would think twice about not doing so, especially if you are intending to return to the scene of your crime. Dublanica was a waiter in New York, where restaurants notoriously take no prisoners.
I have been chased to the door by a Manhattan waiter who had calculated that I left less than the “minimum” of double the sales tax: on US menus the prices are shown net of tax, which is usually around 8.5%. Doubling that to 17% sounds a lot, but it works out very close to the 10% UK diners add to a bill already inflated by VAT.
There are basically six reasons people don’t tip:
They think the service was bad
They aren’t returning to the restaurant, so see no reason to be nice to the waiter
They object to tipping in principle, as demeaning to both waiter and customer
They think it’s a ripoff that they should pay on top of the menu prices
They think why pay when I don’t have to?
They’re mean
Personally I normally prefer to tip the standard amount, and a little over the odds if I have had good service. I scrub the tip completely only if it is obvious that I have had a bad meal, and the restaurant knows it.
But how you tip, or don’t, tells you a lot about yourself - as does a lot of discretionary spending. Know thyself before thou risketh ye serving lout spitting in thy soup.
You knew it was coming, of course, because you almost certainly asked for it. All the same, this is the moment of sobering reality, when that blue or black folder lands, containing the business end of the evening.
Let’s assume that you haven’t been charged for anything you didn’t receive, and that the total is not wildly out of line with what you expected. The question remains: do you tip, and if so how much?
This is a world-wide question. Providers of service expect to be paid over the odds, often for doing no more than their job. After all, unless you are remarkably flush (or pretentious) you don’t tip the chef who produced your meal - so why tip the flunkey who walked it maybe ten yards?
This is an increasingly tricky issue in LA, where everyone who can is getting in on the act. It poses particular problems for an expat like myself, because it is not always easy to be sure whether you are being taken for a ride or confronted with a genuinely different custom.
I don’t know about you, but in London I never tip if I am collecting a takeaway meal from a restaurant. As far as I am concerned, I’m the one doing the waitering. I also hated the aggressive attitude of some of the people who delivered meals to my door, so I eventually stopped ordering that way. But in LA, in both cases you are politely presented with a bill which, surprise surprise, leaves room for a tip and the total blank.
Is it the local practice to tip then? So far I have stuck to my British habit and no one has given me a hard time as a result, but the only way to find out is to ask friends. The answer, so far, is to ignore the tip.
But, coming back to the end of our excellent restaurant meal, the moment the bill arrives can be deeply divisive. I go to dinner most Mondays at a scruffy diner in Pasadena, where a floating group of anywhere between 4 and 24 friends pitch up and at the end we get our own bills.
It’s not a fortune, $10 to $20 a head for burgers, salad, steak and chips, that sort of thing, and the same smiling waiter serves us all. But we discovered that some tip generously, some meanly, some a nominal $1, and some not at all.
After reading the latest US book on tipping - Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica -I would think twice about not doing so, especially if you are intending to return to the scene of your crime. Dublanica was a waiter in New York, where restaurants notoriously take no prisoners.
I have been chased to the door by a Manhattan waiter who had calculated that I left less than the “minimum” of double the sales tax: on US menus the prices are shown net of tax, which is usually around 8.5%. Doubling that to 17% sounds a lot, but it works out very close to the 10% UK diners add to a bill already inflated by VAT.
There are basically six reasons people don’t tip:
They think the service was bad
They aren’t returning to the restaurant, so see no reason to be nice to the waiter
They object to tipping in principle, as demeaning to both waiter and customer
They think it’s a ripoff that they should pay on top of the menu prices
They think why pay when I don’t have to?
They’re mean
Personally I normally prefer to tip the standard amount, and a little over the odds if I have had good service. I scrub the tip completely only if it is obvious that I have had a bad meal, and the restaurant knows it.
But how you tip, or don’t, tells you a lot about yourself - as does a lot of discretionary spending. Know thyself before thou risketh ye serving lout spitting in thy soup.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
I am a camera by Bill Kay
This week I've seen more of camera lenses than I have for years, particularly if you exclude the sort that inhabit mobile phones. In fact, they didn't feature at all.
On Tuesday I appeared in the pilot for a new community TV show, Altadena Tonight! It couldn't have been more informal. The studio was the back room of Altadena's Coffee Gallery, which has long been a great local meeting place. The back room is used regularly for concerts and shows. It holds about 50 people plus a small stage, big enough for a band - plays would be a bit limited unless they were conversation pieces. You'd have to use your imagination to enjoy a version of Star Wars there, or even Henry V.
This time there was more lighting than usual, and three fixed cameras were discreetly installed right, left and centre, together with a mobile camera. The show wasn't structured for broadcast, instead the raw material was recorded for editing later. It consisted of a series of songs by Ian Whitcomb and the Bungalow Boys, Will Ryan and others, interspersed with Ian interviewing people such as the manager of the Gallery.
That was where Lynne and me came in. Ian, a long-time expatriate himself, asked us about why we emigrated to US, and why Pasadena and so on. We talked about my Sunday Times column and what I thought of the LA Times (I was as polite as I could be, blaming its troubles on the internet and Sam Zell).
It added up to a very pleasant evening. There were no calls for silence and the breaks every hour or so were an opportunity for the audience to load up on a free buffet outside - we had already eaten at Chandra Thai with our friends, Pat and Elaine.
It looks a very promising magazine show, very localised but very professionally produced. Whether it generates enough of an audience, or even gets aired on a channel anyone can get hold of, are open questions but I felt it deserved to succeed. I think they'll play around with it until it does.
Although I didn't think they'd come together in quite the way they did, for about a month the Sunday Times has been talking about new byline photos for all columnists as part of a massive colour-driven redesign which began with the July 6 issue. However the picture desk has been trying to save money by using old shots of me - hard to see how that would work, because the new design demands a new format for byline pics, three-quarter length, outlined and so on. But they persisted and the editor duly complained about the pic of me that appeared last Sunday, so the new shots had to be taken in a rush this week.
They used an agency in New York to find a photographer near me, and the girl probably thought that West Hollywood was pretty near Pasadena - it's a 40 to 60 minute drive, depending on the traffic.
It was fixed for Thursday afternoon, but as my car was out of action the photographer, Danny Rothenberg, kindly agreed to have me picked up and returned home. The shoot was great fun, in his patio, with lighting equipment and reflectors, and we got on well, with me going through several changes of clothing, pink and white collared shirts, a navy blue t-shirt, velvet jacket. Danny plays an unpublished John Lennon CD in the background. After an hour he decided he had enough and I was taken home by his assistant Emily's boyfriend, Sam, an engaging companion for two longish journeys.
At 6 the next morning an email and text message arrive from Danny. The Sunday Times aren't happy. They wanted the pics shot in a studio, against a white background, with 3/4 length as well as portrait.
In a flurry of phone calls I persuade Kathryn Cooper on the Money desk to let me put the cost of a return taxi fare on expenses, anything up to $200. And we do the whole thing all over again, although this time I only have the pink shirt and blue velvet jacket, with a tie as variation. We still make it fun, but the atmosphere is noticeably more subdued. I hang on until we get word from London that the Sunday Times are happy: I did not relish a third journey to West Hollywood.
I enjoy being photographed. I wasn't at all aware of the camera in the Coffee Gallery show, more concerned about the mike I had to hold. But for stills the big preoccupation is to inject life into the shots by moving around, twisting your body, looking in odd directions, closing your eyes to rest them, changing expression. It's fun, satisfying but quite exhausting - for those on both sides of the lens.
An interesting week, but I wouldn't want to do it for a living!
On Tuesday I appeared in the pilot for a new community TV show, Altadena Tonight! It couldn't have been more informal. The studio was the back room of Altadena's Coffee Gallery, which has long been a great local meeting place. The back room is used regularly for concerts and shows. It holds about 50 people plus a small stage, big enough for a band - plays would be a bit limited unless they were conversation pieces. You'd have to use your imagination to enjoy a version of Star Wars there, or even Henry V.
This time there was more lighting than usual, and three fixed cameras were discreetly installed right, left and centre, together with a mobile camera. The show wasn't structured for broadcast, instead the raw material was recorded for editing later. It consisted of a series of songs by Ian Whitcomb and the Bungalow Boys, Will Ryan and others, interspersed with Ian interviewing people such as the manager of the Gallery.
That was where Lynne and me came in. Ian, a long-time expatriate himself, asked us about why we emigrated to US, and why Pasadena and so on. We talked about my Sunday Times column and what I thought of the LA Times (I was as polite as I could be, blaming its troubles on the internet and Sam Zell).
It added up to a very pleasant evening. There were no calls for silence and the breaks every hour or so were an opportunity for the audience to load up on a free buffet outside - we had already eaten at Chandra Thai with our friends, Pat and Elaine.
It looks a very promising magazine show, very localised but very professionally produced. Whether it generates enough of an audience, or even gets aired on a channel anyone can get hold of, are open questions but I felt it deserved to succeed. I think they'll play around with it until it does.
Although I didn't think they'd come together in quite the way they did, for about a month the Sunday Times has been talking about new byline photos for all columnists as part of a massive colour-driven redesign which began with the July 6 issue. However the picture desk has been trying to save money by using old shots of me - hard to see how that would work, because the new design demands a new format for byline pics, three-quarter length, outlined and so on. But they persisted and the editor duly complained about the pic of me that appeared last Sunday, so the new shots had to be taken in a rush this week.
They used an agency in New York to find a photographer near me, and the girl probably thought that West Hollywood was pretty near Pasadena - it's a 40 to 60 minute drive, depending on the traffic.
It was fixed for Thursday afternoon, but as my car was out of action the photographer, Danny Rothenberg, kindly agreed to have me picked up and returned home. The shoot was great fun, in his patio, with lighting equipment and reflectors, and we got on well, with me going through several changes of clothing, pink and white collared shirts, a navy blue t-shirt, velvet jacket. Danny plays an unpublished John Lennon CD in the background. After an hour he decided he had enough and I was taken home by his assistant Emily's boyfriend, Sam, an engaging companion for two longish journeys.
At 6 the next morning an email and text message arrive from Danny. The Sunday Times aren't happy. They wanted the pics shot in a studio, against a white background, with 3/4 length as well as portrait.
In a flurry of phone calls I persuade Kathryn Cooper on the Money desk to let me put the cost of a return taxi fare on expenses, anything up to $200. And we do the whole thing all over again, although this time I only have the pink shirt and blue velvet jacket, with a tie as variation. We still make it fun, but the atmosphere is noticeably more subdued. I hang on until we get word from London that the Sunday Times are happy: I did not relish a third journey to West Hollywood.
I enjoy being photographed. I wasn't at all aware of the camera in the Coffee Gallery show, more concerned about the mike I had to hold. But for stills the big preoccupation is to inject life into the shots by moving around, twisting your body, looking in odd directions, closing your eyes to rest them, changing expression. It's fun, satisfying but quite exhausting - for those on both sides of the lens.
An interesting week, but I wouldn't want to do it for a living!
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Downtown LA's Mohican haircut by Bill Kay
Downtown Los Angeles is a graveyard at weekends - with one exception. While office blocks slumber and the cafes and newsstands that serve their worker ants are shuttered, one street bustles with the roaring engines of buses and trucks, and the steady chatter of eager, alert shoppers.
LA's Broadway is a provincial shadow of its progenitor in New York. But, ever since the rich folk abandoned Bunker Hill for Beverly Hills more than 50 years ago it has been reclaimed by the Mexican-Americans who founded and named the city. They keep it busy on a Saturday when, apart from the wonderful public library and a few Starbucks, the rest of downtown is dead. It is as if the district has had a Mohican haircut, with a bushy middle and bald sides.
And among the rows of shops selling souvenirs, clothes, electronics, large-screen televisions and DVDs, a dozen faded, once-grand buildings stand proud, like so many dowager duchesses at a fiesta. They are one of the saddest sights in America: Broadway LA's theatres.
Today I joined the LA Conservancy weekly tour of the theatres. As it is booked solid two months ahead, there is plenty of interest in what has happened to these architectural relics and why.
The tour begins promisingly enough at the Million Dollar Theatre on the corner of 3rd Street, now given over largely to Latin singing stars but still preserved in a condition that would be recognised by Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks and the many film giants who attended its premieres.
From there, however, the tour sinks into a depressing succession of theatres darkened or converted irrevocably to one form of retail or another. The best-preserved we saw, the State on the corner of 7th Street, is now leased by a Portugese religious group. Some, such as the Orpheum, burst into life occasionally for a one-off show and they are all available for conferences, movie shoots, weddings or whatever legitimate purpose can justify the hire fee.
The saddest was undoubtedly the original Pantages at 534 Broadway. The Pantages name lives on in a highly successful Hollywood theatre that has hosted the Oscar ceremonies and, currently, the hit show Wicked. The Latino manager of the TV store politely showed us through to his store room, which was the auditorium of this 1910 building. A walkway has been built between the tiered rows where seats used to be. The walkway leads up on to the stage, which still has the remnants of lighting and curtains. The proscenium arch and balcony are intact. It is possible to picture the old vaudeville singers, dancers and comedians doing their turns in front of an audience which could not have numbered more than 1,000. In its later years it fell foul of 24-hour film shows, when hobos would pay the nickel entry fee just for somewhere cheap to sleep at night. Next to the Pantages, later renamed the Arcade, is the former Clune's, which became the Cameo and is in a similar state.
The contrast with New York is stark. There, the theatre district has 39 active auditoria. LAs has 17, none operating full-time. Another 14 have been demolished.
The virtual collapse of Broadway LA as an entertainment centre is normally blamed on Sid Grauman, who opened the Million Dollar but a few years later whipped the rug from under Broadway by opening the Egyptian and the Chinese theatres in Hollywood, backed by film premieres that had tremendous headline-grabbing razzmatazz. But Broadway's is also closely linked to downtown's transformation from a wealthy residential area to one that is almost entirely commercial, bar some lofts and apartments. Less publicised but just as tragic has been the closure on the street of a string of huge department stores, now totally overtaken by the modern shopping malls.
A succession of plans have been advanced for the revival of downtown and in particular Broadway, but it is hard to see a future for the theatres unless thousands more people move into the area to live. That will require a transformation that would take a minimum of ten years and cost billions of dollars, quite apart from raising the political snakepit of having to drive out the Mexican-American retailers and their customers. It is, I fear, a lost cause.
The former League of American Theatres and Producers is now known as simply the Broadway League - and that does not embrace LA's Broadway. Life has moved on.
LA's Broadway is a provincial shadow of its progenitor in New York. But, ever since the rich folk abandoned Bunker Hill for Beverly Hills more than 50 years ago it has been reclaimed by the Mexican-Americans who founded and named the city. They keep it busy on a Saturday when, apart from the wonderful public library and a few Starbucks, the rest of downtown is dead. It is as if the district has had a Mohican haircut, with a bushy middle and bald sides.
And among the rows of shops selling souvenirs, clothes, electronics, large-screen televisions and DVDs, a dozen faded, once-grand buildings stand proud, like so many dowager duchesses at a fiesta. They are one of the saddest sights in America: Broadway LA's theatres.
Today I joined the LA Conservancy weekly tour of the theatres. As it is booked solid two months ahead, there is plenty of interest in what has happened to these architectural relics and why.
The tour begins promisingly enough at the Million Dollar Theatre on the corner of 3rd Street, now given over largely to Latin singing stars but still preserved in a condition that would be recognised by Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks and the many film giants who attended its premieres.
From there, however, the tour sinks into a depressing succession of theatres darkened or converted irrevocably to one form of retail or another. The best-preserved we saw, the State on the corner of 7th Street, is now leased by a Portugese religious group. Some, such as the Orpheum, burst into life occasionally for a one-off show and they are all available for conferences, movie shoots, weddings or whatever legitimate purpose can justify the hire fee.
The saddest was undoubtedly the original Pantages at 534 Broadway. The Pantages name lives on in a highly successful Hollywood theatre that has hosted the Oscar ceremonies and, currently, the hit show Wicked. The Latino manager of the TV store politely showed us through to his store room, which was the auditorium of this 1910 building. A walkway has been built between the tiered rows where seats used to be. The walkway leads up on to the stage, which still has the remnants of lighting and curtains. The proscenium arch and balcony are intact. It is possible to picture the old vaudeville singers, dancers and comedians doing their turns in front of an audience which could not have numbered more than 1,000. In its later years it fell foul of 24-hour film shows, when hobos would pay the nickel entry fee just for somewhere cheap to sleep at night. Next to the Pantages, later renamed the Arcade, is the former Clune's, which became the Cameo and is in a similar state.
The contrast with New York is stark. There, the theatre district has 39 active auditoria. LAs has 17, none operating full-time. Another 14 have been demolished.
The virtual collapse of Broadway LA as an entertainment centre is normally blamed on Sid Grauman, who opened the Million Dollar but a few years later whipped the rug from under Broadway by opening the Egyptian and the Chinese theatres in Hollywood, backed by film premieres that had tremendous headline-grabbing razzmatazz. But Broadway's is also closely linked to downtown's transformation from a wealthy residential area to one that is almost entirely commercial, bar some lofts and apartments. Less publicised but just as tragic has been the closure on the street of a string of huge department stores, now totally overtaken by the modern shopping malls.
A succession of plans have been advanced for the revival of downtown and in particular Broadway, but it is hard to see a future for the theatres unless thousands more people move into the area to live. That will require a transformation that would take a minimum of ten years and cost billions of dollars, quite apart from raising the political snakepit of having to drive out the Mexican-American retailers and their customers. It is, I fear, a lost cause.
The former League of American Theatres and Producers is now known as simply the Broadway League - and that does not embrace LA's Broadway. Life has moved on.
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