A Nice Day in Hell

Felt like a morning for the Olivia Rodrigo work-out. Puhg was gone, up and out early for a meeting. I didn't need my laptop, so I walked a bit further, to the very hip coffee shop where there's usually a line out the door and barely ever room to sit. Because it was only 8:45 I didn't have to wait for my cream top coffee and croissant. I asked for a paper cup, but the barista said they have a strict no substitutions policy. Then she added she was pretty sure the plastic is compostable. There was one little corner to squeeze in so I did. I sat there for three hours, my neighbors being a guy in orange flip flops who never looked up from his phone, a business man with a tiny curly pet-able dog, two aspiring actors, three girlfriends--one whose house burned down. A lot of people's houses and places have burned down. It's bizarre to overhear multiple conversations per day about it. How the insurance company won't pay for that vintage wardrobe or where the kids are going to go to school now or if anyone else is thinking about renting a place in Joshua Tree for the next six months because the air might be giving us all cancer.

One of my corporate producers approved the new episodes with heart emojis. I confirmed lunch with my friend whose house burned down for next Tuesday. He's moving to the east coast Wednesday. I wrote one of my writers' groups I have to step out. I say it's because I am overwhelmed with work, which is true, but it's more true that I am overwhelmed with other people's misguided goals about our work. The Hollywood racetrack has quietly become a hamster wheel, and I don't like watching people hop on. I've been in the room when powerful people lose their deals, know how many execs are getting fired and fleeing into random careers, usually real estate. 

A new fire pops up, near our family friend's home. AP texts me back, this week sucks. I write that other producer back who kind of wastes my time. A friend reaches out saying she gets what I mean, about how I don't make five-year plans, on principle. I set a meeting with the exec who found a comic for me to adapt. Finally I can scootch back, cross my legs like apple sauce, and get lost in the first feature draft I wrote with AB. I carefully read, surprising myself with laughter, forgetting jokes we ourselves made up. I jot all my notes carefully in a pink notebook.

I munch some vegan wings and carrots and head over to AB's house--reminding Puhg to please call me repeatedly if I don't pick up the first time. AB and I gab in her basement and then talk through everything we'd like to change about our script. We're almost exactly aligned, which is amazing. Her husband tells us congrats and her stylist's assistant shows up with a suitcase of outfits for the festival. AB tries the suit and corset combo, which looks stunning, but she thinks the pants might be too loose. I gesture to my yoga pants, two sizes too big and mutter I'm the worst person to ask. Nevertheless, the three of us squint at AB's crotch, deciding if the word "saggy" need apply. We wrap around 4:30, and I listen to "The Archer" on the pink drive home. The fire has gotten much worse.

I was going to write some emails but don't have any energy left it seems. I read a little of Prep in bed. We think about walking to the theatre for a movie, but it's sold out. I trot to the health food store for Puhg's favorite soda and a candy instead. We can do movie night at home. We fall asleep halfway through Y Tu Mama Tambien. At 11:30 or so we get up from the couch and bring Sweet Potato out. She doesn't run around. She sits on her feet and listens, like a little watch ham. There's another new fire, closer to us, but blowing in the other direction. At 3 AM I wake up to check, still no evac warnings.

So Hollywood

 I've been desperate to blog lately, but I just don't have the time. Life for these past six months has simply never let up. I feel like I'm constantly sprinting--zooming through outrageous days at a breakneck speed.

There have been so many moments that fluttered around my head as I was slipping to sleep. "I should write today down," I barely conjure as my head crashes into the pillow. I want to set in stone that Friday I got super sweaty at a guild silent disco, sped home for a shower, attended a fancy girl lunch, blazed through work emails, sat in the hamster playpen at night. Or the day I met with a blind advocacy group at 8:30 AM to develop the new Blind B_rbie and zipped to the picket line and ran into friends and decorated cookies for AP's birthday and motored across town for a listening party and made it to heartbreak dinner with my friend getting divorced and walked home eating pizza from the to-go box, singing Reputation on the empty sidewalk. And I still want to write about my camp reunion and I still want to write about Japan and I still want to write about so so many things.

But for this particular post, what I want to write about is the most Hollywood moment. Two weeks ago I went to my friend's bachelorette party. There was drag brunch and a warm patio and activities and dancing and banners. We played a game called "dirty minds." We got a list of clues that could be construed as sexy, but we were supposed to think of an answer that was bland instead. This game was my jam. The group happened to be very industry-heavy. When the host announced I had won an exec across the circle shouted, "That's not fair! She's a writer! She's supposed to be on strike!" The agent chimed in, "Fine, she can win, but I get ten percent of her points." I thumbed over to my actual manager and said, "Actually, she does."

When the morning came, we were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf 'cos we lost track of time again.

Proud Reading Reflections

 Thursday night I produced a reading of my beloved screenplay I'm trying to sell. I've been waffling about it since July. July 11 I emailed my first casting choice to ask if she'd do a performance. She wrote back right away yes, and then the ball rolled. I gathered the group, found the space, imagined how I wanted it to go. Came up against a bunch of roadblocks in August. I hate to back out of things, but I doubted I could pull it off. I asked who was around--my mom and Puhg if I was pushing too hard. They both had such similar answers, "It seems fun!" And that was enough for me to power through.

SO many contract emails, rehearsal Venmos, actor shuffles, schedule headaches, poster edits, Insta stories later, the day came. And all day, annoyances cropped up. Late tech director, actors in traffic, comp drops. I got angry, I got sad, I got into my frilly pink dress. I showed up arms full and head buzzing. Rushed through two scenes we NEEDED to slam, frantically got the lights situation set, drafted a curtain speech, greeted folks hoping they wouldn't all hate me soon.

And honestly it went SO GREAT! Not perfect, but great! I juggled cleaning up the green room with greeting friends on the patio, tried to absorb the compliments but also keep my brain from falling out. Made ONE promising connection. And that's really what it's about. Unreal, but true. Finally walked down the street, with stragglers, where we could just laugh and enjoy the autumn night air.

The next day Puhg gave me such a good compliment. Something I didn't know about myself. He said, "You really put yourself in uncomfortable situations." It almost sounds like a diss. But he went on, "You do things you know will be really hard on you because you want whatever is on the other side." And it's true! I've got grit. Professional, personally--I toss myself into so many experiences where I KNOW I am going to cry, rage, and panic. That's the nature of the beast. But I've done it over and over and over and over for, now, literal decades.

Even now, I'm very aware of which people followed up after the show to gush and which have been silent (I think) purposely. But what can I do? It's not for everyone! My work or my ethic! Good luck burning someone who sits in fire.

Milk

Had a meeting today, trying to get a company interested in my climate change show (yet again). I couldn't even remotely keep their interest. About other things, sure, but not the climate emergency. I simply can't understand how it's not on everyone's mind since it's on mine about 60% of my waking minutes. They liked me and I made a professional connection and blah blah blah but I replayed the entire conversation once I'd left the Zoom. Where could I have cornered them? Maybe I wasn't charming enough in those few moments? Personal enough? Why did I let someone else steer the conversation to squirrels when I desperately needed to talk about oil? Shriek about oil all day and there I was fake laughing at someone's stupid story about a squirrel. I take it so hard when I don't make something happen, even though I know logically I can't make most things happen.

Puhg asks if I'm going to gymnastics tonight, which I'd considered. Except I'm pretty afraid of getting monkeypox. We all cartwheel and hop on one long mat for the whole hour. Sometimes I dive directly into someone else's sweat stain. It makes sense of course even if the odds are relatively low. A friend of mine got it two months ago, and she still has welts on her face. I didn't have anxiety about random diseases for most of my life and now I'm made to feel I've overdone it. "You can't go 99% in on anything," Puhg says. "You're a hundred or bust." I revise, "Oh no, I go 98% on everything. Which is why I get so frustrated with myself. For that 2%."

Really Feel

My first General meeting I was confused. I thought I was meeting a new friend through a different friend for coffee to talk about how weird Hollywood is. I didn't understand that I was actually trying to sell myself until I was back in my car. I had worn shorts, like we were going to walk down the boulevard and grab lattes and ask ourselves why we even try. Instead we sat in a conference room across a huge table, and she grilled me on shows I was or wasn't watching. There are right answers to these things, I learned. Or maybe right attitudes to the answers.

The next meeting I knew not to be sad. That's not what they want to hire. It took me a few more meetings to learn to pitch and then a few more to learn, oh, I'm just here to entertain. Do bits, make them laugh, essentially put on a play called I'm Positive About Everything. No one wants to know how you really feel. At least I know now, and my manager has been getting these post-meeting emails and calls "We just love her!" Meaning, "We loved the play!"

But that's work. That's not necessarily unique to this industry, I guess I guess. But everyone is work. I am my work. Cobra visited and I could sense at first she was enjoying the tragic stories. I mean, they're juicy, but then when I wasn't happy at the end of them, that was less fun. I can't get her anything, she realized. She cancelled our next plans. She read my most recent script and said, "I read it." I feel like I could lose my mind for less. I feel the need to tell a couple people about my disappointment, but it makes them uncomfortable too. I try to keep a mental tally of who would allow me to need, and it is a short list. I don't think actually you could logically call so few people a list.

Is it narrative structure that has ruined us? "But you struggled with that yesterday. Shouldn't today be better?"

Sample

Quiet, dark hotel naps. Taco Bell bag in the Trash bb. Sunday afternoon, snuggled in bed, watched the first half of Beaches and later a comedy on the couch full of chickenless noodle soup.

Monday afternoon an old friend from summer camp meets me for lunch. It's a special language and understanding we share even though we were never in the same cabin. At night, Grief throws a seance at her house. Well, at least we order donuts and try the Ouija board. Buckle lights candles and maybe moves the plastic piece.

It's been a week of bonding with Bundo and Copper. They get fed up with something and I do an impression of it, we all power up the volume and sing The Fray. We believe in each other's dreams and each other's best. I am glad we have to be so close even though I no longer have any patience for people eating cereal, making phone calls, or breathing.

It's amazing to be so creative every day. In a week I write something like 100 jokes and pitch 10 ideas. Once they're submitted I feel accomplished even though they boil down to 10 jokes and one idea. In the morning I'm in a sketch with the darlings of wrestling. It's so normal to be dragged into this stuff I don't wear any makeup or look at my hair. Later, when the spot plays, I kind of regret this. One of my favorite writers walks out the door I'm standing near. I say "thank you for coming" and he says "thank you" and I wish I had told him. It would have been okay. Maybe I will meet him again one day and say I pitched the bit he liked.

Wolfgang Puck does a demo, and I get to eat a leftover brownie. I take home a tiny chocolate Oscar. I eat too many sugars all day and vow to be better. Wednesday I take a walk with Lolo. Make a point to be with Puhg at night. I love him more and more every day.

Thursday I get bold. I respond to a rejection email, throw out two lines, go on a date in the middle of the day. AP has her girls over to a private gym for a dance/weights workout. It's invigorating to jump and kick and even use the frustrating resistance band. The normalcy is so strange. We hadn't met a year ago. Social media can be a chump, but I watch my friends' honeymoon happily, hear about a possible new love interest from another on Polo, discuss careers from LA to Omaha.

Pug and I run Friday morning. Oh, is it tiring with hills. I need to power through tasks and go to the yogi cafe before work even begins. When I return I'm pulled in for a meeting, and then I tend to my feelings about the meeting for hours. I'm wearing sandals so Tira and I walk in the green room. I leave a little late, but traffic makes me very late for dinner. We shovel in a falafel. I am tired and haggard. We see The Cripple of Inishman at a local theatre. It's okay. Exhausted, it's time to spritz my rose pillow spray and sleep.

Los Angeles: Week One

Holding a fritter at a v grammable mural. Headset on.

Puhg came with me on a practice drive to Paramount. I am intimidated by these old highways, but there is no other option. Billboard: there is no other option. I'm drinking a kale smoothie from my new grocery in the sunshine unlocking my loaned Mercedes Benz. Romanian spread with A Jar, specifically a deep fried cheese ball and thick tomato porridge.

Traffic increases every ten minutes and I can't stop replaying the worst case scenarios. Can't find the parking lot right in front of me, but then I am eight minutes early. My first Hollywood space is an empty table with a granola bar wrapper on it, but the lot does feel magical. Kind of like Disney. No one turns on the lights all day. I meet AP. It feels unreal. She is a live human being shaking my hand and welcoming me. I have to sit down and feel the pink drain from my face. And then she is my boss and that's that. I sit at the fountain tense. I drive tense. I eat Thai food tense. I feel the tenseness in my every inch until I fall asleep.

Cowsk wears my gift on the second day. She leaves early and I futz with my new responsibilities. I am not a technical or detail-oriented person, so I learn. (I try to learn.) I'm home for date night. I put on sweatshorts, take off my bra, and we walk to a cozy noodle shop. I order the pot pie, which will take 45 minutes, and I soak in every little minute with my guy. I cannot get over him lately. So good and funny with the best blue eyes I've ever encountered.

4 AM. I'm up. I arrive too early. I have to find the roof. I have to find the van. I have to find the catering. I have to bring Cowsk a breakfast burrito. I had eaten cashews in the car. I was an idiot. I will be completely surrounded by a million foods for the next two months. I didn't know. AP says she likes my raincoat and gives me a huge First Day Hug. I had thought sets would be more organized, but suddenly I'm holding a printer, climbing stairs, searching for a plug. Everyone is friendly. I didn't expect that, and I am relieved. "Am I allowed to...?" "Should I...?" These are my most usual questions. I eat two donuts--a buttermilk bar and a regular ol chocolate. I watch Cowsk work, noting bits and keeping integrity. It is hard not to fangirl over someone you interact with all day. I like the stand-ins. It is raining and I have to get up at 4 again. I am sad and stressed picking Puhg up from a bar. I don't want him to leave. I don't want to drive. I miss my students. I am on a dream movie. I probably need to sleep.

I cry on my way out the door because it's goodbye to Puhg. He will fly away while I start a new location. Today we have a special guest among us, and her time is valuable. I run through cords and hair bags making pages and falling down to my knees when She starts writing to transcribe the improv. I sit in the sound editor's seat watching playback. I have a whiz call me to teach me in the hot sun over the phone while I'm half on headset and MR sings about Cheeze-Its at the craft table. The producer asks me for a joke for AG I preemptively printed, and I sigh a proud sigh. After we wrap, drive to Koreatown, don't even care if I have to pay for the garage. Redbean soft serve in a fish cone. My parking was validated.

Friday prize.

Brene Brown TED Talks as I run. I've never looked at Google Maps so much in my life. I go for a walk and accidentally climb a mountain. One of my girls is on the phone with boy drama. I drive an hour to brunch with Yosh and his finance. I have a ridiculous pile of dessert waffles. All my meals are $20 or free. We've pumped each other up in the middle of the night via text for five years and now we do it in the city of angels. I am listening to that Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Don't @ me. A welcome diversion, a Japan Abroad reunion. I love these three boys. We sit outside and gossip about everyone we've known and laugh about streaking at a temple and discuss where we're at now with the whole spirituality thing.

Sunday I do HIIT while dogs bark at me from behind a fence. They never let up. I go to church with my first college roommate. We used to have a David Beckham magazine ad hanging above our desks and she wanted to be a makeup artist and I wanted to be a writer. I tell myself I will write all afternoon but I have to lay down. I can't not lay down. I clean my mess I watch a Younger I eat broccoli I revise my musical for three hours and sleep.

I dream of moldy cheese, which a psychology website tells me I'm afraid of being awkward.

Sleazy Wednesday

Welcome to the future.
We're all so glad you came.
Attacked me in the laneway--in this town you don't get nowhere unless you're on a bicycle.
So hip and out of touch.
Parked out on a speedway.
Just trying not to move.
It's only getting harder now.
We can engineer a wall that couldn't fall with all this time.
My life in Technicolor, can you check the shutters?
Someone get my mother on the phone--
she oughta know what I'm up to.
Out here in Hollywood you don't need a sweater 'cause the sun feels better in slow motion.

I'll ride the wave back home.