LA: Six Don't Mix

Out of all the incredible people in the world, I have already met the best ones. There is a bitterness I never want to know. I sit with three of my first improv students over Vietnamese. One calls me Momedy. Being a teacher is the best. I email my Chicago students pump-ups about finals. I wish I could be there. I really really do.

When we switch locations, no one waits for me while I’m printing. I’m rushed across town in a van to deliver the pages hot into AG and TF’s hands. I had zoomed as fast as possible, but who knows what it looks like. The bar is smoky. It reminds me of haunted houses. We go late, and I am cranky. Sitting in a closed down deli watching a monitor. My brain isn’t working enough to be productive. I eat too many noodles and still open a candy when I get home. AP introduces me to TF. I text Puhg a billion messages. He sends me love.

Zumba, bang trim, unclear times. I see how people, no matter who they are, can feel self-conscious or negative. Is everyone? My experience is too limited. The evening is easy-going. AP orders me to find her a funny video of Melania avoiding Trump. We talk a lot about Nic Cage. No matter where you are, there are days like this, where we’re happy to be doing the work. The camera man steps on my foot and must stay there until the shot is over. It’s really okay. I can’t stop snacking after work. This week has been brutal on my guts. My leggings are snug.

Early in Malibu. Have a pier oatmeal and write up notes for Turk’s pilot. The ocean is gorg, the surf’s up, but I feel the best because I’m replotting his story arcs. Later, when he texts me, “OMG these are the best notes I’ve gotten” I feel settled. I close out my solo time with an ice cream sandwich. The winery canyon is gorgeous. Unreal. Sit on a slope thinking about guilty Bill Cosby. It’s cold, and I forgot my coat. MS notices. I feel guilty taking up his brain space. There’s a lot of goofing with Grief. We’re perched in a teeny crook and pass back and forth into the actor cottage to keep warm. There’s a moment I have to trot down for a question. The scene looks just as it does in monitors—glowing and wine. Cowsk asks me to text her when I get home. The roads are winding, we wrap at 2. The sunset was purple.

I let myself move slowly. My insides are ugly. Kath and I have pastries and walk around the rich houses. I have a salad for dinner and write in the house café I almost feel will be a Place. I’m proud that I know how not to be awkward when I am new somewhere. I do my first LA BWC at a big fat theatre. I do alright, but it’s the first pancake. East Side Fury. Diablo is outside waiting. She’s too enthusiastic with the rest of the cast and we walk a mile to an ice cream shop. It is VERY GOOD. Notably so. There are no closed doors when I’m with my people. A Jar’s birthday in a speak-easy. The bouncer shows us a video on our way out. We don’t stay very long and end up laughing hysterically in the parking lot. It reminds me of when I had to say goodbye to Puhg the night I moved to Chicago. Seen.

In love with the main drag—super sunshine. Oatmeal date smoothie. I get a wax & massage for half the Chicago price. A lime juice fruit cart. I’m supposed to be packing, but I want to soak it up a little longer even though a scrub cat calls me for a long time. Diablo and I had jumped up and down about our love for Brit Marling, so she comes over with her DVD case. We eat candy on candy and watch her work. We’ve now seen it all. Are they all the same? If it’s true each writer writes the same story over and over, what are ours?