January 29, 2019

Call not until 2 for 8 PM shoot. But plop right on the couch and brainstorm last minute segment ideas the boss asked for. As soon as I am done, there's an email asking for more. I don't think--just pound four down and send. Run with Puhg--a weekday treat. The pressure to MAKE THE MOST OF THE DAY sets in and I power walk manically through the neighborhood looking for a place to nestle and write. I get my eyebrows done instead, type for half an hour, curl my hair.

Lunch date at the Thai place with long evening lines. A text as I walk to the car asking for jokes. I write six in the 8 minute Spanish-radio-station drive and two minute walk. I punch one up on the sidewalk and send. Papaya salad, spicy. I love the peanuts, the sticky coconut rice, the flat noodles. The strawberry table cloth. Connecting with the person across from me. Sometimes it's been too long. He drives me to work. I arrive early to find my ridiculous idea (the guest does a sound bath) has been chosen for the show. I start researching, I start printing, I start fact-checking.

Jooj the script, write the script. There are full blank spaces. We fill them in. Deep talks with someone on her way out. The sun sets in electric orange behind her. Are sound baths cultural appropriation? Is that news story sensitive to discuss? I've learned the reach of what I do.

At tape I find a bowl of broken chocolate Kim Kardashian sent over. I eat two slats and stand int he back row where I always do. Three of my jokes are picked and all three get applause breaks. TF is in the studio today. I look over and see her laugh at what I wrote. Our guest is a delight. My officemate featured in a bit knocks it out of the part. The final bit, penned by other officemate is perfect. I coin its recurring title. A thumbprint?

An exec from The Bachelor is in the audience. A friend of a friend. The three fangirls crowd him and ask as many questions as we can. In the end, Puhg picks me up. I tell him what a strange day it has been. It's only 10:15. I could write more, but maybe my brain deserves a break. I read my zombie novel, spitz the pillow with rose water, and sleep.

Oh, Oh, Ooh oh oh

He forwards the email, and as soon as I get home (I walk) I open my computer and send off my old packet. "Two packets, one week" I think. A little star wish. My social media has snowy frowns and mittens from Chicago, but here it's all palm trees. On Wednesday I wear my short grey dress. No tights. Friday night patio at a cantina with coworkers. They just saw me do a show. I ask them if they've experienced Destiny. One says meeting her husband, one says no, one says this job, two say every day. I'm unsure myself. But I do know if there is no Destiny, we can fake it. We can feel humbled by the perfection Arbitrary served up. And why not? I asked after I saw The Color Purple specifically. But I crumbled when I chose the wrong path. Is it the one that got away? It's too woven into my brain chemistry to write a new story that always includes a full circle. Anything is a circle if you want it to be. But why not let it be? Tira says that's how poor people stay poor. They wait on the lord instead of using their free will to fix broken systems. I don't disagree. I can't believe six days ago I was up at 5:30 AM editing so ferociously I passed out. Literally passed out. The evening sound bath with Tax Any & Maf couldn't come fast enough. I think the bowl vibrations hung in my ears all week. I made my first mistake at work, showed up two hours late once. But I also submitted my book to a lit agent, those two twinkling packets (what I swore I couldn't do). And beyond that, I dreamt I Did A Thing. It was good but not THAT good, which made me feel it was real when I woke up. Shellz texted me. She had the same dream. In real life Lo texted me tonight. Promising news. My hopes: not high about any one thing, but floating about any thing. I didn't care for If Beale Street Could Talk even though I wanted to. It was worth the $5 popcorn, but it was too slow. I'm not patient enough for beauty. Maybe I'll remember something years from now. Like the play about video games I thought was fine in 2014. I think about it every single week. And based on that or based on nothing I told Puhg on the lamppost corner what my new goal is. I think I have fifteen years, right? I couldn't have script doctored tonight. Thoughts too fuzzy. I wrote here instead. Without intention I already know tomorrow will be another early morning. I want it to be. I'll work on Act II of T____. It calls me. Like I have several children. I can only care for the one that needs me most.  Panic! At the Disco every time I get in the car.

Jan 19 2019

5:10 - wake up for no reason, read Reddit, spend twenty minutes analyzing one meme
6 - make way to the couch and start researching Rhett Miller and Gillian Jacobs for work
7 - nausea hits: stop researching, start barfing
8 - retch and retch, there's nothing left in me, and still I retch
8:30 - stare at the ceiling, Puhg gives me a wet washcloth for my forehead
10:00 - nap in bed, with the new bed frame that I love dearly
11 - finally the demon in my gut has been expelled
11:20 eat two saltines
11:30 - rapidly finish all the day's work
12 - email the bosses my files
12:10 - go on a sunny, slow neighborhood walk with Puhg
1:15 - arrive at the office in shorts, clutching a box of saltines
1:30 - start planning next week at work - Chris Sullivan, Chris Sullivan, what to do with Chris Sullivan
1:45 - everyone in the office wears face masks as we type
2:15 - at some point the girls who have never done improv decide they want to try it but are too scared to ever take a class, I say I will lead a workshop, and so we do a workshop in the celebrity greenroom
2:50 - everyone gives me a a lot of heartfelt compliments about how great I am at teaching, I am really moved, but also sometimes I worry I was meant to be a teacher more than meant to be a writer, it is difficult to not be in a classroom, I check my work email every week wondering how my old students are doing, I still get inquiries from CPS if I can run a drama workshop for girls at risk, and I wish I could so much, there must be ways I can do it out here, but right now I don't have the time, maybe when this season ends I can get down to Long Beach where a retirement home once asked me to come, I emailed a local prison to see if I can visit inmates, I worry about them
3:10 - I try to be productive, but the writer's PA asks me to read her sketches, so I do and give feedback, but I try not to give too much, like I would have three years ago
4 - the internet is down down down, more to do, but must be done later
4:45 - drive through Taco Bell and get three items each for me and Puhg, it silently breaks out rule of "two items only" but neither of us says anything
5:30 - we watch a Survivor rerun and regret breaking our rule
6 - wiped, I lay on the couch and scroll on my phone, I want to answer, like, one email but I can't
6:30 - curl my hair, put button-up, powder, my pearl lip gloss
6:50 - Lyft to the theatre
7 - warm-ups, cipher about birthdays, and meet new girls I recognize
7:30 - perform Phantom of the Grocery Store the musical
8:30 - greet my aunt and Puhg in the lobby
9 - watch the reunion of peanuts
9:30 - girls' night at the LF diner: milkshakes and tuna melts
10:30 - the steep walk home
11:00 - need some chips and about thirty minutes of The Bachelor
11:40 - Duolingo goodnight

2018

-sold out solo show run at The A
-didn't go on a diet
-got into MFM podcast
-taught two new college theatre courses (improv and diversity in US theatre)
-crushed a taped stand-up set
-studied with Mick Napier
-bunch of WNT shows on Saturdays at i_
-bunch of BWC shows on Saturdays at SC
-bunch of hodge podge HT shows whenever
-bunch of CSz shows including a weird children's run at 10 AM
-wrote short film
-produced short film
-finished writing my book
-ZERO BIG AUDITIONS! GOODBYE AUDITIONS!
-tried on LA lyfestylez like SoulCycle and fancy wifi-less espresso
-adorable apartment cake-tastic birthday
-Baltic Sea vacation (wow)
-gave a speech at Kale's wedding
-worked on my first major motion picture
-watched my first dang jokes get on TV
-played at UCB for the first time (then several more times)
-noted my first B___ show
-published in The H_______
-submitted to ___
-got referred for four a_______ jobs--even if they didn't work out/I didn't take them
-visited Dad twice (for fun, for purging)
-three workshop productions of my musical
-taught a week improv intensive on a Maine lakeshore
-drove across the country in a minivan
-godmom visit to Texas
-the impossible: found a nice, affordable LA apartment
-visited San Francisco for Puhg's 30th (Alcatraz!)
-saw Scream in an outdoor cemetery
-Palm Springs Thanksgiving
-100 canvassing phone calls
-bought a scooter, returned said scooter
-bought a car
-wrote a new pilot
-40 hours of professional consulting!
-12 hours of therapy!
-made a new friend, reconnected with an old one
-six double dates
-bought multiple jumpsuits
-hosted my mama twice
-wrote 301 hours, 78 hours self-business
-three resolutions: check and check and check
-attended a sound bath, felt the vibrations of old and stepped into sunshine of new, met with Sr for adventure bread and journaling, the hopes are out there--will I eat slower, will I be promoted, will I remember what I am doing every single day, will I give in to what could be

7-11, Hollywood, Nov 1, 2018

BLOGIVERSARY!

Alice Out of Context is ten years old! Before this blog I had three LiveJournals, a DeadJournal, and two Xangas. Maybe three Xangas.

The first four were basically public diaries of what I did that day (never proofread stuffed with inside jokes and random song lyrics). The Xangas morphed into poetry and short essays. Then in 2008 I decided I wanted something a little more "professional." I stopped using any place names someone could google to find me (like my college, my work, etc.) and started using pseudonyms for everyone.

For a while. this blog kept me grounded as a writer. In the past few years when writing has become more and more of my life, I rely on it less and less. It serves as a history for some of my special adventures and a weird cut-around log of some of my biggest fears, relationships, successes.

I am grateful to this lil page, which is weird because I created it. How can I be grateful for something I did? As if it's alive and has been here for me when actually I slopped the clay for it in the first place. But who am I to question thanks? Voices are important, and I've always been able to speak mine--however I wanted--here.

It's hard for me to know if 2008 Alice would be surprised by 2018 Alice or not. Interestingly, I don't think so. Every year I can't believe the progress I've made, and yet, I obviously understand it. I did it, you know? I was the one making the steps toward goals, change, whatever. And although I am sometimes amazed by my own life, it's always been inside of me. I am better but I am also the same. At 20 I wanted to work in comedy, and now I do. It took ten years, but in 2018 I got my first TV and film credits, my jokes are broadcast across the country, I met both of my 20s heroes. In fact, they know me by name. I look how I always thought I would look. I live in an apartment that, if I dug into my memory, I am sure matches the next decade daydream. There are parts of my life/me that I had never considered. I think younger me would be satisfied with those too, but sometimes I wonder if she wouldn't and I'm tethered to some stone behind me. Nothing conscious, of course.

Ten years is so many years, but it went by in a blink. I wonder how many people do the, "If I can just climb over that next month," cycle. Today I walked by an ivied wall. It was so pretty, and the sun was so warm, nothing else mattered.

the author, accidentally taking a photo of herself

Dear Evan Hansen, You Are A Sociopath (Spoilers)

1. It's not a funny bit to nod your head and agree with lies a grieving mother is grappling with. It's not even funny if you were just "following the advice of a friend." I wasn't laughing.

2. You committed fraud on a huge level. You stole 50K.

3. You left a memorial to a dead person based on something the dead person hated. Connor's mom told you Connor hated the old apple orchard. Now, he is immortalized in an apple orchard. It's like if I died and you raised money for a ham factory to be resurrected in my honor.

4. Oh boo hoo, you didn't have a college fund. Welcome to America, Evan. 1% of people's parents pay for college. You never even filled out a single scholarship essay from the heap your mom spent hours compiling.

5. Your mom works a lot and your dad left. This is hard. Does it justify using a traumatized girl's dead brother's death as a bargaining chip in a romantic relationship with her? No.

6. You rewrote someone's life and never set the record straight.

7. You made your mom feel guilty for a bad partner out of her control.

8. You were not punished for a single one of your illegal, terrible, ridiculous actions and yet you still managed to feel sorry for yourself.

I am very over stories of men who see themselves as underdogs and thus feel entitled to bend societal and literal legal rules to fully experience their privilege. Some of the music was very good.

Selective

I love a mystical story. A man finds a childhood photo of his wife, and he is in the background on vacation with his grandmother. That kind of thing. Everyone has one. A moment from the past that makes sense of the present. A baby picture of a pop star holding a microphone or a talk show host at age ten reading an Archie. Thirty years later she interviews an actor from Riverdale.

It's fun to think we are our own crystal balls, 8 balls, Ask Zandar balls, but more likely we sift through our endless experiences for the sense. It's a good question I guess. Is there magic, or is it only selective memory? There is something earthy about selective memory too, I know. Even then, way back then, some beating piece of ourselves chose to cling to this moment in a sea of moments as important.

Last week Diablo was talking to me about her amnesia, and I got to wondering, did she remember how we met? And truthfully she didn't. I admire her? Perhaps? How did she know we were close? I wrote a play she was the lead in. In was spring 2014 and she didn't remember it. She even asked if I was mistaken. I showed her the photos. Nothing. She had even commented under some of them on Instagram. No bells rung. When we met up a few months ago in LA we talked all night like old friends do but why did she trust me? We even dove in deep. Maybe her nervous system sent waves up even if her hardware failed.

My memory used to be airtight. It's murkier now. I have been the person random people would text and ask, "Who was that person we met at the party one summer? There were tiki torches?" I would give a library of intel. Today on our walk Shant reminded me of what I said last night at a party we went to. I had forgotten. Names? No. And so what are the support beams now? Who am I, and is there evidence or just a feeling? Or is the feeling the evidence?

I hallucinate in the mornings and don't know if the worry that pings me mid-afternoon was from a dream or from logic that felt like a dream. Have you written an email--not simple send-off--but a long hearty personal email, and then written it again a few days later?

A few weeks ago I couldn't shake this wooden beam. I was 11. I was told I might go on a trip that summer. Possibly to Australia? How, I am not sure. But somewhere I got the idea I might be going to Australia. I went to an acting camp at a local Catholic school instead. In my mind I chose it, but it's more probably there was no trip. I liked the camp. We did musical theatre numbers. My class did "Mame." I did improv for the first time. (I actually only played one game, got out very quickly, and the teacher never picked me again. But I remember watching the "older kids" play a genres game at the final showcase and being very impressed with a girl who could do a jazz radio dj character.) But this counselor (I wish I knew what age) overheard me tell a kid, "I was going to Australia this summer, but then I came here instead." The guy (in my head I'm clocking him at 30) interjected, "You could have gone to Australia, but you came here? That was stupid."

This sticks with me maybe because we have no control of what sticks with us. Or maybe because I felt to betrayed by an adult. After all, he was the one teaching me these skills for this thing that I loved. He was selling something he didn't buy. That's a weird wake-up. Or maybe because I have always feared I will make a wrong choice--typically in reference to theatre/entertainment opportunities. I have missed out on so much of life because of comedy commitments many people would say are stupid. I haven't regretted it. I have made a life from it. We all miss out, is the thing. All of us are missing out. We can't not. But then we have what we have, and if you're even half true to yourself, it's probably good.

But occasionally a choice stings. I'm still cleaning my most recent wound. I have the maturity to know that sad adult summer camp counselor in the suburbs is the stupid one. But I don't have the faith to know it's not completely untrue.