Felt like a morning for the Olivia Rodrigo work-out. Puhg was gone, up and out early for a meeting. I didn't need my laptop, so I walked a bit further, to the very hip coffee shop where there's usually a line out the door and barely ever room to sit. Because it was only 8:45 I didn't have to wait for my cream top coffee and croissant. I asked for a paper cup, but the barista said they have a strict no substitutions policy. Then she added she was pretty sure the plastic is compostable. There was one little corner to squeeze in so I did. I sat there for three hours, my neighbors being a guy in orange flip flops who never looked up from his phone, a business man with a tiny curly pet-able dog, two aspiring actors, three girlfriends--one whose house burned down. A lot of people's houses and places have burned down. It's bizarre to overhear multiple conversations per day about it. How the insurance company won't pay for that vintage wardrobe or where the kids are going to go to school now or if anyone else is thinking about renting a place in Joshua Tree for the next six months because the air might be giving us all cancer.
One of my corporate producers approved the new episodes with heart emojis. I confirmed lunch with my friend whose house burned down for next Tuesday. He's moving to the east coast Wednesday. I wrote one of my writers' groups I have to step out. I say it's because I am overwhelmed with work, which is true, but it's more true that I am overwhelmed with other people's misguided goals about our work. The Hollywood racetrack has quietly become a hamster wheel, and I don't like watching people hop on. I've been in the room when powerful people lose their deals, know how many execs are getting fired and fleeing into random careers, usually real estate.
A new fire pops up, near our family friend's home. AP texts me back, this week sucks. I write that other producer back who kind of wastes my time. A friend reaches out saying she gets what I mean, about how I don't make five-year plans, on principle. I set a meeting with the exec who found a comic for me to adapt. Finally I can scootch back, cross my legs like apple sauce, and get lost in the first feature draft I wrote with AB. I carefully read, surprising myself with laughter, forgetting jokes we ourselves made up. I jot all my notes carefully in a pink notebook.
I munch some vegan wings and carrots and head over to AB's house--reminding Puhg to please call me repeatedly if I don't pick up the first time. AB and I gab in her basement and then talk through everything we'd like to change about our script. We're almost exactly aligned, which is amazing. Her husband tells us congrats and her stylist's assistant shows up with a suitcase of outfits for the festival. AB tries the suit and corset combo, which looks stunning, but she thinks the pants might be too loose. I gesture to my yoga pants, two sizes too big and mutter I'm the worst person to ask. Nevertheless, the three of us squint at AB's crotch, deciding if the word "saggy" need apply. We wrap around 4:30, and I listen to "The Archer" on the pink drive home. The fire has gotten much worse.
I was going to write some emails but don't have any energy left it seems. I read a little of Prep in bed. We think about walking to the theatre for a movie, but it's sold out. I trot to the health food store for Puhg's favorite soda and a candy instead. We can do movie night at home. We fall asleep halfway through Y Tu Mama Tambien. At 11:30 or so we get up from the couch and bring Sweet Potato out. She doesn't run around. She sits on her feet and listens, like a little watch ham. There's another new fire, closer to us, but blowing in the other direction. At 3 AM I wake up to check, still no evac warnings.
No comments:
Post a Comment