Rollercoaster

It was less a week of high highs low lows and more a week of normalized highs and medium level lows.

In a single day (Tuesday) a handful of unreal things happened that I would not have full stop ever believed could happen two years ago, but instead, there it was. Long hugs with AP and MR, letting my old gig friends into the front door of the studio. The studio I write in. A name drop and a nod of affirmation from my boss and her boss (the bossiest of bosses). Puhg, in the expensive shoes I bought him, stood watching from the far back corner as it all went down. And as it ended a friend from summer camp of all places arrived. I told my lunch break for us to have kale quinoa bowls and guac. And then bad news was delivered that should have made me quake and cry, but it just made me think a birthday cake waffle cone of salted cracked caramel was a good idea. (It was.)

Using the roller coaster emoji because some moments I feel fine, more than fine, there's a sheer optimism shooting from me. And then there's a quick zip of metal when I think about climate change. And then a screeching jerk of the boxcar when the fear steps into that operator's box. I see it in there with it's grey crater face, moving the joystick or pressing the button or whatever those teenagers do to keep everyone on the ride alive.

Got dizzy during my workout and sat on the floor for a few minutes. I know I have to relax more. I cried trying to sort out my Friday night plans specifically designed for unwinding. Saturday was sucked up and away by an exciting work project. I would never not have done it but I lost my moment to be chill, and also my moment to finish those two scenes of the musical. Twenty days left before deadline. I want to go on vacation, but not right now. I can't. But I will. One day. These are good problems to have. I used to be be much more stressed, but it's like my body is reacting worse than ever. Took two days (almost) totally off social media and it made a world of difference. It's uncanny how my happiness is ripped straight from out behind my eyes when I see everyone else.

Tried out Sabrina last night and Pretty Little Liars today. I imagine writing everything. I have so much spaz and sprinkle in me. I feel like I just moved to Chicago again, hungry for improv jams. I know one day I won't be sparkling when I read staffing newsletters, but today I am. I feel open like I did when I was 22 and knew if I needed to I could still work at McDonald's. When I was a full-on college professor I took an application for a Taco Bell. And then there's a point where going backward can kill you. Although I did meet a waiter at H_____ of P___ who said he left his giant firm because his blood pressure was going to literally kill him. I said, "You're killing it" sincerely, but I know it sounded absolutely putrid. I've spent at least a couple hours wondering how to right the situation. But attending any energy to him would make him feel even more self-conscious. I think the only possible resolution is to see him years from now and say his words still ring true.

On the Cross

Sometimes when I'm cruising over to Silverlake I get a suburban sense. It's not the flowery air I don't think and the houses don't look familiar, neither are the palm trees or the winding hills. I wish I could figure it out, but I can't. We do not have to know the something, we need only to recognize the something and not ignore it.

I've been failing more, which means expanding the odds. I biffed it at a stand-up set. Why not? I said going in. Can't hurt. In hindsight, perhaps it hurt. You never know when someone is keeping a tab, or a list, and blacklining your name. There's something to wasting people's time. But there's also something to risking wasting people's time to make people's time. There's also something to be said for building up that callous of opportunities miscarried. I'm in denial it's almost May. LA has that same Time Stands Still Syndrome that keeps everyone in Arizona in Arizona. It's as though no season has passed. I wonder if we stop feeling behind when we get out from the backside or if we stop feeling behind when we stop feeling behind.

The stress I think most people feel doesn't hurt me. I came from humbler beginnings, so I have less to lose. My stress is a particular kind of twitch between my brain and my eye hole from refreshing application pages and proofing my script for the four-hundred-millionth time. Not stress, but my wheel is from spinning over the same conversation I plan to have with a coworker who hates me, a conversation she will never agree to. I focus like a laser sending in my materials, zap, zap, zap. Puhg in bed for an hour reading. He says, "I bet you a million dollars your next opportunity does not come from whatever you just did." And he is very likely correct.

Meanwhile I find, in general, here, people look inward more. The benefits are the "energies" and "manifesting" and the possibilities. No one decent soul will judge a dream. At the same time, I admit I call my Congressman less. I wait to be told more. I have become optimistic about enough change in two years that all is not lost, which I was certain of in a winter city.

There's a ball of hairy pressure on seconds, I explain over a bowl of spicy gnocchi. If I loved something the first time, I am worried it cannot be surpassed the second. I worry over this on multiple levels. If you and I have so much fun, how do we even go up? If I had a perfect day at that theme park why would I chance a second trip? Isn't there that fact about drug hits? That's what someone told me. She had done acid exactly one time because scientifically it would never improve. I'd never do acid, but I would relate that logic to seeing a movie twice.

Millennials need more signposts at their careers, I'm told. More promotions. This has been true of me. I have never stopped moving. What would it be like to be in the same groove for ten years? Even five. I am relieved I do not fear a stable day, but I am certain it is an ocean away.

Karate Kid

"Comedy is a weapon" a director told our ensemble once. I agreed. But also, sometimes, come on. But lately the world is not as funny. All the time. I mean, every day I laugh, and I try to make people laugh, and it's cheesy but laughing is actually very important. I believe and I know. Sometimes, arbitrary or not, I'm just not laughing. A cameraman and I watch a bunch of my female coworkers file into a room. He jokes, "What? Is R Kelly in there?" And (no chill) I said, "No. That will never be funny." He was like "ehhh, yeah, sorry." He was a very nice dude, but I don't have the energy. Today I walked into my improv class. I was annoyed, as I am every Sunday at 10 AM doing my stupid beginner-level class for $500 that promised to be advanced and isn't but I don't want to quit because I already paid the money and several of my friends swear it will get better in the next level. Anyway, I walked in, and this guy, also probably very nice, who has never really hurt a fly and clearly really looks forward to each of these lessons and generally has a nice attitude was like "Hi!" and I was like "I thought I might be late" and I made a little gesture like a chop. He said, "Whoa that looked like karate." And then, I'm fairly certain without thinking, he said, "In general there should just be more karate in the world. Like I wish way more people knew karate." And it was just a throwaway funny opening like, but I was stone-cold like, "What?" He was like, "You know! How fun! People would get into karate fights on the sidewalk!" And I didn't even give him a dumb smile. I was like, "I'm not even ambivalent to that. I really wouldn't like that. I'm already worried enough about getting attacked when I go somewhere at night. I don't need bonus concerns. It's one of the few reliefs I have to know most attackers are kind of bumbling." And he was like, "Heh, yeah. Yeah, no, you're right." This is how they say in France, Being Extra. But my nose is clogged and I am just not into the garbage banter and the jokes for jokes sake. Comedy is a weapon. I'm sick of everyone carrying guns, firing shots into the air, stray bullets killing birds.

Gobs

For some reason I've always remembered seeing  ___ the first break after we went to college. She lamented she was already done drinking. "Beer is so fattening!" She hadn't known. "I put on, like, gobs of pounds." Why do I love "gobs of pounds" so much? The phrase roams into my consciousness when I least expect it. Memory is incredible. What will I download about this week?

I haven't gotten to write the past three days. I've been doing two jobs at work as I transition into my new title. I stay until 8:45 and then get a cheese plate on a slab that is shaped like California at a networking meet-up. Or I couldn't even muster the mental strength to order good food from Postmates. I made macaroni at Bundo's apartment during the best episode of The Bachelor that has ever been filmed.

Yesterday was kissed with magic. Our super perfect this-is-why-we-do-it field shoot premiered. Armie Hammer's wife made buttermilk pie, and I ate two slices at my desk while punching up an intro for the country's first defensive female college football star. Margaret Cho said her underwear smells like pennies and we erupted in applause. My eyes welled up knowing she can't say that on F_____ or K______ or M_____. Everyone grows bitter, they say. But there are too many things to do for that. There are too many loves for that.

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.

Or It Didn't Happen

What would you do if there would never be photographic evidence? My whole job exists because my boss has a phone addiction. I'm not knocking it (totally) but I am wondering how much we do for the proof alone we did it. I know this has never not been the case. Band t-shirts and ticket stubs and just the story "I went to Paris" even when you've got nothing to show for it. An 80 year-old man in my summer improv class never let up explaining how proud he was of his family, his former career, all the old person tours to Asia he went on. I feel bad for people who need to stuff as much as they can into the year and also live by solstice days. I guess I think intention is everything. You don't need to do something remarkable. You need to feel remarkable about the things you do.

I remember leaving a high school party, and right as I got to my car another pulled up. It was a pile of decoys from my exit--the couple everyone "will they/won't they"d, a wild boy determined to streak, maybe music? I knew as I pulled away I was missing all the things that the locker hall would buzz about in the morning. I thought about turning around, but the truth is I didn't actually care about the party anymore. I had decided to leave. I just wanted to feel included, or, honestly, more than included. I had the chance to be in the tightest circle of experience. I remember I drove home with the windows down listening to Imogen Heap. I read through my old text messages and went to bed.

It hadn't been twenty minutes since I made plans with Lo for tomorrow, but the plans were nevertheless made. Tira knocked on my window with news. A secret pop-up concert for an indie  queen. The place to BE. I know what's cooler to do on a Wednesday night. I obviously know! And Lo wouldn't mind rescheduling, but if I was being honest, that concert wasn't for me. I know it would look good in a picture, and I would probably bump into someone famous, and my friends who love that singer would be jealous, but something tugged me away.

What is a gut reaction? Sometimes it's that Malcolm Gladwell thing where your fear moves faster than your logic, sure. But sometimes it seems divine. An idea plopped down from above. I went to my jewelry cup yesterday and a strong voice said, "Do not put those rings on." So I didn't. Why would I argue? This happens sometimes. There have been times I have thought the voice led me astray, but when the dust settles, I find it never has.

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.