The shuttles. It’s tough for a lot of Los Angelenos to go someplace that relies so heavily on public transportation. Nobody at Sundance drives. Everybody walks, everybody takes the shuttles. On the plus side, they’re free. Unfortunately, that also makes them crowded and slow. Plan accordingly. If you’re going from one end of Park City to the other (i.e. Transit Center to Redstone), give yourself a solid hour of travel time. Don’t freak out about the crowdedness. Consider it an opportunity to network with the person who’s practically sitting on top of you.

I love the guy on the right with his head in his hands. I feel your pain, bro!

The swag. There’s A LOT of free swag at the festival. I think most people in Hollywood have a love-hate relationship with swag. Everybody wants free stuff, but once you get it, you’re supposed to feel like you can’t be bothered with such garbage. (e.g. I’ve never actually worn a crew t-shirt, but I’d be pissed if a show ever neglected to give me one.) My advice is to take the Sundance swag, since you never know when you’ll have the chance to go back.

The celebrities. Sundance might feel like one big film industry utopia, but don’t forget where you came from. You’re still a PA, which means you don’t have permission to shout at Paris Hilton as she passes you on Main Street.

Do your homework. Next time I go, I’ll do more research to find out which movies are hyped and which are whack. I went to three screenings, and only one was good. Next time, I’d at least like to get my batting average over .500. Considering how long it takes to get into a movie (especially if you wait list), you don’t want to waste your precious time on some horrifically bad adaptation of a classically beloved novel.

Dress warmly. You’d think this goes without saying, but the locals are secretly laughing their Mormon asses off at how a lot of Californians are dressing. They’re called layers, people. Learn to work them in your favor. And high-heeled shoes? Get the eff outta here. Your high-heeled shoes won’t keep you upright in snow and ice. Think heavy boots and jackets. Don’t worry about looking hip at the late night parties. Almost everyone is in boots, and nearly every place has a coat check.

Get on the wait list. As a PA of limited means, I couldn’t afford a festival pass. I was lucky enough to score a couple movie tickets from a friend, but they didn’t cover every movie I wanted to see. This led me to the wait list. You show up at least two hours in advance of your movie, get a wait list number, then come back no later than thirty minutes before your movie. Sometimes you get in (ahem, Wuthering Heights). Sometimes, you don’t (Celeste and Jesse Forever). A lot of it rides on luck, but you can game the system by picking movies early in the day (before noon), late at night (after 9pm), or at faraway theaters (i.e. Redstone or Temple). The Redstone is actually a perfect place to wait-list, because they’re the only theater with two screens, so you can hedge your bets.

Stay for the Q&A. If you like a movie, stick around for the Q&A. If you really like a movie, introduce yourself to the filmmaker. (Don’t forget the first commandment of networking – Keep thyself from seeming creepy.)

Talk to people. For the most part, Park City transforms self-involved L.A. mega-jerks into friendly, chatty vacation-goers. I don’t know, maybe it’s the altitude. Talk to people in line for movies, on the shuttles, at coffee shops. Park City is teeming with people. Some of them are serious players. Some of them are bottom-of-the-rung wannabes (like you and me). But what difference does it make? We’re not successful enough to discriminate. (Oh, and the locals may well possibly be the nicest and friendliest people on planet Earth.)

Hit up your friends. A lot of your friends are going to Park City sometime during the ten-day festival. By “friends,” I’m referring mostly to that protean list of Facebook friends and Twitter followers. It can’t hurt to give them a quick shout-out. At the very least, they might be able to recommend a good spot for coffee. At the most, they might be able to get you into three screenings and a party.

We’re two-and-a-half weeks into the new year, but it’s not too late to write your resolutions.

Oh, baby.

“But resolutions are stupid,” you might be saying. “Everybody wants to lose weight and get more organized.” Yeah, I’d agree with that. If those are your resolutions, then they’re pretty stupid. (Dang. Couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t go three paragraphs without calling something stupid.) Maybe that’s why I don’t necessarily call mine resolutions, but, rather, 2012 Goals. A few things I’ve learned that can help you with your 2012 Goals:

Write them down. If you’ve got a journal, put them there. I put mine on 3×5 index cards, taped to my wall above my computer. In the past, I’ve used FutureMe to email them to myself. Hell, if you want to, write them in the comments section of this post and I’ll send you a reminder in 11 months.

Tell people about them – your best friend, the dude you’re hooking up with, your roommate, your therapist. Saying it out loud makes it more real, so say it to as many people as possible.

Make the goals realistic. Make them something that you actually plan on working towards. I could add Make a million dollars to my list of goals, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that one. A more realistic goal might be Make $35,000 this year or Get health insurance. Those are things that I know how to work toward. They’re attainable.

Make them unique to you. It’s easy to get caught up in where you think you should be at this point in your life/career/relationship, but try to write your goals based on what you want and how you feel.

My goals, in no particular order:

1. Get an agent or manager for my writing.
2. Travel to at least three states I’ve never been to.
3. Buy new clothes.
4. Listen to new music.
5. Be amazed by at least one thing per week.
6. Write two features.
7. Exercise regularly.
8. Read more, especially screenplays.

Happy new year.

I can file. I can order office supplies. I can organize a cast list and a crew list and a non-confidential cast list. I can email out call sheets and schedules. I can keep inventories. I can crafty shop. I can read a screenplay about as fast as R.L. Stine can write a Goosebumps book. I can show up early. I can stay late.

But goddammit, why can’t I file for unemployment?

I eventually get it right, but on average, it takes me about 2 1/2 practice runs before I make it through the system. This doesn’t even count my first attempt at becoming a ward of the state, back in 2007, when my ineptitude was so bad that they eventually just called me, since I couldn’t be trusted to properly fill out a form, sign it, and return it on my own.

I need unemployment-GPS.

I’ve been told that the prime time to call unemployment is the Wednesday afternoon after you receive your last check. Apparently, the unemployment peeps are most accommodating then. (Wednesday = Doughnut Day?) I tried that, but I got so frustrated sitting on hold that I hung up. Maybe this is why I’m so bad at this. My patience drops precipitously when dealing with any government agency. Maybe watching Ghostbusters as a kid pre-disposed me to be wary of any and all government bureaucrats. (I’m talking to you, Walter Peck.)

So far, so good. I made it through the labyrithine online system and have received confirmation that they got my application. Hoping to get my first check soon. Fingers crossed.

See ya on the next one, ya pack of ungrateful clowns.

But let’s get real. For a lot of people, we’re not hoping to see them “on the next one.” I’d rather say, “I hope I never have to work with you ever again. You’re monumentally unhelpful, and you’re wildly indignant whenever someone asks you to do your job.”

But professionalism forbids.

Despite this, you always end up scrambling on the last day, hurriedly labeling boxes and files as the movers are apathetically waiting to haul them away. (Or, if you’re unlucky, you are also the mover.)

Why does this ALWAYS happen?! Because work fills time. On my last show, we spent the first two weeks of wrap doing absolutely nothing. You’d expect to find me happy as a hog, but actually, I was furious. “Why are we wasting all this time?” I wondered. I was right. We paid for that do-nothing week dearly, on the back end, when the last week of wrap was a holy hell nightmare.

On my next show, I’m going to start wrapping on my first day of work. Even if I’ve still got months of employment ahead of me. Even if people scratch their heads in confusion because the new guy is already packing up boxes. Even if it makes NO SENSE AT ALL. If somebody asks, “What are you working on?” I’ll answer, “A head start.”

Recently, the honchos at Coordinators 411 realized that they were sitting on a cash cow, so they attempted to monetize the group by migrating it to a web site, which they had the good sense to name “Production Yak.”

Oh boy. There is so much wrong with this new web site. First of all, I haven’t heard the word “yak” since the second grade, when the nuns at my elementary school chided me for being a “yakking chatterbox.”

Secondly, the Production Yak web site looks like a GeoCities page, circa 1994. The buttons at the top of the page aren’t intuitive. “Yak Live,” “Yak 411,” and “I Need It Now” feel like different ways of saying the same thing. Side question: When the hell in a production office do we NOT need something now, this very moment? That might as well be the only button on the page.

Reeeeeeaaaaal Professional-Looking, Right?

Thirdly, the rank and file production office peeps aren’t too happy about the fact that somebody’s making money off the advertising. If Coordinators 411 was a non-profit, hippie-dippie local grocery store, then Production Yak is its Wal-Mart counterpart.

Finally – AND MOST IMPORTANTLY – Production Yak is… different. It requires change. It requires learning an entirely new system. And, as I’ve mentioned before, nothing meets greater resistance in a production office than trying to change things. If they could still get away with faxing everything, they would.