Moving to Los Angeles, Part 1: Religious Cults and Mammoth Caves.

"You're taking what route?"

"Oh, we're just going up through Chicago and then cutting down to Los Angeles from there."

"Jas. You do know where Chicago is?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what you just said?"

"Yeah."

"No, really though, do you know what you just said?"

My parents had a right to be skeptical. In the fifth grade geography bee, I lost in the first round after I said that Myanmar was in Belize. As I took my place in the loser's pit, I not so silently cursed the student who went on to get the far superior question about which country had a higher suicide rate, Japan or Indonesia.

"We're just going up to Chicago for a few days to visit with some friends."

"When were you going to tell me this?"

"Mom, I told you a few days ago."

"Did you really?"

I wanted to hit up Chicago for a couple of reasons. First, my driving buddy and I both had good friends that lived in the city who would be down to hang out and almost certainly let us crash with them for free. Second, I had been wanting to see Chicago ever since I dated this kid who used to live in a Chicago based religious commune (read: cult) called Jesus People USA. Lovingly referred to by residents as Japooza because of the acronym JPUSA, Jesus People USA had been my favorite go-to Google search whenever I had exhausted all other internet destinations. 

As someone who never drove west of Louisiana or north of Tennessee on my own, I glanced at the estimated 15 hour drive and thought, "Eh. Whatever." 

"Whatever?" my father replied, "How many miles does the white car have on it?"

"Um. It's about to hit two hundred thousand."

"And you want to drive this car across the country?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, hell," my father muttered, turning to leave and grab a beer from the fridge.

 "Well, wait just a second," my mom said, after some thought, "What about Gramma's car? The green car only has about sixty-five thousand miles on it."

The white car, a 2002 Chevy Malibu, had been mine since eleventh grade. Well loved and well worn, it bore all of the signatures of my youth: a sticker that said,  'I give evolution two opposable thumbs up," an Aquabats decal, a Weezer sticker, and a couple of in-your-face gay pride bumper stickers. That car was my middle finger on wheels. Seventeen hours later my grandmother signed a paper saying that it was now her middle finger on wheels, effectively making her the biggest badass that the Rainbow Run Nursing Home had ever seen. Armed with a 2000 Century Buick (named Betty after my grandmother), all of our belongings, and a burning desire to see some of the tackiest roadside traps we could find, James and I set off for Chicago. 

We made it out of Georgia and into Tennessee. We drove right by Chattanooga and into Kentucky, which was surprisingly full of amazing things like a magic mountain amusement park and mammoth cave. I wanted to stop and see if I could find a mammoth tusk at the gift shop or a shrunken mammoth trunk on a keychain, but we were on too tight of a schedule. We couldn't even find time to stop at Dinosaur World, a collection of over 150 life sized, plastic predators.

At some point we crossed into Indiana. Let me show you a picture that sums up the entire drive through Indiana:

We finally crossed into Illinois and saw the first of what would turn out to be countless giant, white windmills.  I really wanted to stop the car and listen to the massive blades swoosh and cut through the air. I imagined that it would sound like what the nine year old version of myself envisioned a portal to another dimension sounding like.
"James."
"Yes?"
"Say that there were small carriages on the end of each blade. Like little cabs on a super fast amusement park ride. If you stuck a human on the ends of a massive windmill blade going around at full speed, do you think they would live? Or do you think they would die?"
"Well, I think that-"
"Because I think they'd totally die."

Not too long after the Don Quixote experience came the tolls that alerted us to the fact that either a) Chicago was not as far away as we had been led to believe of b) we were going an average of 20 miles over the speed limit at any given time.

Regardless, we made it to Chicago in record time - and in one piece, too.

Prologue: The great roadtrip to Los Angeles.

This trip has been a long time coming. 

I often dreamed of the great American road trip as a young girl. I imagined that I had friends and that we would gleefully pile into a giant Winnebago and tumble to the ground, rolling around and playfully swatting at each other while an adult, who didn't mind the Spice Girls at all, drove all of us to some random tourist destination like the Grand Canyon or the Juliette Gordon Lowe House.

At thirteen my great vision evolved to include myself and three of my best girl friends. We would all wear pink plastic tube tops and hop into a lime green Volkswagen Beetle where we would blare my awful mix-cassettes with the homemade commercials. As we cruised through the USA, we would discuss about kissing tips from Seventeen Magazine and dance around the topic of practicing on each other.

I didn't go on my first real road trip until somewhat recently. There were no buddies, no revolutionary tales of girl camaraderie. I had gotten an callback for a micro budget film shooting in Louisiana and I drove there alone. With nothing but a few tanks of gas and a good feeling, I set off down I-20 in hopes of getting a small part in a film about scientists and Satan. A massive snow storm hit the south on my way back and I became stranded in a Marriot in Alabama for three days, only venturing outside to grab wine and value priced SmartOnes from Target. I booked the film and made another road trip to and from the wondrous land of Louisiana. That story is being saved for my imminent publishing deal.

Then I actually went on a real cross country road trip. You know where that thing began? Waffle House.

James, my significant other and roadtrip mate, sitting in a Wa-Ho for the third time in his life.

Goodbye Celebrations

Smile Big and Pretty is on the road to Los Angeles! Follow Jas on Instagram at 0smilebigandpretty or follow the Hashgr.am feed HERE!

I'm the kind of person who becomes overly sentimental and/or emotionally excited very quickly. Someone once told me that my smile made their day brighter and I got a nosebleed. When I sense camaraderie, friendship, love, and laughter in the same room, I shoot straight a mental state that rivals that of Kristin Bell when she found out that her boyfriend had brought a sloth into their home for her 31st birthday. 

The ingredients to a proper farewell celebration include friends, nostalgic discussion, and optional drunkenness. Ours boasted all of these qualities and more. We began the evening with a small get together at Neighbor's Pub in VA Highlands and finished at Metalsome Monday, which you may remember from my birthday celebration a while back.

As we continue on this insane road trip, I keep thinking of the individuals and events that I personally feel gave me the confidence I needed to make this move happen. This is one of my new favorite pictures:

Most of the individuals pictured were involved with V/H/S, a film that I acted in that went on to dominate Sundance, SXSW, and countless other film festivals. To say that I am nothing short of honored that they came out to see me off would almost be an understatement.

On a the Richter scale of emotions, I zoomed right past nosebleed and approached the kind of excitement that needs additional subtitles to convey its intensity.

Or maybe I just reveled in how lucky I was to know such awesome people.

 -

Speaking of V/H/S, the official poster just dropped - check it out here!

My last act as an Atlantan.

Smile Big and Pretty is on the road to Los Angeles! Follow Jas on Instagram at 0smilebigandpretty or follow the Hashgr.am feed HERE!

Two days ago I sat down at a vacant dining room table, made myself a cup of coffee, and wrote the following as I waited for the potential opportunity to fight off vagrants and neighborhood troublemakers:

After what can only be described as a tornado of packing VS. unpacking VS. transporting VS. more packing, everything is in in place for what I can only hope will be a life changing, cross country journey. The car has been packed. The loved ones have been properly hugged and kissed. The mind has been prepped for the ungodly realization of what I am about to do to kick in.

Only one task remains.

My last act of valor in Atlanta consisted of a duel with the beast of bedtime.

Player Number One, a vivacious and extremely intelligent 1.7 year old, lasted well into the eight o’clock hour and resigned herself to slumber only after I retrieved a plastic ice-cream scoop for her and pretended to eat it while Elizabeth Mitchell played on my iPhone.
Player Number Two, a young lady who is also already probably way more intelligent that me, lasted slightly longer. She tried to trick me into letting her stay up by saying that a rousing game of Littlest Pet Shop was just the ticket to making her sleepy. A game of Littlest Pet Shop, according to Player Number Two, consists of emptying out all of the action figures from a box and re-envisioning them as characters from Harry Potter.  Having already played this game with her the last time I body-guarded for the girls, I knew very well that this was not a sleep inducing activity and suggested we read a story instead. 

“Touche, Body Guard,” she said.

She didn’t really say that. (However, her expression indicated she would have had touche been an active word in her vocabulary.)

Now that the girls have fallen asleep and it’s just me and my thoughts, I’m knee deep in nervous anticipation. This is it. Now what? How do I make the best of my situation? Will people like me? How can I do my best to ensure that I don’t crash and burn in the vicious industry of Los Angeles? What does the future have in store? How can I trick someone into representing me? How can I make money writing?

How will I know what to do?

I wonder about all of this and more until I remind myself that right now, in the present, I probably shouldn't kill myself worrying over such things because I may or may not have just used an eHow video to change a diaper.

See you when I see you, Atlanta!

Hey guys! I will post some awesome content about my last days in Atlanta soon, but in the meantime, follow my adventures on the way to Los Angeles by following me on Twitter: @jas_sams

I am also photo blogging the whole thing on INSTAGRAM! Find me on Instragram as 0smilebigandpretty or follow my pictures through Hashgr.am HERE!

First stop: CHICAGO.

Sometimes you just have to sigh and say, "GIRL. Let me tell you."

A few days ago, I sent a text message to a friend of mine that said,
"OOOOH GIRL. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT SOME SHIT."

I sent this message because I finally received the confirmation from *Dueces that I needed, but not in the way I had hoped. For the back story on the Dueces saga, please read this entry. Every couple of weeks I would send an email to my agent that basically said, "Hey, what's up, do we know anything about this movie yet, my moving date is still flexible, hope all is well, you rock, bye."

Eventually I received an email that basically said:

Deuces Casting has asked me to forward this to you. 
---
Good Afternoon, 


Would the following actors be interested in being extras in Dueces? The director loved all these people and would LOVE to have them involved in the film. The director feels very strongly about having great actors fill out the film.

This was my expression:

The extras were being paid a rate of around $110 a day plus an extra 10% in a move that I can only assume was designed to give the agents an incentive to at least present the possibility of extra-ing to the actors.

I felt pure rage for about two minutes. Really? No one could give me a straight answer and when they finally did, it was to ask me about being an extra? Really? When they knew that my moving date relied on getting a straight answer? What was I supposed to say? I pressed the reply button and composed myself enough to type,
"Really?!"

Then I stopped. My agent at least had the decency to preface the email with, "I have been asked to forward this," which was the professional equivalent of, "I am doing this because I have to, not because I want to."

After mulling that detail over, I erased my one-word-reply and instead typed,
"I will be in LA, but thank you." 

I scanned it over. I wanted it to sound mostly professional - that way no one could accuse me of being rude - but definitely wanted to include a tiny bit of, "You are shitting me, right?"

I pressed the send button and took a deep breath.
"This is Georgia," I thought, "and apparently this is acceptable here. Do not take this personally.

 Then I grabbed my cellphone and contacted a non-actor friend and typed,
"OOOOH GIRL. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT SOME SHIT."

Then I calmed down and got over it.