Pool Club
On pursuing lifelong dreams + finding lasting friendship.
In the summer of 2018 I was invited to a meeting in Los Angeles with nine other people. We squeezed into a Koreatown apartment where there was no parking, minimal air circulation, and hardly any windows. I “knew” three other people: the organizer, Chris, a former college classmate I reconnected with on Instagram; Julia, whom I had randomly taken an improv class with several years back; and Lauren, whom I had cyber-stalked once on Facebook when she dated a friend, so really it was a stretch to say I knew her.
The point of the meeting was for everyone to pitch short film ideas, discuss them, and vote on which ones we liked best. Eventually, Chris announced, his company called Rude Horse was going to produce two of our ideas. The prospect of producing short films—and having the financing to do so—was tantalizing, but I was cautiously optimistic. I had just earned my Master’s in Entertainment Management a month prior. Going into the program, I thought my cohort and I would eventually ride off into the Hollywood sunset together, best friends for life, bonded by our love of watching and producing films together. But the environment ultimately proved to be competitive and hostile, and I kept in touch with maybe two of my former classmates.
I did make new friends when I snagged a coveted internship at a leading talent agency. We would meet in the coffee break room, assemble for lunch at Westfield Century City across the street, and get together for weekend game nights in the Valley. I began to notice a pattern in our conversations, in which we primarily discussed the latest abuses we had endured and how much longer we had to suffer at the agency before we had done “sufficient time.”
One coworker, John, was repeatedly verbally humiliated in front of the entire floor for having bought the agent he worked for Poland Spring instead of Arrowhead water. The diatribes only intensified when he tried to explain that the grocery store was out of Arrowhead. “There, there, John,” we’d console him in the break room. “That wasn’t right. It’ll be worth it, though, when you one day fulfill your dream of being the head of Disney. You’ll show him.” Doing time at an agency is a form of entertainment industry hazing and considered a rite of passage, which meant, in a sense, that I had something quite profound in common with my peers: we were willing to endure barely paid, borderline abusive work in order to one day realize our dreams. But I discovered in time that trauma-bonding isn’t fertile ground for lasting friendship.
So, newly married and graduated, I found myself in the big, glittering city I had always dreamed of, with my husband as my only meaningful friend. I thought that Rude Horse would introduce me to new people and teach me something about independent filmmaking, but I tried not to hope for more. True to his word, Chris organized two short film productions. I learned how securing a permit to shoot outdoors in LA is its own genre of nightmare as well as what it feels like to see my name at the top of the call sheet (thrilling and terrifying). What surprised me most about the experience was how, for the first time since moving to LA, these friendships didn’t come with an asterisk.
I remember meeting up with a former classmate for coffee who told me how a producer on their project had stolen money and refused to pay the crew. The culture on their set reminded me of graduate school and I felt lucky to have stumbled upon Rude Horse where everything was above board; people were friendly, hard-working, and—as many people had a background in comedy— remarkably funny. Sure, we didn’t really know what we were doing, but it felt like everyone had something to offer, whether it be their background in performance or writing, education in entertainment law, experience in production, or simple emotional support.
Organically, the Rude Horse crew began to assemble in other ways, too. We met for writers’ support groups, made comedy sketches, and gathered for July 4th fireworks-viewings, Christmas carol sing-alongs, and just because we wanted to. My husband Harry and I would have everyone over at our apartment’s rooftop pool, from which we could see the Hollywood sign and the skyline of Downtown LA. We’d eat snacks and have contests on who could swim the full length of the pool and back in one breath. We’d jump between the cold pool and the hot tub and hang out and laugh until all twenty fingers and toes shriveled to prunes. It became known as Pool Club.
Two guys in the group had an attic in their spacious West Hollywood abode and any get-together there was deemed an Attic Party. Several of us started a side group-chat, dubbed Moon Club, where we exchanged fun facts and pictures about the moon. Anything and everything became a “club” or a “party” and anyone who wanted to join was always invited. We attended each other’s shows, acted in each other’s table reads and invited each other to the movies. We went on hikes and explored areas surrounding LA, like Joshua Tree and Big Bear Lake and Sequoia National Park. It was like college, minus the exams and homework and with the added element of us all chasing our lifelong dreams together.
When the pandemic struck in 2020, our friend group, which by then had expanded beyond the original ten people, simply moved online. We met virtually for Zoom trivia nights and text-organized games of Survivor and mafia. Some of us broke off into our own pandemic pods, and Julia, Harry and I decided to escape the claustrophobia of the city one weekend with a trip to Lake Arrowhead. Except our getaway turned apocalyptic when, during a midday hike, a shadow seemed to pass over the sun like an eclipse. From a clearing overlooking a valley, we saw a giant plume of smoke drifting our way; the horrifying aftermath, we later learned, of a gender reveal party gone wrong. We went into town, anticipating an evacuation announcement. Instead, we found ash falling from the sky like snow as people milled about as normal, eating ice cream cones and pushing strollers, enjoying life to its bitter, ashy end.
As the pandemic dragged on, several people in our friend group moved away from LA and some pivoted from the entertainment industry altogether. At some point—I’m not sure when—I realized that the Rude Horse Era had passed. Just as the pandemic never had an official end-date, neither did the Rude Horse Era. Which, of course, isn’t to say that those friendships haven’t lasted. We just don’t assemble with the same bright eagerness and frequency anymore.
Eventually, Harry and I even left LA, something I never thought we would do. I had waited so long and worked so hard to get there that I assumed nothing could take me away. But when Harry was laid off and my acting union went on strike, we decided to temporarily put our belongings in storage, embark on a cross-country roadtrip, and spend some time with our folks in Virginia. It’s been three years and our stuff is still waiting for us in East Los Angeles. We’re not ready to fully leave, nor does it feel right to return, either.
In 2025 I visited LA for the first time knowing I wouldn’t be moving back. I cried 80% of the trip. Every coffee shop, familiar neighborhood, and old hiking spot I drove by brought back memories. Pool Club had officially disbanded (there was no pool anymore!) and every single one of my friends had moved—across town if they’d stayed in LA at all—with new jobs and several with new partners. Everything had completely changed.
There’s a scene in Inside Out 2 where the character “Nostalgia” emerges from a back room. She’s an old lady holding a teacup, and reminisces about the good old days. The other characters shepherd her back into her room; nostalgia is for later, they tell her, when we’re older. I thought to tell my Nostalgia the same. Then I realized that time really had passed and she was right on time.
There’s something magical about an epoch of life so full of energy and joy that you don’t realize it’s happening until it’s over. Except it isn’t exactly over. Each of us was chasing a dream—a writers’ room, a major acting role, the director’s chair. And some of us are continuing on the paths we were on the day we met in that Koreatown apartment, even if they don’t look quite how we imagined. A few have done the astonishing work of actually arriving. Others have veered somewhere new entirely. Regardless, we were never meant to stay frozen in time together; that would defeat the whole purpose of finding community in the first place. We wanted to help each other grow, and growing means changing.
My Master’s capstone was titled “Women Directors and Sustainable Careers.” While many studies examine why women are barred from the film and TV industry, we interviewed women who had built long-term careers in it, and tried to understand how. One answer recurred, emphatically, in every interview: the communities of friends they came up with—the people who read their screenplay drafts, gathered for weekend dinners, listened to them complain when a project fell through—were stated as critical in their success. I remember thinking, “How are we going to present this as scientific research? What are we going to say, if you want to succeed in Hollywood, make good friends?”
I get it now. It’s not necessarily that making good friends makes you successful in Hollywood. It’s that they make life infinitely more bearable, especially in an industry where volatility, rejection, and shallow relationships are commonplace. The people who last in this industry aren’t the ones who suffer best, but the ones who found a way to enjoy it. And you can’t enjoy it alone.
This past weekend I flew to Austin to meet up with Julia and Lauren, along with some other friends. The woman I randomly had an improv class with many years ago and the other woman I had cyber-stalked on the internet have become two of my dearest friends. And now, both of them are getting married! To different people, I might add. Lauren, in fact, is marrying Jordan, an OG member of the Rude Horse aka Pool Club aka Attic Party crew. To me, their union represents the lasting magic of that time, that it didn’t end so much as evolve.
Experienced screenwriters and producers will say that what the protagonist wants is never what she really needs. The stated goal—the role, the writers’ room, the executive producer title—drives the plot forward, but the true narrative runs deeper. I think back to that day in Lake Arrowhead when the ash was falling and everyone continued eating their ice cream cones. Julia, Harry, and I looked at each other and burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. We returned to our cabin and played Pandemic, a cooperative boardgame in which you either all win or lose together. We didn’t know if the world was ending. It certainly felt like it was. I feel proud of the work I’ve done in my filmmaking and acting career, though I don’t know if I’ll ever work on the kinds of feature films I’ve always dreamed of. I hope I do. But what matters is, I have my people.
Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.
At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.
I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.
That made me so nostalgic! Reading this felt like catching up on a dear friend’s life update xd Thank you for writing this 🤍 it was genuinely heartwarming, made me miss my own version of Pool Club.
I love your description of how life changed. And it’s so true. We miss those special early moments when friends were bonding and the night seemed never-ending. Don’t let those things sit too long in storage. Take them into your new life or let them fly. What you are doing now will outshine all of that and you will remember those first times with happiness, some nostalgia, and no regrets!