It's hard to say exactly what happened following the Miami trip. Miami was a departure. When I left there, I came home to a whole different world.
 Maybe it was the new eyes I was looking through. The experience with Marlena left me exhilarated and rejuvenated. She was as exotic and forbidden as everything illegal in Miami-- and just as enticing. But I knew we had no future; just that one fabulous night of sweltering Miami heat.
 I finally made my way back to Los Angeles. My leg had significant rehabilitation left before I could go to work full-time and full force. Meanwhile, I was collecting unemployment and completing my film.
 Film school seemed so far away, like it was lost in the dust kicked up by our wagon train headed for the wild west. Still, I had this relic of a film I was committed to finishing, one way or another. Now I was in a position where I could finally finish it. Much of the time then went that way, dragging up old memories and reconstructing disheveled continuity notes, shooting pick-ups and recording sound bites, editing, editing, editing. 
 I soon picked up work key-gripping low-budget shows in the neighborhood. Now, that may seem like a ridiculous statement, out-of-context. Making movies isn't like pumping gas at the local station-- it is more sought after and illustrious, and usually harder to find. This was an exception.
 A fellow I had met in my earlier production travels called from out-of-the-blue to offer me a job. He knew me to be a capable technician, and had recently become an in-house production manager at a local Venice "studio." I put studio in quotations because it was only minimally that. It was a third-rate lot where B-films were made, where there was recycled junk and flats used for scenery laying around everywhere. Ancient equipment used for film production was at your disposal and also littered about the place. Add a few tin-roofed sheds you could euphemistically call soundstages, and you have a movie studio reduced to it's barest essentials.
 Ironically enough, this particular studio was notorious for being the most prominent low-budget moviemaking facility in the history of Hollywood, pioneered by the undisputed king of budget filmmaking, Roger Corman. I had passed the place a number of times but would have never guessed it to be a movie studio, had I not been invited over for an interview.
 "Jack, I'm doing this little picture on the lot, and I'd really like you to meet the director of photography; I've been pitching you to key grip it-- can you come in tomorrow for an interview?"
 I listened to Cole's whole spiel with one eye cocked. We had met on a job a while back, and I had seen him at a party recently where we exchanged contact numbers. Now he was calling me for work. Networking in it's finest form.
 There was something I liked about Cole when I met him; I took him to be a real go-getter, someone you might like to have on your side in the production department. Obviously he had some similar notion with regard to me. Yet on this particular note he missed one critical element.
 "Well, Cole, I don't know if you realize it, but I'm an electrician by trade-- you know, studio lighting. Do you want me to gaff the show?"
 Grips were specialized stagehands who worked with mechanical motion picture equipment and diffusion media mostly, plus anything else production-oriented that could not immediately be attributed to some other department. Electricians worked with lights and cables and their accessories, specifically. We were different animals, grips and electrics. I thought he understood this, he was the production manager, after all.
 "Oh, no-- we already have a gaffer. But, you've gripped before, right? Don't you think you can do it?" He sounded like he wanted me to do it, like he was convincing me. I felt compelled to oblige him.
 "Oh, I'm sure I can do it. How much does the gig pay? For a key grip? I can definitely do it better than anyone you can get for that kind of money. Yeah, I could do it as a favor for you. When does it start? It's here in town? Okay, I'll come down tomorrow and meet the DP..."
 The conversation went like that for a while, and it wasn't until much later that I realized that that was what much of the industry conversations in Hollywood were like. We were there making small-time political deals, me doing a favor for him, thinking the time would come when he could do something for me.
 The next day I went down and met the DP, Bryce. We made no particular connection, but I didn't particularly dislike him either, so I figured I wouldn't mind working for him for a few weeks. What I didn't realize was, I had the job before I even met him, by way of suggestion on behalf of Cole. Bryce figured it was good business to go with Cole's pick for key grip since he let him bring on his gaffer, and maybe kicked in a couple of extra bucks to help get him to gaff it for such low money. I guess Cole wanted to have somebody on his side close to the action. That's the way "sweetheart deals" are made in Hollywood-- which is probably how I landed a key position I was not fully qualified to do.
 That seems to be the status quo for the production mentality in Hollywood. Some production person gets it in their head that they want this to happen, and they control the purse strings, so suddenly you have a whole production dancing circles and throwing money to achieve this or that. It is only the challenge of some technical feat that amounts to exorbitant cost calculations that scares this beast into submission. Otherwise, they will needlessly throw money at it until it's hunger is satiated or it is slain in battle. This is the fate of the production wildebeest.
 For this particular instance, though, Cole could have done much worse than put me in the position. I was no grip, true, but I had worked beside some good ones-- I could certainly fake my way through a small production with the tricks I knew and a little help. Steve-O was a perfect candidate for the job; his knowledge of grippery exceeded mine, and he was more rehearsed in the hammer-mentality protocol.
 He agreed to do it since he was still floundering in a career choice, and had no better offers apparent. He was working as an electrician more and more, and I had hired him once or twice. He even worked with Welder a bit, which surprised me, since Welder was so fussy. I think Steve-O preferred gripping though, for a natural proclivity toward construction and woodwork. Grip equipment was softer, and often easier to work with. Giant rags and muslin sheets, for blocking and moderating the sun; furniture pads, the kind movers use, for various applications; and of course, plenty of sandbags, amongst all the hardware. Lighting equipment, on the other hand, was mostly metal with sharp edges, and lots of heavy cable-- not the most friendly stuff on the set.
 Surprised as Steve-O was I had landed a job keying, I could tell he was glad.
 "Cole asked me to do it," was my response. "That, and I figured you could carry me. With my beat leg, all I can really do is point, anyway." That was a joke we had-- all the key grip ever does is stand beside the camera and point. Which to a point is true-- they just happen to be talking about technical equipment and manpower related things that can be quite critical for safety in times of production. Then they delegate the operation to their subordinates and continue to witness set operations.
 It turned out to be a good move, for no other reason than I got a good look inside a low-budget filmmaking legacy, and could see that charade of illusion disseminate. But that would just be the beginning, I would later learn, for Hollywood is indeed, all about illusion. As it turned out, I wasn't such a bad magician myself-- I completed the picture and went on to do another, again key gripping and pushing dolly, on another even lower budget enterprise headed up by Cole.
 This next picture was certain to premiere on video. The planned initial release is often a telltale sign of a movie's fate. For example, a secured theatrical release would generally imply a certain minimum production value, to justify all the publicity, advertising, and print costs to promote such a picture. An independent film with proper distribution would be more up in the air, maybe opening on a few screens in major cities, if it was felt that the market was right for it. "Made for video" was like being doomed to the minor leagues-- it would play on cable late at night if it had enough sex and violence, otherwise provide video store rental stock to fill up shelf space. Little revenue, if any, is spent to promote these movies.
 Such barely tolerable B-movies were the status quo for Roger Corman's studio. It was famous for churning out films in less than half the normal time allotted, for a fraction of the budget, using recycled sets (from their last slated production), paying substandard wages for unqualified help, and fostering intolerable and unsafe working conditions. It was the most loosely configured production ensemble, barely exceeding film school knowledge if at all. The only hard and fast principle was that there was no more money in the budget than allotted, under any condition.
 Every so often (probably due in part to the volume production) it would produce a real moneymaker that would pay off big. Most of the films paid off to a certain extent, otherwise they would not be engaged to begin with. Let's face it, the guy didn't become a mogul producing losers. Once in a while would come along a film such as Death Race 2000 or Carnosaur, worthy of true cult-classic B-movie status.
 He was the bottom feeder of Hollywood, servicing the exploitation and low-brow markets, and making a fortune doing it. Like that giant catfish at the bottom of the tank, getting fat on the little pieces that the big fish won't waste their time on. It was a great place for first-time directors, said to have started the careers of many industry names. A great place to bring a first script, I'd heard it said. What it really was was a dive place to make a movie, a junkyard with just the right junk. That was all it took. I hadn't been to the major studios yet, other than outside the gates, or to visit a friend-- so I didn't fully realize what was missing.
 The one thing that wasn't missing, was the studio politics; that was still apparent even in this seedy part of town. But I knew the sheriff, so it was okay. You could find me at Cole's office in the morning for a cup of the brand-name coffee, and I forced my anger on his secretary when he wasn't there to personally receive my impromptu burst of flustered rage. Also, I could peek at the budgets when no one was around and the computers were already booted up.
 Some of the things you might find would surprise you, if you weren't looking, but I was. And it is said that there are more honorable professions than producing, for you are thrown in the tank with sharks and lawyers. You would be less likely to wind up with a knife in your back at a massive knife fight in a dark room than you would working in the studios of Hollywood. However, this was a real eyebrow-raiser, even for me, a suspicious New Yorker snooping through studio files.
 We all knew everything about the place was corrupt in one way or another, but this made it apparent. It had been glibly explained why the picture we were making, entitled Sheena's Rage, was being slated with the clapper from another film the studio had in production, called Wings of the Falcon. They were to be processed in the same bath at the lab, or something to that effect. It sounded fishy, but it didn't really concern me. I didn't pay it any mind at that point, and no one questioned the issue. But as I perused the contents of the budget for Sheena's Rage, a red flag went down.
 Much of the usual was in place, small appropriations for such a small scale film (five hundred dollars for an unoriginal ripped-off script!?). The overall total did seem exceedingly low, even for this impish month-long affair. When I got to the allotment for the camera department it all became suddenly fuzzy.
 "N/A," the abbreviation for "not applicable" predominated in the section "Raw Stock and Developing." On a film like this, you may see many a N/A entered in a standard budget spit out from a program like Movie Magic, as this one was. Such all-encompassing categories like Animal Trainers, Stunts/FX, or Picture Cars would often lack attention. But raw stock and developing? Unless you're Kodak or Technicolor, or have an uncle at both-- no film, no movie. While such companies are earnest and benevolent in the furthering of the medium for humanitarian reasons, anyone who's in this business to make a dime has to pay to sit at the table.
 Then, like sunshine breaking through the clouds, it all became clear. I had been speaking with some of the other crew members on Wings of the Falcon, which was a much bigger production, said to be around the 1.4 million mark (low by any means, but high for this place). Apparently it was a co-production with financiers from overseas, Germany or Denmark or something. I thought about what they were doing, and the picture they were making, and it was no 1.4 million dollar picture! I had worked on bigger films for less money, and though you really can't be certain where the money is being spent unless you're making the payoffs, I could now see where the money was being spent. He was diverting the raw stock and developing expenditures for Sheena's Rage through Wings of the Falcon!
 Genius!! Now I could see why he was considered brilliant, and how he managed to make movies on shoestring budgets for so many years, and become immutable in the process. In no course at NYU would they teach you this, and in no book about making movies at used car prices would you read this principle. I thought to myself, alone in that office, peeking where my eyes shouldn't be, that now I am truly learning from the masters, and this is rich in the salt that Hollywood is cured with.
 This got me thinking in terms of a producer, made me realize much of why I witnessed the things I would witness in coming years. I was no stranger to production, I had been lighting films for several years now and was more advanced than many of my peers in certain circles. I was overqualified for haphazard, substandard productions such as these, and I knew my time was limited. I was considering delving back into the world of production, the "fluorescent front offices" as we came to mythically identify with them. Cole, I would think, would be shrewd enough to utilize my knowledge.
 I wasn't sure I could stoop that low. The freedom and levity of being an electrician (or, in this case, a grip) had spoiled me. It was one of the few positions that didn't taste of ass, and you didn't need a pucker and a smile while you kissed it.
 I thought to myself, what would it take to march in here with a script, and show them what they're doing wrong? My few years of limited know-how still amounted to more than I was witnessing. This was entry-level everywhere you looked; first-time directors, novice DP's, impostor key-grip. Did I even want to march in here with a script, get paid $500 for something I put my heart into, and another thousand a week for three weeks to make the thing with no budget and a bunch of junk? And brown-nose all along the way to get there? Was it all worth it, I asked myself? It paid off for James Cameron, this was where he first forayed into directing with Piranha II, and now look at him-- he's moved on to much bigger waters.
 If it's control you're after, then the studios are no place for you. Like any other bureaucracy, it is laden with dead weight, each with an opinion on how to change or make better, always another offering of an opinion. A common catch phrase, at least on our off-camera side of the studio wall, is: "Opinions are like assholes-- everybody's got one."
 Lack of proprietary interest is the one single most volatile offender in why so much unacceptable product is spewed from the industry. People kiss ass to keep jobs, and often act against their better judgment. My candid honesty would either win big or secure me an early grave, more likely the latter. I opted to stand down, and let this window of opportunity close before me. Although I felt primed and ready for it, I didn't want to go there.
 Fear of success, or fear of failure? I asked myself, but could not find either answer satisfactory. Give up on the dream? No, not yet. I was finally completing the post-production on my film, and was exhausted from the process. I just wasn't ready to cow-tow to anyone else just yet. Especially after the vast number of choices and compromises I had to contrive to finish my film, and now enjoying the merit of it's completion. Maybe I was just too tired and broke to even attempt to launch a whole new career.
 That led to second guessing myself. Maybe I should have gone right for the throat, not bothering to learn the technical crafts, as so many I worked for had. Come out of the gate selling myself as a director, with my thesis film under my arm. Then, my ignorance would be pardonable, if I managed to stay a nice guy. I would certainly be no exception in the industry, like I had hoped in a youthful glimmer I might someday achieve. It has been said that knowledge is the root of all suffering, and I found myself questioning my intentions like some stranded philosopher at a crossroads.
 Then, on cue, fate would intervene to get the philosopher's ass on his feet, and trip him up in the process. This would come in the form of a call from Welder, clueing me in to an upcoming job to see if I was available. It was a welcome call, as I was growing tired of the underscale wages and inept decision making I was encountering daily. It had been more than a year since Miami, and I hadn't seen much of him, socially or professionally, in that time. He was busy working on both coasts, but it was nice to know that he still cared. It was more than that, I soon found out, and Mark had scoped-out the situation before he really filled me in. After we established that I was available and interested, he got to the meat of the matter.
 "Oh yeah-- and another thing-- the director is an old friend of yours. You remember Allison? She's directing the picture."
 "Really? No way! Killer!" That was the best news yet. I had met Allison on Gas, Food, Lodging, the same film that I met Rick Martinez on, that took us to the New Mexico desert. She was a welfare-mom turned independent film director, out of the same peer group as Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino, though of an understandably lower profile.
 I was looking forward to seeing Allison again, she was a personable director to work with in a world of stuffed shirts. I hadn't spoken to Rick in a while, since he was doing the 90210 best boy thing, and hecouldn't hire me because I was still floundering without a union card. Nor would he be available to work on this Allison picture with Welder and me, as we were in different circles now. I was sure we would meet again soon enough.
 We geared up for the film, called Grace of My Heart, and Steve-O was even coming on the lighting crew. Apparently, he had been working with Mark back east, and Mark's confidence in him as an electrician was growing. Either way, It was always good to work with friends on a show.
 Unfortunately, the picture wasn't what I expected it to be. Just expecting, I have learned, is like setting up for disappointment. But this was unexpected, because no matter what I might have thought to happen, I would have never expected this.
 My life turned on a dime, like a skater on ice in the Olympics, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Usually, when my life is turning on a dime, I'm the one doing the turn. But not this time. No, this was inertia, gravity, vector-- something beside choice. Choice I have always had the option to make-- but not this time. This was a vortex. There was no choice. You must go where the force determines you will go.
 I felt the strangeness of the situation at Panavision Hollywood, where we were performing the camera tests for the upcoming film. I first saw her as I entered the room; she was reserved and timid, sitting alone. A young blonde, she looked out of place and scared just to be there. I noticed her right away-- her eyes were the biggest and most beautiful I had ever seen, bluer than anything in nature. I immediately averted my stare. She was young, maybe too young, and far too innocent looking. I knew I shouldn't be looking there.
 I attended to my work judiciously, which took me to the parking lot, where a veritable battalion of Kino-Flo's stood at the ready for lighting armaments. Here is an interesting side-bar story, like many within the industry. This guy was a gaffer who re-invented the fluorescent light: made the color appropriate for film (they previously would make you look green), made them dimmable, portable, and functional-- now they were used on most every set in Hollywood. No gaffer would dare do a show without them. They had become indispensable, shortly after invention.
 The guy was worth millions, had a company worth millions, and never had to gaff another show as long as he lived. It was the kind of success-story every electrician dreamed about, and in this business it could happen to you. You could see that glimmer of dollar signs in the back of many a juicer's eye, keenly searching for their crop of gold to arise.
 This particular DP liked the fluorescent lights, and carried a ton of Kino's in his package, which made our job rather unordinary. I didn't mind using the lights, though many electricians found them tedious, because they were different from tungsten-filament lights and required a different handling protocol. I was out in the parking area re-acquainting myself with the units, checking them, when she came outside.
 She was reserved, keeping cool and to herself as she watched me go through the equipment. I smiled as our eyes met.
 "Hi." I said it matter-of-factly, to not be rude. She was cute, okay-- beautiful, but still I didn't want to mess with her. She was too young, and probably not interested anyway. Girls in Hollywood have a way of dispelling a come-on before it even starts, I learned.
 "Hi," she came back at me, watching my moves. "You working on the movie?"
 "Yeah. I'm an electrician. Y'know, lighting. How about you?"
 "I'm a stand-in."
 "Oh? Cool." It seemed like a luxury even having stand-ins. That meant the actors could lounge around their trailers or dressing rooms while we used these look-alikes for lighting and camera rehearsals. That way the talent could save their energy for when the cameras were rolling.
 I could tell from her voice that she was not native to California. "Where are you from?" I asked.
 "Texas," she replied, and I smiled some kind of knowing smile, thinking I knew something then.
 "Is this your first show in town?" I asked, and she nodded yes. I let out a little sigh looking at the beautiful young thing come to Hollywood.
 "This town is sure gonna change you," I said, and it sort of went right past her, as we stood there on Franklin and afternoon traffic started building up.
 Filming of Grace soon began in and around Los Angeles. It was a story about the music business growing up in the fifties and sixties, with lots of cameos featuring people from the day. It should have been a lot of fun, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. There was not the unity we had experienced as an outfit in New Mexico, on Allison's previous film. Of course, this was a different crew, still non-union, in a different situation. We were in Hollywood, the den of lions and wolves, and we were a small production in a big town. There was entropy run rampant right from the outset; but that was all in the nature of the beast.
 This was a back-door deal Universal had with Gramercy Pictures, one of those trendy sneaky arrangements producers employed to save money at the time. Universal, who is bonded to the unions, funds another company to engage non-union production for a film they will eventually handle, in this case Gramercy Pictures. This was no negative pick-up, where a picture is produced independently, then a studio becomes attached and provides funding in post-production. Here, the studio was involved at the outset, complicating things from the start. They had their people meddling in the affairs of filmmakers, and as such a director can become suffocated by strangulation. Truly a perversion of the independent film.
 Not only that, but the political climate of the time in Hollywood was one of a pro-union resurgence. This picture, a non-union feature for about five-million dollars in a union town, was not going to happen-- over Jimmy Hoffa's dead body. There were cries of "UNION!" and "STRIKE!" from day one.
 An exciting and scary place to be at the same time, it was, on the back of the truck that day with the union representative handing you a blue card. Everyone on the crew was issued one, an "authorization for representation" card. I had seen them before on 90210 a while back. Signing it would grant, by popular vote, the union to come down, form a picket-line, and engage the producers in a collective bargaining agreement in an effort to organize the show.
 Enigmatic, it was, at least. I hated to oppose my friend Allison, the director, by voting for a strike-- she was having enough trouble making her picture with the studio intervening constantly. On the other hand, the producer was taking advantage of us, paying on "cume" overtime deals (the hated non-union cumulative overtime deal paid OT based on a sixty-or-more hour weekly rate, as opposed to daily OT accrued-- thus, one short-day could negate all your weekly overtime) with below-scale wages to boot.
 Not voting to strike was like voting for all these things, with a list of other intolerable conditions and no rules governing them. I didn't know what to expect from union labor and job-sites, but I knew I had little future left going backwards, to Corman, and his little Venice shop of non-union horrors. I just couldn't do it any more. I had evaded a career as a union lighting technician long enough, now it seemed I had to step up to it.
 Fortunately, all it took was the penstroke in ink; circumstance, and union organizers would take care of the rest. We were a few days into production, on location at a defunct downtown L.A. site made to look like N.Y.'s Brill Building. The labor talks hammer struck, putting a freeze on the production as the union negotiators came down to face the producers with an ultimatum; sign union contracts, or the strike and picket will continue.
 I was absent when it first transpired, and the workers took to the street and formed a picket line. I was busy at a nearby Hospital receiving a tetanus shot as treatment for the rusty nail I had accidentally stepped on that morning. When I returned to location, the picket line had already formed. Steve-O, Mark, and the others were already outside on the curb.
 "What's going on?" I asked, obligatorily, playing dumb.
 "Don't you know?" Mark queried. "We're on strike."
 It was like a pretend little guessing game, we all knew what was really going on, pretty much down to the day and time of the strike. Nobody wanted to admit to being a villain. Of course, there had to be one individual, one Judas to drop the dime, and make the phone call to the union representative. But there were all those other Judas' standing around saying, "here's the phone," and "here's a dime," and "let me get the number for you..."
 In retrospect, that was just the beginning of a tide in Hollywood to return to being a union town, and it was inevitable that most all of the shows, especially around that budget range, would get organized. Within the next year, anyone I had known in the business that had been doing it for some time in the non-union world would have opportunity to join on some show or another. The work force pool demanded increasing numbers to fill the need for skilled labor in these prodigious and spendy days of Hollywood.

*****