no fooling

Yesterday was such a lovely day of my little life, it's 6:25 am now. I'm at the table looking out the balcony doors. The sun is rising, so every moment there's a new pink or baby blue bursting from the clouds over the palm trees. I've been up since 4:30 with the insomnia. Just got out of the shower. I hope to settle after this.

First thing was I had to go to the DMV. And of course, this was not lovely, but the entire ordeal took under three hours and I planned for five so. I had to get my license renewed in person, which really steamed my clams if we're being honest around here. I applied online, but a a pop-up appeared--I'd need to visit an office. I tried two more times, kind of in disbelief.

Last Thursday I took the morning off work and vroomed over there at open. I was 20th in line, then realized I had forgotten my wallet! Of all things to accidentally leave in a different person on all of the mornings. I drove back home, returned, got a new number: 20th. When I was 8th every computer in the system shut down. Twenty minutes later the staff announced it might be three hours to wait. I beat myself up for the wallet thing. I went home in a terrible mood. Later Puhg and I had burritos at the tin shack. "Mostly for your mental health," he said, practically running a handkerchief across his brow.

Anyway, yesterday's excursion was even more eventful. The ticketing system was broken. There was a long winding in-person line. I became emotionally tied to a very elderly Japanese man who couldn't stand for long. I finally got to see Deb, who wore zero percent of a smile and a face mask, around her chin.

Deb started doing "the usual" and then had to stop and be like, "Did you get any notifications about your renewal...?" She was dumbfounded. I was like, "An email to apply online, but online application kept getting rejected." She clacked away at her computer. I asked if something was wrong. She snapped, "Nothing's wrong. It's just... Why you gotta take a test?" She clacked longer. I stood silently for about ten minutes. Finally she seemed to give up and printed stuff and told me to get my photo taken, which I did not want to do. I actually like my license photo. She told me because I had opted to renew in person I had to take a new photo.

Even though there was no reason (I scoured the website) I should have needed to take a driving test because this kind of weird thing happens to me a lot, I actually studied for said test while I was waiting in line. I did all four of the practice tests and actually thank goodness I did because I would probably have failed otherwise. There's so many things we know but not if phrased a certain way. Like how many feet away should you lower your high beams if you see an approaching vehicle? I go into the little computer room and pass quickly. I hear the security guard guy tell a man, "I'm so proud of you." (You can fail the test twice, third time was the charm.")

I left by 10, spending a little time in the car to Marco Polo with Dizz and Lav. There's drama about a bachelorette party costs increasing for surprise hibachi dinners. My new photo is not as good, but it's not bad at all. I wonder if I'm on a list or something.

I chattered with Puhg. He'd brought me a coffee at 8:20, the angel. Made my journey all the sweeter. I laid down and watched the rest of Pee Wee's Big Adventure, which we'd started the night before. I'm proud of myself for growth in this area. I know what kind of activities are prone to overwhelm me, and I try to pack a buffer around them to decompress. In that wretched DMV lighting I could close my eyes and imagine the softness of my bed, a big cup of water beside me, Pee Wee's face huge on the wall.

I sent an email to the non-profit about the show. I made notes in my journal about my hopes and fears about this new possible manager. Because I'd already cleared through lunch, I realized I had enough time to sneak to the salon for a mani pedi. I pointed to the color I'd like. "Barbie pink," the gal said. I decided not to listen to music and just let the women's discussions I could not understand drown out my thoughts.

My nails looked perfect. I had a half hour before my meeting to hop to the store. I'd rushed past Amnesty International on my way to my appointment muttering, "Can't now." I'll tell you what they CAUGHT ME, STROLLING like practically skipping down the street. The girl asked, "...Do you have time now?' And so obviously I did. Anyway now I'm a member of Amnesty International.

I got to my patio five minutes early, scuttled into the bathroom to brush my hair. I went with grey sweatshorts, a crop tank, and my hoodie from my old comedy theatre. My favorite spot in LA, and they had my favorite cake. Maybe manager walks in and we small talk in line (torture). He gets pecan pie and orange juice. I get aforementioned cake and an Italian soda. The barista asks my name because he sees me there a lot. We do a cute formal greeting.

My favorite table is free! I almost don't take it (why) then do. I tell mm that I watched one of his favorite movies last night as an investment in him, since I know he is prepared to invest in me. We talk about how the film is so camp and fun though confusing now. I admire its ability to express joy around class and race, while being an inherently queer story too.

I read through my list of concerns and my list of What I'm Looking For. He responds and volleys to each. I feel at ease with this person even though he's a guy. We talk about that too, how Sarah McLaughlin had male managers on Lilith Fair. Everything feels just about right. I tell him just tell me if I'm acting strange. I simply have no idea. Just tell me. That's the thesis to working with me: just tell me. At one point I open my palm to make a point and a leaf falls right into it.

We shake hands, and once it's done he's asking how things are moving with my animated movie. I mumble around how we pitched something and are sending materials soon and he sort of nods and then offers he has clients who can do character design. I say we have an artist, and apparently he's cool but I don't know about comics. mm practically falls off his bench, "he created !!!!" he says, "bury the lead!" I'd been yapping about how excited I am for this movie's environmental messaging. But this is what I've been saying, I stress, I am good at the show and not at the business. He hugs me and says, "This is exactly how I wanted this to go."

I tell Puhg when I come home: I signed with a new manager at a top company while wearing my comfy clothes and eating Heath Bar cake! I DID IT!

Okay so now it's 6:05 pm. I'm at a Mexican restaurant on the west side. I just had four street tacos for $10 while wrapping up emails for the day. First rehearsal for the indie production of my play is tonight, had to drive her very early to beat traffic.

So more about yesterday though. I journaled for a bit then trucked home to write a political letter about the mergers and how they are destroying free speech, it's really that simple. I tidied up the dang place before watching my sister's church service. She has become a reader, which is very significant!

Emailed a lot about the poster. Texted the chuckleheads on slack about the movie pitch deck. Ate some goat cheese and crackers and then took a producing call about the budget and communications. My collaborator said, "You handle conflict so well, and I really learn a lot from watching." I am quite proud to hear this. Handling conflict has become one of my great loves.

Finally I had to be done. The moon rose as I sat on the balcony decompressing. It became so bright and shiny. Had the rest of my huge Heath cake slice while watching Pluribus. Fell asleep on Puhg, woke up around 4, you know the rest...

musicals on the spot

I was booked to play the improvised rap musical Friday. Hadn't played that one in six years. Almost exactly, actually. I remember my last show--well, even. The audience gave us HH Holmes, the Chicago murder house guy. It was International Women's Day, which Jia and I found very funny. Our opening number chorus was, "Welcome in, welcome in, welcome Holmes" and we formed a spooky house with our bodies. Dumpling, who played the lead, leaned out the middle, beckoning inside...

I remember leaving that set in such a good mood that I decided to trot the hour home. I didn't do that often because Ubers were still $6 back then. I took a photo with a string of green traffic lights behind me. "Something is coming," I remember thinking, knowing. And it was! Four days later I went into lockdown and there I stayed for a year and change.

I have a particular relationship with improv. One of my old teammates on the hot Saturday slot at i_ once explained to me, "I've ruined improv for myself. I don't regret. I had to ruin it." He meant, basically, he became obsessed with the art form as a teenager, and chased that obsession to Chicago, and chased that obsession throughout the city, and now it's his full-time job (podcaster). But, he'll be the first to say, I hate improv shows. Comedians are so weird. Some really do despise what we do. Not me.

I don't hate comedy. I love comedy. I also don't hate improv, though I know I am supposed to think it's cringe. I mean, it is cringe but it's also essential. Now me myself doing improv? Harder to say...

I actually don't think I've ever loved improv. I've loved journeying through improv. My college family-friendly group and my grad crew and my indie girls and that weird Missouri "theatre" and all the spots in the windy city and my one class at the boxed wig school and my shows in Scotland and my nights at U__ the first and U__ the second.

There is a ton of unfairness in the artist life, but I'll tell you one major win from the universe on my scorecard is getting to perform at U__. That's the prime comedy theatre in LA. Usually comedy folk move to new cities and have an incredibly frustrating time breaking in. It's a tale as old as time, really. You spend years building up your style and your skill and your reputation--! And then you have to buzz around getting hundreds of people on board all over again. Meanwhile the comedians who have been in the pool immediately kinda hate you for being a maybe threat. The gatekeepers are sometimes overjoyed, like, look, this fully cooked casserole has appeared at our potluck! I remember a moment like this when I moved to Arizona, after I'd been honing my chops for five years (a lot of years for 23). I showed up at auditions as a total unknown and crushed. I saw one of the directors' audit forms when it was all over. He had written, "Number XX is from god."

Other times gatekeepers hate new comedian guts too! I'd actually say, sadly, most of the time. Just as talent doesn't want to be overshadowed, tastemakers don't like their taste to be overshadowed either. They're like, Who is this new voice the people enjoy? I didn't tell them they could enjoy that! It's actually embarrassing. How overly sensitive gatekeepers are. And then they accuse artists of being sensitive?! Babe. Get real.

Anyway! What's so blessed about my crash-landing into LA is my main show I did in Chicago had a slot out here. It was that simple and lucky. Well, and I am very reliable and persistent. As soon as I arrived I was on the producers. "I'm available I'm available I'm available." And one week there was a drop, and wouldn't you know it I was at the theatre, hair and makeup ready, in record time. I know other people who were part of the ensemble for years and never transitioned into the west coast cast. I'm not more talented than them (though not worse). But I have something they don't: an ability to weather about nine million buckets of rejection just to maybe get what I think I want. Overall, though, I'd still only give myself half credit for achieving this particular dream. Honestly, I think that's all anyone ever deserves. There's no business like show business.

So I used to perform at the second U__, which was much nicer but allegedly not as cool. It closed during the plague, so now I get to perform at the original. It is better, which everyone always said. The space is smaller and more intimate and the sound is really well designed. Whispers carry and laughs boom but don't envelop. My first few shows I felt kind of off-balance because when they sell out, they put about 40 people on stage. It took me a minute to get used to belting inches from a person's face, jazz stepping around folding chairs. I am used to the smoosh, welcome it, these days.

Although regular improv no longer interests me, music improv still really really does. I guess because it's more like writing than acting to me. It's such a rush to be mentally writing a musical in your head, as four other people try to write the same musical in their heads, and none of you can talk about it. You just have to leap off the cliff with parachutes all together and hope you land in the same field and maybe that you do a few neat spins while you're falling. My friend SR randomly came to one of my mash-up shows in 2022. It was genuinely fine, but he was floored! Floored! You made all those songs up right on the spot! He came to some other crummy show a month later. He remarked, "Okay so I've seen some of these people before even though it was a totally different theatre..." Yes, I explained. There's like 50 of us in LA, in earnest. And then probably another 100-200 blooming in classes etc. SR asked how we rehearse, I told him we don't. He nodded, you're like flight attendants. What a quirky way to say it, and not wrong!

This post is getting a little long, so I'll do something atypical and write the rest later.

nocturne for the bees

A bee clump appeared the other evening. A big fuzzy mass, in a perfect circle. On the ceiling of the patio corridor. I learnt of it from the building group chat. Someone sent a photo.

One neighbor flipped out. She called the manager, this being an emergency. She yelped she is allergic.

Someone else researched the shape. Turns out such a clump means a community of bees have lost their hive, so they create a makeshift protection around the queen while scout bees look for a new home. Little homeless bees! I walked by them on my way home, took a peep. A big fuzzy mass, in a perfect circle. Very sweet when you consider the context.

Saw the flipper outter by the elevator. She flipped out about the bees more. I said, walk the other way. Just go another direction. She said she was allergic again. I do understand.

I find a beekeeping organization and contact them. I don't hear back right away. Beekeeping is a slow game. Online there are a lot of organizations that take bees, but not for free--huge misconception. It's very expensive to get bees ethically removed, which is insane.

The next day there's a pile of dead bees on the ground. No bees on the ceiling. Scattered friends toward the pool. I'm sure management had the handyman spray and that was that. Devastating.

At AB's Friday her cat hopped up toward the end of our session. The kitty batted her paws around. AB cheered, "Get it!" AB explained, "Sometimes she hunts bugs! And..." she trailed off, realizing that I might have an objection to killing bugs. And UGH SHE WOULD BE RIGHT WOULDN'T SHE BE?! I explained I consider cats killing bugs the laws of nature.

When we were about a month into our partnership a bird flew straight into her window while we were writing. I was deeply disturbed because the bird would probably die. AB was deeply disturbed by the omen of a bird committing suicide in front of us while we were writing a horror movie.

She had a brief appointment stop by, so I said, casually, "I'm gonna go be with the bird." AB didn't know me well enough to say anything but, "Okay!" I sat with the bird and even stroked her little back. She closed her tiny bird eyes, and I sat chatting with her. After a few more minutes AB came outside. She looked concerned, but I got the sense she was more concerned about me than the critter.

And then! The bird blinked away, and hopped into the sky and wobbled and then bobbled and then FLEW! The bird zipped off to a tree across the back valley. We were both like, "Oh! Well look at that!" I washed my hands and we were able to get back to it.

I confessed to AB last week I'd worried that day. If the bird had died, she would have seen me react so so badly. Maybe the whole thing would have been off. I remembered/said, how in my first ever week of summer camp a girl killed a spider in front of me, and I cried all night. And I was made to feel psycho, but I still don't understand why. The joke is, cruelty is supposed to be neutral?! (Dramatic. Puhg has started calling me a new nickname lately: "Drama." He's not wrong.)

At a meeting Thursday morning the videographer suddenly clapped the air. "Fruit fly," she said. I was taken aback. I know I'm intense, but I'm also just against senseless murder--sue me I guess. What was the bee's crime while we're at it? Existing on a planet where a woman is allergic? A big fuzzy mass, in a perfect circle.

like genuinely

I’m at the little pink cafe. I come here once a month before my laser appointments. If you get your hair burnt off, sometimes you need a special cookie or something. They’re blasting Lily Allen’s album start to finish, and I am loving it of course. 

Yesterday I thought about school shootings all day, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Got up early to finish the Toy Conglomerate commercial. Submitted it at 8:30, dramaturgy meeting at 9. Exercised and showered and talked to my producer—10K in play from an unlikely source, an actor from my favorite film franchise. You just never know. Set a call with my lawyer god bless her doing this deal pro bono because she knows I am bleeding money.

Met the school shooting survivor at the garden patio. She got a chocolate chip cookie and a huge sugary caramel iced coffee. 21and traumatized. We yap for two hours, and I have to hold my tongue several times. “Do you not see the patterns?” I want to ask, “How you say you’re doing okay but every story you tell…”

When I get home I’m supposed to work on the climate movie, but I collapse into bed and sleep for an hour instead. Rise just in time for the PR zoom. What should the poster look like? No guns, I say. Pinks and purples.

I work on an email to famous friends who might send me a blurb. I intro actors. I text BM just to laugh. I post to Insta, about auditions for the indie show. I write the maybe manager, would he be in for a gd lunch. At 7 Puhg and I head to the mall. I scamper around for khakis. I need them for improv. We settle in for a viewing of Overtone, which I enjoy even though I, true to form, despise a man wrote a movie about motherhood.

Been staying up late most nights. Not even doing very much. Writing in my diary, with my left hand, how I am excited and scared. The shooting survivor texts me, "it was so good seeing you again. thank you so much for bringing awareness to school shootings and not forgetting about it. like genuinely, thank you so much. it means the world."

Lucky Friday the 13th

Woke up in a bit of a bad mood to be honest. Tech issues with one of my accounts, irritation with the Toy Conglomerate who is, as they say in the biz, really pushin' it. They sent another 40 pages of notes on the V4 of this three-minute commercial. I take at least a half hour to compose a message that means, "With all due respect, this is insane" decide on, "Can we hop on a call at 11?"

Puhg clears out so I bop around to Taylor and Joyce Manor, scuttle to the cafe just before 9. I slurp an iced tea and yap with Puhg about his gaming group and housing options for the summer festival. We're not sure where to place the director just yet because she will be bringing her one year-old. I'm glad to work with her and also glad I'm seasoned enough in indie producing to have firm boundaries around certain choices. Like how even though the little lump is an angel in meetings now, we have not met the teething version of the lump yet, so unfortunately she cannot stay in the same apartment as the cast. But! I do agree to pay her at a premium, so she can work out her own accommodations. Sometimes I feel out of my league in terms of professional experience because I've never made much money on my projects and bend most choices to accommodate the artists. Then I reconsider, what if these me-isms are what make actors text me in the middle of the night, "You know I'd love to be in one of your shows..."

I read a little of my blue book, jot a couple details in my journal, start eating frogs. Email city: schedule that DC dramaturgy meeting, that Santa Monica director zoom, make an appointment for laser treatment Wednesday, many drafts at communication with the young organizer. My new notes are littered with criticism the characters don't sound enough like Gen A. It's hard to explain to a corporation they don't want their cutesy characters screaming "SKIBIDI BRUH!" I text Diz for intel, straight from the goddaughter source. She sends me a few lists and even some video of a child offering some lingo. I love collaboration over art in this way.

I zip down to the salon so I'm first in the door when they open at 10. I'm meeting a new potential manager today and feeling a little like a dull piece of silver. Fresh claws could be my secret weapon. I'm delighted the usual manager hasn't arrived to turn on the TV. I'm also with the gal who hates speaking English the most. It's silent as she lotions my hands and the sun streams in.

I decide to take that work call from a perch near the grocery store. I am very friendly to my producer because I know she is not to blame for any of the recent malarky. She agrees I deserve 2K in overages to rewrite both scripts over the weekend. This is great news and infuriating news as whenever I start a contract everyone assures me there is NO money to move on the rate, and then someone who makes triple my salary will waffle on deadlines and opinions and cost the thing a bonus fortune. One thing that has helped me navigate this big bad world as a business of one is sometimes talking to my bosses as a representative of "Alice's Business." Like, hey, luckily you're talking to me, Regular Alice...but if you were talking to the Business of Alice, corporate would be using way fewer exclamation points! Not not Hulk energy. You wouldn't like Alice when she's angry.

On my trot home I pass a blonde girl in an adorable checkered two-piece and realize it's the star of the movie I worked on in 2019. I call out to her and we hug. She seems more out of sorts than usual and mumbles about moving to London because... I get it, I get it. It's a really nice little bump-in. She was playing 16 when we spent all those hours together. But she was actually 26. Now she's 32 so it's kind of like she doubled in age instantly, to me. She says she'd love to see my premiere this summer. We exchange numbers and I rush home to shove a bagel in my mouth and put on "nice" clothes and "nice" makeup and spritz myself with the "nice" rose spray.

Because I have a music improv show later I decide to listen to the entirety of the Little Shop soundtrack on my way to the meeting. I skip the skips (Mushnik and Son DIAF) and take a deep breath before heading into the big boxy building. My email pings, the Toy Conglomerate will only pay me $500 for the overages. I write back that means I will be doing a quarter of the work. I would have preferred to have the money, but this option means I don't have to work Saturday or Sunday, which might be worth more in mental health bucks, down the line.

What's such a shock is this manager is quite low key and nearly too cool, but for some reason that puts me at ease. We share our lore and randomly both loved the same small-budget movie last month. He says he wants to sign me, and I surprise myself when I explain I don't really want to do many more of these meetings if I can help it, I hate them, and I never want to dress this presentably again. It sort of spills out of me, "I'm a slob and socially awkward and I just need someone to handle my reputation so I can be left alone to write for god's sake." He says he thinks he can do that for me, and I think I believe him. But I have believed a lot of people in this city...

As we're parting ways he says he's going to read my play, even just as a fan. I blurt out I wish I could ask my old manager what to do. And so it was revealed to me, how much I've been missing her. And also how maybe I'm finally ready to move on. I drive home listening to my short story playlist. At home Puhg is making lunch and offers one of his little passing wisdoms. I kind of always refuse to work with men, but in this one instance, at this particular moment, maybe it would be good for me.

I slow down and have some buffalo vegan wings with carrots, watch a video about the creation of patriarchy, work more on that one cursed email, decide it's now or never and send it. A playwright who is always busy working on Severance gets back to me about her opinion on subsidiary rights. A playwright who is quite popular in the Theatre for Youth space calls me for advice on a film contest. He is desperate to get a lit manager, which he can't find despite his play having been done literally 2000 times. Meanwhile I have three manager offers I'm mulling over, but it's taken me four years to get a single shot at my play. The playwright on Broadway wrote me a few days ago, her show is a smash and her pitch was rejected by every studio. She's very sad her words will never be translated to the screen like mine have been. Grass, greener, etc.

Around 5:30 I get into "improv" clothes. I even find a running order from that Maine gig last fall. It feels like a kiss of good luck. I just got a promotional email from that theatre company, they'd used a stock photo of me and the other two gals on cast. I forwarded it to them, "We're famous!" They write back with xs and os.

The evening's cast assembles in the green room at the major comedy spot around 6:30. JB brings his son. I clock him around 11/12. He sits kind of sullen and alone, so I ask what grade he's in. I try 6th, and he quickly corrects 7th. Though I am privately proud I was so close, I wonder if he's humiliated, to have been deemed a smaller fry. I ask what he's learning about in school. "Europe," he says. Mhm, mhm. I try another way in, explain I'm writing a commercial and could use a correspondent. I riff on some of what I learned earlier that day. "So I understand 'tough' means 'cool' now." He agrees. I ask about "no cap" and he shakes his head. Eventually the whole cast is gathered around this muffin. He tells us only his generation will ever know the true meaning of 6/7. We nod, that's fair.

What unfolds is a show I will simply never forget. We get the suggestion Mean Boys and launch into a high school locker room full of hormonal teens. I play JH's English teacher, worried he's too sensitive to fit in. JB plays the angry school jock/bully. AW does crude bits and riffs and smokes the whole crowd with her pipes in the 11th hour. RB, who I consider the greatest improviser alive, plays an emotional girl and a closeted boy and brings down the house with one line, twice. There are references to fetch and October 3rd and the a huge dance finale in which the bully cries and becomes best friends with the sweetie and together they bust several moves. Afterward we're so happy. I am always proud when we really serve the crowd. And then JB's son meanders backstage. He takes our photo. I decide in my heart, it was all for him.

I walk home, zipping through the crowds outside. Strangers call out after me--great job, good job, wow you guys killed. I tromp up past the park with the new Harry Styles and when I'm a block from home a man darts out from the shadows at me. It's Puhg! He accuses me of being high on comedy, and I confess, he is right.

I revel in the night air, take a long hot shower, and settle in for Frasier with a plate of heart-shaped sugar cookies from my mother and a big earl grey cookie my sister found at the beach town bakery. Fall asleep on Puhg, during the one about Marty being bad at accepting gifts.

what kind of a boy am i

busy Monday

up at 6, read my horoscope, it says to get dressed, so I do and I watch the sunrise on the balcony while journalling, go inside at 7 and work on my commercial for the Toy Conglomerate, it's a three-minute commercial and they sent me 47 pages of notes on my second draft, Puhg wakes up at some point and heads out for a walk, when I finish the script I put on my Taylor Swift zip up and head to the cafe, get there just about 9 am

order an iced tea from my preferred barista, sit with Puhg and we talk about travel plans for summer, the festival in Edinburgh mostly, he's got a job interview and I wish him so well, I stay for another hour reading my Polumbo book and organizing my schedule for the week, it's a busy one, I open Instagram to see some DMs and likes and news about Iran, terrifying and disturbing

shuffle home for a quick dance workout and shower before my 11 am zoom with my producers for the animated film, I really like these guys but it's interesting to work on a team of men, so different from what I'm used to, they're goobers, we're pitching AM next week and then SR, lots to do and we're behind but that's not my problem, though it IS MY PAYCHECK!

as soon as I hop off my lawyer calls, we talk about my two theatre deals, everything sounds like good news, I really like her though she always sounds tired, she asks for some follow ups for the feature deal, it's so important to trust who you do business with I have learned--though I paid the price to learn

my fingers FLY on emails, writing my Toy Conglomerate producer and my theatre producers and suddenly it's been half an hour so I have to shove all my junk into my backpack and drive to AB's for our writing session

great work today honestly, we cruise through many scenes totally in lockstep, her husband comes home halfway through and we talk about being multi-hyphenates and how to order our loves, for me it is so easy as it always has been I love to write more than anything, if I had it my way I'd live in a box for ten hours a day with nothing but my notebook, we end around 5:20, drive home, sit in my parking space for a little while confirming tomorrow's morning meeting and congratulating the indie producer who is putting up my play this spring!

realize I've only eaten four piece of veggie bacon a yogurt and banana but it's 6 PM smash in my headphones, go full blast on Sabrina Carpenter, trot to the store, help the unhoused man and his two carts in the door, he doesn't want help but he needs it and ain't that always the way, I decide on frozen pizza for dinner, run-into a Chicago musician in the chip aisle we talk about how he's gone back to teaching and it sucks, read through more commercial notes on my phone in the long check-out line

at home I cook up veggie buffalo wings and write the DC theatre director all the good and bad news,  I don't know her very well but I am hopeful about what we will make--and soon, which is wild, I text my friend Dizz and my friend Cass and my sister and mom and the young actor I am so worried about and I watch one video about fascism and try to come up with a bunch of jokes for 10 yo girls and open this blog post

suicidal snail

We got a new snail! She is brown and curvy, and gosh she's on the move. Snails deal with a lot of speed slander. They're actually quite zippy. Haulin' shell and whatnot.

Anyway, a couple weeks into her time here we found her on the outside of the tank! She just suctioned right up and out! So silly. ...Until we found her down the whole shelving unit. Puhg carefully wiggled her until she scrunched inside herself and then dropped her back into the sea grass. Over the past couple weeks she's been out of control. A few days ago we found her halfway to the living room, a literal slime trail from her watery home.

I worry. I found her quite dry in a precarious corner. I'm looking at her now, suctioned to a rock, upside down. I find myself checking at least a few times a day, sometimes turning on my phone flashlight to really get in every and any crevice. I wish I could teach her to stay put--just to allay my fear of crunching her one insomnia-riddled night! But she doesn't know leaving the tank is suicide. She's oozed over every inch already. She's just trying to find a new pond. Only I know there are no other ponds in the apartment. She cannot help it. She longs for adventure.

gay bar last week

Wednesday was rainy, so I decided to get to the cafe an hour early. A former camper of mine from 2008 was visiting LA, DM'd me months ago asking if we could meet up. She's an artist too, she said. I suggested my favorite patio. It's where I take everyone from out of town. It feels like a movie in that green little garden of twinkle lights and wire seats. But in bad weather it becomes something else--a cramped, muggy bungalow. I snag a corner table and an Italian soda. I write a bunch of emails about my play. I recognize the girl as soon as she steps in the building even though she has a lot of piercings now. I get her a poppyseed muffin and a brookie for me.

It's so easy to talk to the camper. It helps she wasn't in my cabin, so in my head I have maybe a single flash of her in my drama class. We also discover we are in the middle of a very small club: queer artists who grew up going to religious summer camp. We're able to discuss so much, so quickly, with all kinds of shorthands and inside jokes. She's thinking about moving here, and I am honest with her--the careers are kind of over. ...But the community is very big and the sun really does shine most of the time.

I rush to catch the bus for a 4:40 mall movie. There are, like, three showings left of The Moment, and I feel very strongly I must see this film in a theatre. I arrive a little early, take a lap around the fountain, get a kids combo popcorn and Sprite. I sit in my favorite seat, the back row corner, and enjoy the movie immensely. I also remember there's half a brookie in my purse. I eat it. Puhg picks me up on the corner by the Cheesecake Factory. It's drizzling, and I'm eager to sit on the balcony, smelling the pine trees.

At night I think about how I told the camper one of the worst parts of the industry is how everyone is your friend, which means, actually, kind of, no one is your friend. It's confusing and sad. I will probably never get it. The Moment grapples with the same theme. What are relationships inside capitalistic-driven art?

The camper asked me to tell her what I thought of Charli XCX's masterpiece. She foreshadowed, "It was kind of about...what you just told me." I emailed her Thursday agreeing, yep. I added--

"Happy to serve as an artistic sounding board anytime. We are in a TINY club!"

She wrote back, ending with, "Would love to stay in touch in this tiny club <3 I’ll absolutely reach out in my future visits to come too. Hope writing goes well today!"

At 5:34 I ended our communication, "I think we’ll be seeing other again soon, a hunch!"

At 7:30 I made my way to the local gay bar for a socialists of LA meeting. I walked in and was greeted! Immediately! By this former camper! She raised her arms in surprise! She and her girlfriend were at that same bar, coincidentally, watching The Traitors. We hugged. She pointed to her phone. "You said we'd see each other soon and here we are!" Here we are. Here we always are.

vessels for drinking, in order of best to worst

hard cup with a skinny straw (like a Bando tumbler) 

soft cup with skinny straw (like at the movies)

coconut with straw

big cozy mug

glass bottle

unique vessel, like at a tiki restaurant

can

juice box situation

mason jar

glass

reg mug

athletic water bottles of varied sorts

hands

plastic bottle

plastic cup

French cafes

Although I’ve been stalking around the city with rage in my shoes, I still love my life. I can be angry and happy to be making art that resists fascism. Just like I can be sad and happy while thinking about my late aunt or afraid and happy at the top of Goliath at Magic Mountain. I am writing at the yellow coffee shop, with my gingersnap latte and plain bagel. I sit in the window, so I can people watch. I often spy friends from this seat. They’ll be trotting by, and depending on which one of us isn’t looking at a screen, the other one of us knocks at the window.

I always thought it was so funny and/or cute, when I’d learn about art history, how so many individual “names” actually rolled around in packs. French painters in their salons and beat poets in their dives and improvisers on the busy street in the most adorable nook of Los Angeles.

Much of my career here has been incredibly controlled. My days packed with meetings and a rapid clip of draft turnarounds and never saying "no" rudely and never making enemies. I’m moving with more intuition lately. I “get” a meeting with this high-powered IP-grabber at “the” top agency. She deigns me the right person to develop a hot new video game, all the rage. I ask if she knows anyone who has sold a feature based on a video game in the past five years. Her mouth forms an O then gets smaller and smaller then she shuffles papers and says, “I think I’ve heard of it happening…” After we end the zoom she forwards me a short story that Timothee Chalamet likes. I consider writing back, “This is really helpful, to know what kind of short stories Timothee Chalamet might like. My MFA is nothing. But this? This PDF you were paid 200K to find? Everything.”

Last Saturday I was supposed to have a morning meeting with a director, but had to push a week so I texted SW from bed, we should meet to write. Jam covered my fingers while she explained, it's not that people don't like me, it's that my existence makes them feel ashamed in ways I cannot control or understand. And most people would rather avoid their shame than preserve our relationship. It's not that deep, though it cuts deep. I am writing through it, but at least I don't worry about losing. I've been through this before. My voice will follow you down. And against all odds, I will probably forget about you before you can ever forget about me.

I decided, seriously, I needed to see Song Sung Blue in theatres. Made it to the mall just in time, sat in the back row and let Hugh take me away. Money talks--but it don't sing and it don't walk. It was a perfect Los Angeles evening, so I walked over to that ramen spot, sat on the patio. Made notes about a short story and dined on my cheap heaven dinner—an Impossible bao with a Diet Coke ($10).

Then this most recent Saturday--three days ago--I did get to meet with the director. I could tell he didn't really like my play, but he still sat with me for a couple hours brainstorming. Artists are so generous that way. I'm not too concerned. In general, women loved loved loved the piece and men were lukewarm. Sometimes a story is like that. Not everything is for everyone.

The afternoon was for as many emails as I could possibly respond to. I am under a lot of pressure. So many exciting opportunities, so many roads diverging, and then another American citizen was executed by ICE in broad daylight.

And then! I went for a girls' night with AB! She greeted me in pjs, holding a glass of wine, pop music playing. I told her she got an A plus. She'd texted at 9 AM asking what my favorite movie candy was, a beautiful bowl of M & Ms greeted me. We watched a perfect double feature, cheering during Revenge then stopping to laugh uncontrollably on the balcony before Drop Dead Gorgeous, the movie that made me love comedy. I love comedy so much. I believe it is medicine. I believe it is a weapon.

who can turn the world on with her smile?

who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all feel worthwhile?

clay

I really loved my grad school. I loved it so much. Maybe the best decision of my life was going to that crummy little huge place. Man, I milked it too. I wore tank tops all year and read by the pool and zoomed around on my scooter to seize buttermilk bars from Donut Hut in the dead of winter in the dead of night.

I loved campus. It smelled like clay. There was the term I would habitually go the gym after Dramaturgy and take the long route through Palm Walk. There was the term I'd bike to the gym at 6, hit the machines, shower, and walk into 8 AM theatre history so fresh and sparkling. My first year on Fridays I'd do laps before my sketch comedy show. My second year I'd work the disability testing center Fridays, very slow and quiet. Struggling to remember my third year. That shocks me. That I could forget my class schedule. But time has passed, it seems. It's an interesting anthropological study of one's self, to reflect on what memories make it through all the purges. How did they cling on? Held in your arms like a fawn or like leeches on the back of your calves?

I loved all my friends. I had my comedy girls, first and foremost. Then there were the comedy girls' girls to varying degrees. Then there was the comedy girl's girl's Christian girls. Then! There was grad cohort. And undergrads. And then there was work. (I hung out with work people once my entire three years at the office.) And then then comedy in general, which was just so many people. And then all their little clumpettes. And then then then was Puhg and his whole world. Which was...well a whole world! The show we did, his college friends. Some were lifelong. Some I lived with. Some I went to Vegas with. More I went to Santa Monica with. And I loved just about all of them. Even my sibling roommates, why not.

I met Puhg in the desert. We went to so many adorable brunches and basketball games. We pirated Mad Men every week and some nights he would cook us a pot of beans with tomatoes. We drove that long highway stretch over and over.

I did the military play and wrote the religion play. I wrote many sketches and loads of stand-up and a bunch of plays and/or play-like things. I taught so much screenwriting and a little improv and a little playwriting and a bit of film ethics. I laughed so much. I got pretty angry. There was some sadness, but not much, and not for long. It was a different world. I made 13K or something, and that was great! My rent was $450 for a very nice room and bathroom in a lovely condo. All the best things were free anyway. I ate an incredible amount of Taco Bell and gas station nachos, also a record high amount of Ethiopian.

I learned so so much. Some of the classes were bad. But because I later became an educator, they were useful case studies for me. And other classes were very good! I really lucked out with my theatre history professor and my thesis director, specifically. I absorbed so much about the scope of theatre, got to be inside all the moving parts, keyed into the hot stuff. I squeezed every drop.

I remember so many students. I think I see them all the time. I might. Two of them got married and live out here. They work in post.

2025 was the worst year of my life

Maybe I've been dragging my feet on this recap because of the title of this recap. There are certainly ways I could spin what happened last year. I could ignore a ton to rebrand 2025 as a love story or a buddy comedy or even some coming of age thing. But the truth is, last year blew. It was a drama. And not an uplifting one. There were some very lovely scenes, but there was not a happy ending.

January actually started brightly. There was a sense of newness in the air. Everyone bracing for inauguration, but in the mystery there was still hope. Then, six days in, the fires crushed the entire city's spirit. Despite Hollywood Hollywooding on, we haven't recovered. Not by a long shot. I haven't recovered. At BM's birthday last Saturday the four of us sat at the kitchen table, confessing we all shudder, still, in the middle of the night. We wake with starts remembering: obsessively checking the disaster app, repeatedly forgetting where important papers were because we stayed packed so long, feeling the complete hysterical lack of control that only staying in an Embassy Suites with a tubbed hamster can provide.

And yet all our neighbors walked to the outdoor mall and saw movies with our A-List passes. Flow and Baby Girl if you can believe. There were free animal crackers at 5 PM and I sat in the lobby for two hours eating them while reading Women Who Run with the Wolves. (I turned the last page on my birthday.) I finished the final draft of my new Toy Conglomerate musical at the hotel desk and Puhg and I talked a lot about environmental crises. We were home for our anniversary, picked up a cheese pizza and Caesar salad.

Early winter was, as you may recall, a political hellscape. Sitting under my tree, finishing the movie with AB, revising my play. I sent the script around, one timid reading at a time. I wrote three commercials for a big brand--a job I was very proud to get. It paid $4,500 with no benefits. I ran my women's talk group, every month, all year. I really enjoyed those nights and got a lot out of the yaps. All the gals told me they did too. We did karaoke at the end, ER sang "Lucky" to start.

Puhg's aunt suddenly went into hospice. We booked urgent flights and made it to her bedside, for maybe the last conscious minutes of her life. She looked up at Puhg with such delight in her fading eyes. "I love you!" she said over and over. We wrote her obituary in the room with vending machines.

A month later our darling Sweet P was gone too. I wrote about that day and never published it. I guess I will eventually. Started at critter care, ended at Cowboy Carter.

I saw a lot of concerts this year! In this bizarre time, one of the only things I seem to know for sure is concerts are worth it for me. A good concert can fuel me for a month if not two. I'm still riding high from Sabrina's rendition of "Nobody's Son" in November. From Gaga's "Applause" in August. Breezy nights of Japanese Breakfast, Dashboard, Goo Goo Dolls, Coldplay. I went to another universe when Chris Martin sang "The Scientist" and then we got little banana froths at the underground ferngully while the bassist strummed table to table.

April was restructuring and the big 70th birthday. We got sunburnt at Bernie and AOC's rally. I kept chugging along in therapy. I have to say May was really nice. Happy little birthday fete. The beach, the mountains, the clear pools, the creatures, the soft doughy treats, the hiking up a creek that Puhg dipped into. And then it all turned.

I was professionally chucked in the trash and Puhg was laid off and we had three weeks to get new health insurance. I fought tooth and nail to maintain any kind of stable insurance this year. I lost. I lost in my current deal, I lost when the billion dollar girls' brand told me I'd have to take three months off as a contractor or else (they winced) they'd have to give me benefits. I lost when I went downtown and waited in line at the social services office, behind all the meth heads and poor single moms. It took three months but I finally got on Covered California--and for what? All my rates were supposed to rocket in 2026, so I rushed to get my bloodwork done December 30th. I was billed $40. I spent an hour on the helpline to finally say, "I thought if my doctor prescribed necessary bloodwork it was free?" No, the agent told me. I asked what was covered under my insurance that costs $300/month with a 15K deductible. He told me I get one check-up per year. I said, "I guess I'm grateful I'm not being charged right now for you to tell me this." He did not laugh.

In terms of themes, 2025 was a big year for Disappointment. A lot of people disappointed me. Each betrayal more surprising than the last. Maybe next year I'll have wisdom about it. Today my takeaway is, "Alice you stupid naive idiot. When will you learn? You cannot trust people--even people you love, even people you thought loved you."

On the flip side was Openness. Someone bailed on me but then, randomly, my old professor sent the most affirming email. A department chair struck down a production of my play, but then the piece I dramaturged won an international award. I got yelled at on the phone but that night I recounted it all to Lav in our Portillos booth and we managed to chuckle.

Summer felt very long and sad. ICE terrorized LA, then the guard was deployed. I protested. I showed up for climate law at City Hall. I went out of my mind watching a genocide from my phone. I went to the pool every afternoon. A purple swimsuit this time. I read one book with a red cover very slowly. I clocked in for watchdog shifts. I listened to Man's Best Friend a lot, especially "House Tour." I got involved with multiple progressive groups but they all fell apart because rich people don't think fascism applies to them. Puhg's mom suffered her hellish accident and nothing will ever be the same. I wrote about that day too. I'll probably share, eventually. Did get to see my old friends, did get a mini trampoline, have observed my partner step into agonies. I have said it before, but I will always say it: I am so proud of him. He gets braver each minute.

Some college actors did a reading of my play. Then a young cohort of artists bootstrapped a production in July. They did such a good job. My mom came out for it and our trio celebrated the run at the taco shop with virgin margaritas. My sister graciously hosted us every quarter. We have our Things. I like her orange cat and the big coffee shop with cheddar biscuits and sinking into the sofa for a doc about Abercrombie or that short-lived series Players or that Netflix competition show about pop stars. She buys us seltzer and veggie bacon in advance. There are rainy Chicago adventures--facials and art and The Drake and Alice Sr did a fantastic karaoke performance, a classic from the musical A Chorus Line. There's a cold dark night and a bright snowy morning, there's a hot lake walk and a chilly bop to Brown's Chicken for fritters.

My workshop went very very well, and I am so pleased. The compliments haven't stopped rolling in, even now. My friends and former collaborators and even some newbies attended and gushed their heads off in the street. I shuffled out all haggard but was met with thunderous applause on Santa Monica Boulevard. Two friends told me it was all so moving they cried the whole way home. J sent such a perfect note--she loved it and hoped I was feasting on a well-deserved cheddar log. A high-powered showrunner sat in the second row, then left without a peep--but January 5th she pinged, "You are so incredibly talented and I am very happy to come see anything you do." This past Friday L said it was the most fun she'd ever had at a play. The chickie I invited when she was smoking a joint in a swimsuit sent me no fewer than 30 excited texts. It was so much work but work that is Mine. I worried the whole thing was a narcissistic voyage, but every rehearsal someone in the cast paused, looked up, said, "Wow, this is...too real." I feel bonded forever with the actors. My mom and sister were the ones who ultimately convinced me to do it and I thanked them from the bottom of my heart as we sat in the heart-shaped booth, before the Black Forest cake arrived.

What else? My book keeps selling. I keep stickering. My first ever world premiere will be set! Within the next month! I am gripping but I don't think I am afraid. I am impressed by how well I've been managing all the moving parts. I've learned so much. I sobbed firing my manager, snapped up a fancy new agent,  dropped the big time lawyer with an email, hired a new one in a parking lot. I wrote an incredibly exciting new animated series which may or may not ever exist. I was in the brainstorm room for a new musical show which may or may not ever exist. I am currently developing a movie with two dream collaborators which may or may not ever exist. A graphic novel adaptation came and went. Did six improv shows, I think. Spent a month finagling a group gift for SW--the expensive necklace she's always wanted. She opened the blue box and blurted out to everyone, "But this is against all of Alice's values!" Puhg took me for a beautiful romantic getaway down the coast with credit card points. There was a mini fire pit on our balcony and I wore the big fuzzy robe and toasted marshmallows.

I saw the ghost play and the hilarious vaccine show, which were cool. I watched a bunch of Survivor, which was medicinal friend time. Went to so many movies, adored Heated Rivalry like everyone else. Hamnet, Together, Nuremberg (!), Sorry Baby, Lurker, The Life of a Showgirl Movie (twice). The Life of a Showgirl album: well, I freakin' love it. Blondie's doc: well, I freakin' loved it.

I developed shingles right after Thanksgiving. It was terrifying and painful. The urgent care doctor told me I may have lost my sight and hearing if I hadn't moved as quickly as I did. Puhg served me applesauce and toast. My camp friends sent me a bouquet to commemorate my first prescription ever. I'm sure I'm missing a lot and this hasn't been a particularly well-organized post, but 2025 was not a particularly well-organized year.

Christmas was a peppermint swirl of hard and fun. My sister gifted me a little ocarina and my mother gave me notebooks. Puhg treated me to my favorite burrito. I told you about New Years Eve. There are five incredibly exciting and/or life-changing things that could happen with my art this year, but another Midwestern writer my age was recently shot in the face for no reason and then the president lied about it. So who can say?

I could take you to the first, second, third floor