weds June 3 2026 -- five project day

At 5 am I was tossing and turning. I had to send the final casting email. We’ve been looking for the right actor for nearly two months. I wrote the decision email the night before, but needed to sleep on it. Strange as it seems, a young man’s voice floated into my head. In my half-dream state, the voice assured me, essentially, this is the right choice, if it isn’t, I will take care of it… I’ve only had a voice in my head like that a handful of times in life. Once while crossing the street as a child, once in my friend’s spare bedroom at 30, once on a beach in Moorea, and now I suppose right before I pressed SEND on an important email. Four different voices, I should note. I think I know whose voice this was, but, of course, I’ll never know for sure.

I managed to rest 6 to 7 before getting up to smash a dance workout then hop on my 8 am meeting with the high school theatre festival coordinator. We chatted about how I might attend a career fair or give some remarks to the students, tell them I did this exact same program 20 years ago and it drastically changed the trajectory of my life. Had to sidebar with the guy, what was the show that got him hooked? (He was in MacBeth as a freshman of course.)

By 9 I was really sad about the LA primary election results. It’s not over, but, to quote Puhg first looking at the polls for the reality star villain, “I don’t understand the world.” Yes, chef. Zipped to the cafe for an iced tea and necessary journaling session, to clear my little head. I ran into DR writing, chatted with the barista who is also pitching a comedy series, volleyed a few signifiant texts.

Showered, laid out various outfits for my big meeting. Puhg picked it in the end, as he does have a much better understanding of fashion than I do. I’d chosen a ratty concert crop top and pink skirt. He chose some smart black wide leg jeans and a classy pink linen tank. He also recommended I wear a bra. Wanted to reach my lawyer about the regional theatre deal, couldn’t, set a call with her assistant for later in the week.

Wrote the marketing team some notes about the announcement copy, wrote the director thoughts on the new option for understudy since our first choice passed. We did three rounds of callbacks to find the correct pair, but now we’re out of time. Director just happened to see this girl the day before at a different audition, gave me her name. I watched ten minutes of her YouTube videos and decided she’d do. This business is insanely unfair.

Ate an apple, peanut butter, cinnamon yogurt bowl while brushing my hair straight and listening to a new age YouTube video about embracing the next chapter. Drove to WeHo singing reputation and thinking about my path as a writer. I'm the one living it, but sometimes driving to meetings I have to think about me in third person. What's the story, for this storyteller...

M & B’s office was much bigger and fancier than I anticipated. I had to wait on a sofa for a little bit, read more of Cruel Optimism. One gal greeted me and told me about moving here from China. Then the other gal, more a honcho, led me into the conference room. I took a strawberry peach LaCroix from the mini fridge and they told me all about the program I’m being considered for. It’s incredibly cool and competitive. 500 applicants. And I…didn’t apply. I jumped the line because my dear friend SR put me up for it. All news to me.

They tell me what they’re looking for, and I simply don’t have it. They ask, well what are you working on? I tell them about my newest creation, the one that I’ve been breaking for the past year and a half. I'm positive it's not right. Honcho says, “I love it. This is exactly what we’ve been looking for.” As they walk me out I fish for my parking ticket. They ask if I need validation. I shake their hands and say, “Absolutely! I’ll take a compliment from each of you please!” They laugh and then I go to the front desk. The 20something there has a really cute tattoo, a bubble heart. He says it’s favorite “right now.” I repeat, “right now.”

I have to burn rubber to make my 3 pm meeting back home. I give my ticket to the valet and he pulls me into a disagreement with two other folks working in the garage. They want to know if a man or woman should cook. In about ten minutes I know all I need to know about this trio. I suddenly blurt, where is my car? A parade of porches and bmws and Teslas have rolled through. I point to my scratched grey beloved in the corner of the lot and someone fetches it.

I make it home just in time for my meeting with one of the most famous living comic artists. He’s very nice and sometimes I don’t think he’s listening, but then I realize it’s just that he’s signing covers while we talk. I’d been angry at this team last week because they dropped a bunch of balls. This week that much is all still true, but I have accepted it. I consider, as I do basically every day, how to stand up for myself in a way that doesn’t annoy people. Nearly impossible I keep finding, via trial and error.

Once we wrap, I see AB has texted me. Our production company has officially asked for script delivery! I double check formatting and send it off, finally. My manager emails: a prod co loves my play, they asked for a coffee but he thinks I’m too busy—can I zoom? We set.

Puhg lumbers in to see my tornado of a desk. I fill him in on everything, mostly positive but it’s all laced with thick anxiety. “Condolences on your good news,” he says gravely. Not unlike the other night when I was hunched at my desk. He walked in, gave me one look and diagnosed: “Living the miserable dream.”

Tons of emails about casting. How many shows will the understudy get, should they be paid equally or less than cast, will everyone flier if needed. Therapy at 5, so I close everything down at 4:50. I talk with J about disappointment, and how some people get uncomfortable when I express it. But if I don’t express it, then I’m uncomfortable. Also, if someone suddenly seems unsafe, is that good gut or bad wiring?

I close my computer. Sigh the biggest sigh ever only to see my manager calling. He wants to hear about the meeting. He chatted with the comic producer too, will link with my lawyer tomorrow. I admit I’m annoyed with __. I chuckle, “Ah the special moment in every creative partnership with someone I would have died to work with, where I kinda hate them.” Manager chuckles himself, “I can’t wait to get to that point for you.” I say, “And likewise.”

As soon as I sit down, SR calls. He inquires impishly, and I tell him it went very well! He says he knew it would! He encourages me, then, he has to go on a hike. I write down notes of what I need to do first thing in the morning. I feel myself crashing. Puhg suggests Burger King, and I agree. It’s Whopper Wednesday, which means $4 Impossible Whoppers on the app. I order very boring Whoppers. You can have it your way, and I do. No toppings except lettuce and barbecue sauce.

Puhg offers to scoop our paper bags, but I could use a little jaunt. We drive into the palm trees at dusk. Right as well pull up, the sign blinks on. They made a mistake and give me free fries. We eat our feast while watching an episode of Widow’s Bay.

I pick up my phone for the first time in an hour to see a billion missed emails and texts—details about cast offers. I stand silently volleying for a while then change into sweats. Tidy up my corner, sit outside genuinely doing nothing at all. Thinking at the trees, 9:30 - 10:30, when Puhg and I watch a Couple’s Therapy while eating churro-flavored Fat Boys.

a birthday

Henne just called to yap about summer and wish me a belated birthday. He apologized for missing it, but I actually didn't notice. "Birthday" felt more like a vague energy this year.

At 11:59 on May 18th I was at my aunt's rental. I'd driven over after a very long work day of explosive emails and callback zooms. We'd sat down and chatted and suddenly I realized the sun was almost gone and I never had dinner. I googled a liquor store around the corner, so we walked, quite casually, to the boardwalk. I selected two bags of salt & vinegar chips and a chocolate chipwich. The pink sky was starting to fade into navy ocean.

We spent hours laughing on the twinkle-lit patio, also appreciating a bizarre concert. A handful of 20somethings were doing karaoke a couple buildings over. "Shake It Off" made it to us, tamborine included, for example. I timed things so I was eating the ice cream novelty at midnight.

I woke up at 6 and couldn't remember if I had to move my car by 7 or 8. I decided to move it right away, in case. Got a primo dawn spot and a latte and an almond croissant and journaled and read Jung facing the water. Hugged my aunt and zoomed back across the city blasting Taylor Swift as is my right.

Puhg greeted me with a huge hug and a wonderful display! A vase of orange flowers, a sweet card, a jug of nice soap, and a box of aloe cleaner my mom sent. Necessary work plunking, a dance workout, a heavenly shower. Puhg offered to take me wherever whenever for lunch so I chose my favorite falafel shop by the movie theatre. I brought my own can of cherry Coke and we sat outside in the shade. Puhg asked me some questions about the year, like what I learned and what was hard and what was fun.

In the late afternoon I answered texts and did a some volunteering for the mayoral race and sat outside writing notes for a teeny speech. Around 6 I put on my new pink two-piece set and a little blush and headed on down to what has become my annual girls' fete.

Nine of my best gals all descended on the ivied corner table. Half of them got fries to share. I myself had gotten chips and dip to share. It was just so incredibly festive. Some gals munched cakes and others slurped martinis. Lo told me this is the only party she attends where she doesn't worry about who will be there. It's adorable that some of these people have become friends over the years! I love to get quiet and eavesdrop on all their chattering, but then I have to remember to chatter too.

After an hour I clink my glass to give a speech. It's two-parts and about ten minutes. First I talk about how this year was my year of Being Nuts. I give five examples of things I really wanted to do, knew I should do, but felt afraid to do. Yet I did them all. Usually with the help or support of someone right there! Then, related, I give everyone two compliments. Like how MS cheered me up in January and told me I was right, to ask about being cheered up. Or how KM lent me a swimsuit and dried my angry tears. Or how SW keeps me sane and so does ER in a different way. How I can count on SR to bop around the neighborhood and JC to host reality TV nights. Tira I can text, "They're annoying me." And she'll say, "I hate them," without knowing who "they" even is. We all cheersed and they sang happy birthday while we were shuffling the hundreds of fries around to-go boxes.

About half the cabal stayed an extra hour. I can barely remember what we all couldn't shut up about. At 9:30 it was time to call it. Everyone says I am a great gatherer. Well, if everyone says so! My Arizona playwright friend and Chicago improv friend, who have never hung out, drove east together. I had my strawberry cheesecake on the couch with Puhg, before falling asleep on his chest.

it's like I got this music in my mind

second play weekend

There had been Friday meetings set, but they were cancelled last minute. I suddenly felt determined to go to Six Flags. So I did. Got there just after open. Rode my favorite loop first, then the big dusty coaster (front row), the pirate ship, the revolution, answered emails, did some drafting at a picnic table over a free Diet Coke, even rolled calls about the festival poster near Bugs Bunnyland. Took a spin on the carousel before heading home around 2. A lot can happen with free parking and four hours. I texted Puhg while I was there, what was with the urgency. He suggested, could be some kind of anxiety purge. “The body keeps the score,” he added. Perhaps my guts have been so metaphorically rattled lately they long to be physically rattled.

I was an email freak the rest of the afternoon. Drove over to the west side around 6:45 to catch the play. The gals did just great. I didn’t stick around long after, had to process in the night. Puhg woke up when I walked in, confused but smiling.

Saw the show twice Saturday. The matinee talkback elicited tears but two prominent artists snubbed me in the evening. TM was inexplicably also in the audience and no one knew why, though he did laugh at my most brutal joke. I decided to take pride in how I handled these strangenesses instead of worrying too much. Had a bad expensive salad grr, walked aimlessly near the beach.

Sunday there was a very long discussion about how to organize the day which ended quickly when my aunt agreed to lunch. Had to dab up my face and fit but soon we were on the sunny patio with free garlic bread. I’d walked past the night before, at sunset, thinking, “now this is a place I’d like to go one day.” The cheesy Italian flag and angled roof. Our server advised me to read more Nietzsche. Tax Ant said that would never happen in the north woods. I’d gotten a headache on the way over, and I swear the spicy tomato ravioli cured it.

We took it nice and easy to the theatre, sniffing flowers each block. It was a packed house, which always feels so good for goodbye. I couldn’t help but peep from my back corner—did so and so laugh at that? Ah so and so set her head against so and so’s shoulder there. Oh good so and so’s dad chuckled. Puhg accuses me of loving to lean back and observe what I’ve sown. (And fine it's true!)

The cast did even better than their best. The talkback was incredibly special. Friends were there—ER for fun, AZ for research, BM as a fellow playwright, my manager, the original gaffer!, and more. I had a true giggle when we called JS in to be acknowledged for his amazing set, and he slurred he was already drinking in the lobby. He held up a little homemade frose for emphasis.

The lobby was such a scene. A girl bawled for a long time and a mom said thank you. A guy told me about gang violence in his high school, a couple about their church being targeted, two fellas joked, RB and my aunt hugged, photos, packing up for the party. Not based in science, but there was a release that happened—when I invoked my grandmother in front of the step-and-repeat.

Puhg and I went over to celebrate with the crew and even some cute parents and at the very end I showed the two muffins the photo of us I took a year and a half earlier. I’d said, “I have a feeling this is going to work out.” We re-created the image, looking about the same on the outside, though all three of us were much much different on the inside.

laughing til our ribs get tough / but that will never be enough

running thru my head running thru my head

Time for my annual tradition of reflecting on the music that meant something to me for the past year.

Vertigo, Griff -- how 2 b brave

Big Pink Bubble, Beach Bunny -- being a wreck and that's just how it is sometimes!

My Universe, Coldplay & BTS -- sung to Puhg in the flickering rainbow lights

All You Had to Do Was Stay, Taylor Swift -- an oldie that kept showing up

Diet Pepsi, Ben Platt -- a lesson in cringe coming back around

DNA, Knox -- pretty much, walking around with a broken heart

Before the World Was Big, Girlpool -- summer theatre indie production!

Pretty Face, Hoodie Allen -- twirling about Chicago

Walk of Life, Dire Straits -- sometimes you have to revert

Million Reasons, Lady Gaga -- rediscovering Gaga's sensitive side for some reason...watching her doc...

Just A Dream, Nellie -- finding the motivation over and over, this time, at the knoll

I Am...I Said, Neil Diamond -- wondering what's magic at the pool

House Tour, Sabrina Carpenter -- pure 100% girl joy, sang in SW's convertible, in the shower, rushing around, and LIVE!

My Baby (Got Nothing at All), Japanese Breakfast -- windy warm date night at The Greek

Acoustic #3, The Goo Goo Dolls -- one of my all timers from high school, never thought I'd hear it live, and then, alone in the side section, I did

How It's Done, HUNR/X -- working on the new animated series

The Fate of Ophelia, Taylor Swift -- my little obsessive research

Father Figure, Taylor Swift -- sung excessively in the car with Pook

Curious, Hayley Kiyoko -- working on my newest project

Parachute, Hayley Williams -- a new era and one for me too

So High School, Call It Off -- yeah let's have some fun while commuting

Bad Romance, Lady Gaga -- she's still got it

Let You W/In, Lily Allen -- the future is female, the present is female, the past is female

Big Deal, Lucy Dacus -- I pretend to be the writer and subject on other planets in my head

Vodka Cranberry, Conan Gray -- late nights with candles and journals

Mature, Hilary Duff -- millennial women waking up to their power! and dishing!

All The Things She Said, tAtU -- I too loved Heated Rivalry

Austin, Dasha -- a spicy channeling

You'll Aways Find Your Way Back Home, Hannah Montana -- probably, shower song

Well, Whatever It Was, Joyce Manor -- stomping through the neighborhood

American Cars, Noah Kahan -- reflecting on family on the balcony

Sports, Beach Bunny -- Venice theatre magic

Anything, Simple Plan -- yeah let's have some fun while commuting pt. II

friday for a little playwright

Answered emails from bed about the poster, wrote the nepo baby about her audition (her famous mom DM'd me). The nepo babies are descending. A "new show" is reading young talent. They add me on Instagram and I observe how their lives cost about 500% more than mine even though they are 21. But I have something they can't buy. I don't blame or judge them. It's just weird. Art is weird. Money is weird. Nepotism is weird.

I trot to the cafe to catch Puhg. He's seated next to a middle age man we've become neighborhood friends with. He's always reading cool books. Totally coincidentally he's going to the festival with his middle school daughter this summer! He says he wants to go to my play with her. I eek, "That is my dream! When producers ask me my ideal audience. I say teens and their parents!" I realize I'm going to be late to my nail appointment, get up and hustle out. I kiss Puhg outside then look over his shoulder to see our friend DM watching. "Oh!" I say. He tips his head like, howdy ma'am.

I get light pink nails with the gal who is openly hostile to customers. I don't mind this because she's allowed to express how she feels, and the claws look good either way. I don't need laborers to pretend to like labor. I don't have an outfit for opening, and I do have a little time, so I zip down to the row of thrift shops. As I approach the first, I see Tira at the French sidewalk spot yapping with a pal! We get to chirp for a bit.

I try on about six dresses and decide they're all A-. I don't buy anything that's not A plus anymore, consider I could just wear my sleeveless black bag once again. On my walk home I am enticed by scones in a window. Get a latte and treat for twenty American dollars. I outline an essay and slather on the clotted cream. Two playwrights I know knock on my table as they're leaving. They're perfectly nice, but we did once get in a fight at a writers' group because they were ragging on how my generation isn't 1000% dedicated to working on weekends and while traveling like they were, and it got awkward when I said, "Well I notice you both have really nice homes." Anyway, I get up and hug them to show I'm not a regular demon, I'm a cool demon. As I'm leaving I see an exec I know. I knock on her table. She's meeting with her intern. They both buy tickets to my play. I walk home listening to MUNA's new album, thinking about how I saw seven friends, just by virtue of bopping around!

At home I feel ultra compelled to work on an essay. I answer a couple emails from my manager, but the piece has to come first. I complete a draft, race to shower, race to makeup, shove carrots in my mouth, then zoom across the city blasting my pop punk playlist of 8th grade jams. "Anything" by Simple Plan to Start. I'm not sure why, but that's always what I listen to on my drives west.

I kind of dread going into the lobby opening night. I pull into a parking spot at the window. I see the director in an adorable dress, our producer with the red bob in heels. They're laughing the joy of people pulling something off. I sit in the car a while writing notes for the main four. I add heart stickers and Sharpie stars. I wobble in around 7:40.

I am overwhelmed immediately, as predicted. Everyone is so nice though. I see my new friend, leaned against the wall. Another producer gives me a sweet pin. I greet the school shooting survivor and her friend. I get a desperation peach seltzer. We funnel into the theatre. I see my friend JG in the front row. I'm pretty surprised. I haven't seen her in six years, not since I happened to be taking a meeting on the same patio she was celebrating her first Emmy nomination. She didn't tell me she was coming.

They hold curtain for fifteen and I am SWEATING. I cannot stop bothering this poor survivor. I tell her, "There are gunshots at the beginning." She says she knows. I nod. I lean over, "And, you know, if you want to leave, you can totally leave!" She tells me she knows. I tap my toes a while. I tell her, "Just get up and go. At any moment. No problem!" The lights go down.

The cast does an incredible job. The best the best the best they've ever been. The crowd is on board right away. They howl a few times. I'm really happy in the moment even though I can't enjoy it because I am tensed out of my gourd trying to notice what this girl is and isn't laughing at. In the penultimate scene I see her wiping tears. I relax a little.

The girls bow and the audience leaps to its feet. The cuties jump in joy on stage. "Really good," the girl says. "Way funnier than I thought." Yes. Red Bob created an amazing after party for us. It was ballooned with grad congrats. There was a bowl of Pop-Tarts and vodka slushies, a corner to write, flowers, teen music blaring.

JG came up to me quickly, overwhelmed. "Thank you," she heaved. "Just...that really....I needed that." She wrote me an email that night too. I told her I'd keep it and I will. The 20something explained about his worries in movie theatres. The little costume designer, about her plans to cover the door. The teen there, 16 and never enters a room without scanning the exits. The photographer told me he cried like a baby.  This is all so meaningful. I really could listen to people talk about shootings all day.

Everyone gets silly. The couple couple. The AD tells me about her need to create. The school shooting survivor has two vodka slushies and does a handstand. Go off, queen! I have to do the "Oops I Did It Again" choreo or I wouldn't be doing my part as a millennial. QD brings her boyfriend in a turtleneck. The drunk one gets drunk. The nuts one gets nuts. She gives me a card. I cry reading it in the living room, still in my lilac blazer, at 1 AM. After I got home to Puhg on the couch, trying to wait up. He toddles to bed. I text my sister about a robin, waking her up in the middle of the country. Can't sleep until 5.

save the games for the girls on the tennis courts

cannot today

Thinking about Yatchface today. There are those things people say that become scripture somehow. The person who said the thing might not even recognize its gold like you do. It may be up to you to carry on the message. The person who said it, just a mouth, just the previous leg of the Olympic torch.

Yatchface was my roommate for our final term of school (with Grinz). One afternoon while working on her capstone paper, Yatchface closed her computer and announced, "I simply cannot!" I thought it was so hilarious. Because, like, yes she could certainly finish her revisions. She was wrapped in her messy bed with her messy hair and had nothing else to do. But also, she simply should not. How could anyone disagree?

I've often empathized with "simply cannot" but I don't know if I've ever actually lived the motto full send. I worked for Conglomerate for five years and never missed a deadline or even asked for an extension. Grill workers got one freebie "no show" before being written up. I knew this and held tight to mine all four years of college, cashed it in with a month of school left, when I was in bed crying. I'd cried in bed before my 8 AM shift many times, but I'd never gotten to prioritize my own emotions over slicing tomatoes before. The only time I ever showed up not 100% prepared for a speech tournament I bungled my first round and begged my coach to let me drop from the whole thing. She made me stay in the running, reminding me it's okay, normal even, to compete and not win. Maybe I could experience being average for once. I agreed, but that night I ran my piece over and over and over and in the morning I got perfect marks, squeaked into semis, then finals, then won. My coach got on the bus to see me holding my trophy. "You were supposed to learn a lesson!" she said, only kind of kidding.

So this, today, is a different level of simply cannot. I really, lately, simply cannot. On a puff of smoke level on a what are we all doing it's all made up level on a I don't know if I'm supposed to keep cleaning out my closet to stay nimble or hoard these sweaters for the colder winters level. Do I go to a place or never go to a place?

Projects keeps vanishing and the money goes with them. No one apologizes. Jobs are down, jobs are down, jobs are down, gas is up, gas is up, gas is up. This week the president said he'd be out of the White House in 8 or 9 years and no one interrupted him.

I've gotten nothing but brilliant signs from the universe I am on the right path with my plays. Doors keep opening and meaning keeps spilling out. The actor's brother died, and she insists, she's going on anyway in his honor. The new producer believes in the message so much he created a group chat for us. The activist writes me, "You're the best!"

But the work has never been tougher on me. My tasks this morning, for example, include organizing the casting tapes for one production and emailing the director my callback preferences for another. Making a promotional video, checking flights, script feedback. I've got to drive out to Venice tonight for a tech rehearsal. I should be eager to do all these tasks. But there's this force that won't let me do any of it. It's more than discomfort, it's certainly beyond laziness, it's Wrong. Something is Wrong. I felt this way the day before the fires, when I suddenly had the urge to go to the movies alone.

I struggle to pretend as much as I used to. But no one likes me when I'm not pretending. I used to be able to disappear for a few hours and come back ready to dazzle. Now it takes days, maybe weeks, to be remotely palatable. Friends don't reach out as much, and I did that. It wasn't my plan, but the person they're looking for doesn't live here anymore.

Anyway, that's why I'm writing this morning. It often feels like I can't count on anything in this world, but I can count on writing. No matter what happens I can write about it. Maybe I can write through it. Missing my hamster so much I could disintegrate.

mid pizza and Diet Cokes

Told K Ho, when she picked me up for lunch, I can't believe I said yes to this. Had essentially no idea what the process would entail or what the theatre would look like or even how I'd get around. I just trusted I'd figure it out. Although I don't often trust myself to figure things out, I am a good pilot for a weird little arts program. One could argue my whole life is but a collection of cobbled together weird little arts programs. I remember talking about it with a peer from grad school once. (Oh I'm sure I gave him a cute little blog nickname twelve years ago, but god help me if I can remember those anymore. I should have made a key. But I didn't. So now if I ever look back in my archives here I have to scratch my chin and whisper soto, "Interesting memory...but who is 'Frazzykins?'")

Anyway, I had reached out to this peer, AC, after I saw they were abroad teaching acting workshops. They were like, "Mostly did it for the grant money, but it's been really cool." And ain't that the way. I have all kinds of stupid things on my art/work resume because I've never not been grubbing for money. But almost all those stupid things ended up being incredible memories. And, yeah, I guess if I'd been in the position to do other things with my time, maybe those other things could have been incredible memories too. But, I kinda don't think so.

I've been cornered into non-self serving experiences, and that's been really special for me. And important to my voice. Maybe necessary to my voice. Maybe my voice refused to sing in places privilege would have sent me. I wouldn't have picked to teach a musical theatre camp for 5th graders when I was 28, but I was desperate, and I still think about funny things those girls did, realizations we all had together. I wonder if any of them thought about our Newsies history lesson while the writers' strike was national news.

Had to go to Maine to teach improv to seniors for a week right before moving to LA. Horrible timing, but the gig was for $800--money I'd need to sustain myself until I landed something in my new city. Was I irritated to be going? Yes. Do I still think fondly about doing comedy with elderly women, one who was blind?! YES!

I've done gigs for hospice patients and fried eggs and stuffed bears and worn a mascot costume and crafted banana splits and sliced ham and proctored exams for people who couldn't hold pencils and led comma seminars and coached speech club and fired guns and shot arrows and instructed drama games and counseled preteens through their relationship with god and taught teens on the South Side playwriting with the time I wanted so much for my own plays. I worked on a cruise ship. None of this is what I wanted, but I would never trade any of it now.

So doing a play workshop in Virginia for $300? Sign me right up. I took a redeye, got in at 6 AM. The director picked me up in pjs. The theatre was only 20 minutes away. An adorable little spot with a maroon awning in a strip mall. Right away, I liked it.

Director let me in the scene shop. There was a sketchy yellow couch and a sad rainbow afghan. I don't remember much else until I woke with a start at about 9. I wandered, shoeless into the lobby, where the whole staff was having a meeting. The executive director hopped up and pointed me toward the hotel.

I felt half-human and wobbled over, through a little dirt path between the trees. The desk guy told me my room wasn't ready, so I flopped in the lobby, greasy and ripe. A little before noon my shower dream died, so I changed my t-shirt and put on deodorant in the bathroom. My old high school bestie picked me up in this state. All par for the course. We got mid pizza and Diet Cokes. It was so easy to talk about the people we know and how things have been and especially, if there's a nuke, run into it. She said I seemed the same, and I said, ah that's nice but my soul's been broken, just a little.

I was able to clean up, in ten minutes flat, right before my first rehearsal. I rushed in right on time, to find my script in a binder at the table. At the spot labeled "playwright."

musicals on the spot pt II

Wanted to keep my word and finish the story I'd begun last month. I'm sure I've forgotten some details. My brain has been scrambled all April. Six planes, at least three work disasters, and a couple big surprises around my play productions--one good surprise, one bad surprise.

I'm supposed to be revising a draft right now, but my brain is too fried with all the Phone Things I had to do today. Promo posts on Instagram, a billion casting emails, personal texts that are important but may as well be sent from Pluto, disbelief it's almost May.

Sometimes reading a book and clacking on something completely different can get my mind back on track to actually write. When I woke up my goal was revising three scenes. But that was before the digital onslaught. Left for the cafe an hour late. Saw two girls from my building on my way. They were sipping coffee on the steps of the Scientology center. I told them my goal was revising two scenes. But there were a lot of DMs to answer and Zooms to set and texts about the show I dramaturged, up this Wednesday. So now my goal is one scene. But first, more about musicals on the spot.

Because I was slotted to do the improvised rap musical on Monday, I listened to Hamilton all week. Driving, in the shower, walking around town. To be honest it felt wrong. It's a genius show, and I still love it, but there's a significant cringeness to it now. The patriotism tastes rotten. The celebration of a money guy feels bizarre. And all the (brilliant) music time travels me to 2016. And 2016 makes me think of the orange clown.

But still! I needed the immersion. I walked to the theatre around 6, spitting out "Non-Stop." I arrived to find our beatboxer in the green room. We'd never worked together, so we shook hands. He introduced me to his cousin. Musicians are funny that way. It's kinda weird for a comedian to randomly bring a cousin or "a guy" backstage, but it's totally normal for the band.

The rest of the cast arrives. AW telling me she's been super busy with a play, JH ripping on AW, ZN is writing for a new tv show. I love the show runners and tell him so. RB admits quietly, he auditioned for them before. Close but didn't clinch it. I ask is he's a dweller or a forgetter. He says he thinks about the future more than the past. But he also laughs in a certain way.

Then I meet DD! He seems professional and nice. We've emailed about the opening choreography, the only preplanned bit in the show. We spend about two minutes small talking and exchanging Chicago names. And then! The last show (running very late) ends. On the heels of the applause we rush to the stage. We have five minutes before doors open for us. We forgo warm-ups for a single practice of the choreography, which I flub big time. I tell the group I'll get for showtime. I drink a lime La Croix, we cypher about the heat for ten or so, and then the stage manager knocks. I breathe backstage, trying to unclench my everything. This is the first time this group of people have ever been in the same room, and we're about to perform a fully improvised rap musical together. And one of us hasn't done that in six years.

The show is very good! The audience chooses our subject to be Pennywise from the book IT. Totally nuts. I play two side characters (Pennywise's mother and Finn Wolfhard) to ease back into free styling. But I hold my own. If I may brag, I crush a particular group song based on that weird part of the story where all the teens sleep together to impress a turtle god. (Not in the movie, wonder why.) I also do nail the opening choreo. I laugh a lot, sometimes you just can't help it.

We do a scant recap post-show because the next cast is creeping in. I change out of my khakis into shorts. I exit the side way to be met by a group of four 20somethings. They go quiet when I pass then one squeaks, "YOUWERESOGOOD." I turn around and say thank you, ask if they do improv. They do of course. I round the corner into the main crowd spilled onto the sidewalk. A few people reach out to nod, to say, "wow I loved you guys!"

Just as I think I'm out of the woods, I see the beatboxer and his cousin. They'd kept to themselves comparing new hip hop albums before the show. But now we've all made a thing together. The man, who I suddenly realize is quite large, wraps me in a giant hug. His cousin hops up and down, "You killed it!" I look up at the beatboxer, "No you!" I say.

I trot home thinking about how me ten years ago would never believe I would be booked on the sold out 7 PM show at the hottest comedy theatre in LA. Also pretty wild it was all based on a book I read in middle school in a cabin in Wisconsin. Life is strange.

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.