The Book of Questions: Don't Look Back, Say Yes to Drugs

Friends! I'm back! I've missed you. It's been a rough little sabbatical. I've had 4 writing projects in the works and apparently that's three too many because my brain went on lock-down recently and I have had the worst writer's block... so bad that I dreamt last night that I had a term paper due for work (??) and it had to be 3 pages long on any topic I wanted and I could not think of a single thing to write about and I was bawling and wailing "Why can't I think of anything?! It only has to be THREE PAGES!!" A topic would occur to me and I would sit for a moment and try to write about it but nothing would come so I just continued pacing and brainstorming and crying for the entire dream. 

Obviously, I'm due for an intervention. And who better to step in and cure my writer's block than our deranged old pal who wears the same shirt everyday and stands a little too close, Gregory Stock, PH.D, author of the oddly provoking Book of Questions! I have prepared two for today and already these are getting the creative juices flowing so hopefully this will dam the stress dreams for tonight. 

#127 If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be? 

God it is just soooo like a therapist to prompt you to rewrite history!*

I'm not a fan of this question. I don't think it's healthy to wish to change your past, obvious exceptions being if your entire family was murdered In Cold Blood- style or if you are any of the characters in The Wire. It seems to me that no one's life is perfect but you play the cards you're dealt with positivity and determination and hope and in time that shapes you into a strong yet modest individual who's known for chiming in with good zingers around the dinner table. 

My family's generally pretty happy and I really enjoyed my childhood so I guess if I had to change something, I would have my parents win Powerball so they never had to work and we could be independently wealthy and just chill out and go to Disney World once a month? But then I probably would have grown up to be an insufferable brat who's never had a real job and delights in trashing hotel rooms, so maybe I take that back. 

I suppose it would have been cool to be groomed from a young age at a famous performing arts school where you sing all day and Intro to Choreography is considered a math credit. I would've basically gotten a diploma for doing all the things I did in my spare time anyway, which is more or less the American Dream. But then I probably would have grown up to be a socially inept bore who takes karaoke too seriously and references "Jan" in stories like you're supposed to know who Jan is, so I take that one back, too. 

I guess in the end the only thing I would change is I would give myself a horse. I always wanted one so I'm choosing to indulge myself and, besides, it would have reinforced core values like caring for something outside of myself and the importance of a disciplined routine not to mention how it might have animated one of life's most triumphant metaphors if I ever fell. Really the only drawback is that when I left for college my parents would have been stuck with a pet that cost them thousands of dollars annually in food, lodging and maintenance whereas in reality they were just stuck with my cat, who cost about $5 a week in canned giblets and in fact contributed to the household by trapping mice. So I guess everything works out for the best. Which just brings me back to my original instinct, not to mourn the past. You lose, Dr. Stock!

#81 If you were to discover your closest friend was a heroin dealer, what would you do? 

Alright, we all know the answer Dr. Stock is angling for so for his benefit here goes: I would be outraged! I would be scandalized! I would collapse right there on the corner of Main Street and Huckleberry Lane and the green grocer would revive me with smelling salts while the paper boy runs to get the doctor. When I regain my senses, I would report my friend to the authorities and he'd be hauled off to jail in the back of a paddy wagon, gripping the bars with tears streaming down his face as I'm given a key to the city for helping to keep our streets drug-free for future generations.

In all seriousness, my friends would never secretly deal heroin. They would tell me about it and offer to get me on board because they are thoughtful and generous individuals who have my best interest at heart. What better side job for an artist than dealing drugs? Flexible hours, wads of untaxed income, and it doesn't require any brain power that distracts from your craft. Also, as an actor, I'm a natural salesperson. Confident. Self-motivated. Results-driven. I would be an asset to the company, really. In fact, when I was fresh out of Peace Corps and flat broke, a friend of mine gave me a lead on a pharmaceutical sales job and my Dad begged me to take it for a year just to bank some money and then do whatever I want. I didn't do it, I took a teaching job for $19K a year instead so this would basically be my chance to make it up to him. Let's face it, it's the same general idea except better because I wouldn't have to go door to door with a rolling suitcase like I'm peddling encyclopedias. Also, I have no desire to do heroin so there's no threat of me consuming all the product and then having to go on the lam when it's time to pay my supplier. The more I think about this, the more I really feel like I'm a good fit. Drug lords, hit me up on LinkedIn!  

And there you have it, Friends. How would you answer Gregory Stock, PH.D?

*Kidding. I love therapy! If I had insurance I would go all the time. Until then, I rely on fortune cookies.

Hiatus!

Lovelies! I'm so sorry I've been  MIA! I've been working on a screenplay that I'm very excited about but I'm afraid it's occupying every one of my spare minutes and brain cells. 

I'll resume regular blog posts very soon, and to whet your appetite for my return, allow me to share that I had a dream last night that Ellen Degeneres gave me a pair of really long, tacky plastic earrings that were specifically designed to be worn from the top of the ear, which meant that I would need to pierce the cartilage of each of my ears in order to wear them... Ellen wanted me to put them on right away and she was ready right then and there to pierce my ears with a rusty safety pin and I was totally freaking out inside but didn't want to hurt her feelings by refusing her gift so I was weighing the pros and cons of drilling holes in my ears to appease her when I woke up. I don't know what that's all about because I am for sure not that polite in real life and would without hesitation tell Ellen that I appreciate the gesture but she needs to stand down with her tiny germ-encrusted spear and her unreasonable gifting expectations. 

I also dreamed that my agent and I were discussing the current state of stand-up comedy and I said, "I feel like so many comics these days are all, 'I hate Frappuccinos! Frappuccinos SUCK! Ha!' and I'd rather be all, 'I love Frappuccinos! Aren't you so obsessed with them, TOO? Ha!'" I'm very pleased with this dream because, although it seems to be expressed by some Starbucks-obsessed valley-girl, it legitimately speaks to my comedic philosophy, which is that I like to joke around from a place of love that laughs with others, not at them. Mostly, though, I like this dream for the fact that it is evidence that my brain is engaging in philosophical reflection while I'm asleep. I expect this gives me a leg up on all the lemmings who are merely sleeping when they're sleeping and this is a source of great satisfaction for the Type A over-achiever in me.

Also, I've never had a Frappuccino. I prefer hot black mud slung into a to-go cup. Am I missing something?

Sweet dreams to you until we meet again in a few weeks! 

XO

Home Sweet Home

Two weeks ago my parents mentioned that they were planning to put their house up for sale. Last week they emailed to say they officially listed it. Yesterday  it sold. And while my mother and father are celebrating this quick turn-around with champagne and high-fives, I would like to stop the party train and acknowledge an abrupt loss of personal history.

My family thinks I'm crazy. They can't identify anything upsetting about this. My mother feels she's being relieved of four thousand square feet of cleaning. My father feels he's being relieved of an acre of landscaping. My three brothers unanimously agree that they feel nothing at all and don't know why I'm so affected. To be honest, I don't know why I'm so affected, either. All I can come up with is that my time in that house fell at a unique point in my personal chronology. We moved there when I was a freshman in high school. The house we left was the house I was raised in and so the move, for me, coincided with my cross-over from childhood to maturity. The new house was a clean slate and was the backdrop for all my "coming of age" experiences. I shed my childhood twin bed and progressed to a large adult bedroom that I decorated with pictures of Grace Kelly, my grandmother's writing desk and a vanity where I could do my hair and makeup away from the bathroom I shared with three boys. I could entertain friends, do my homework, write in my journal. I landed my very first job working at Marshalls and filled my double closet with all the latest trends, bought with my own money. I was given my own phone jack and for the first time in my life could take personal calls in private. I became a lady in that bedroom. 

What's more, I became an artist in that bedroom. There, I timidly rehearsed my first significant audition, making the cut for my high school's prestigious theatre program. Later, I drilled solos for the summer company I toured with and, later still, confidently prepared to sing the National Anthem at a ten thousand seat stadium. For years I paced that bedroom running through monologues, recitations, choral pieces and musical numbers. I practiced choreography, memorized lines and assembled costumes. It's the bedroom where I packed my Caboodle with stage makeup and hair accessories and cassettes of vocal exercises. It's the bedroom where I pasted scrapbooks of every production I did and it's the bedroom where I lay awake staring at my poster of the New York City skyline, fantasizing about a future in which I would command a world class stage, never anticipating that that might one day be in the realm of possibility.   

I haven't lived in that house for a very long time. Since moving West, I barely even visit. For my brothers, this has been enough to erode their attachment but for me there's still a filament that connects me to that bedroom and losing it feels like losing the dreamer who emerged there. I know that sounds melodramatic and, yes, it's just a house. Home is where the heart is and I'll get over it soon enough but for now... for now, I'm sad.  

Dreams: Riding in Cars With Boys

Last night I had a dream that it was opening night of an adult summer camp production of Singin' in the Rain and I was directing. Because I take pride in my work and the summer camp presumably gave me an 8-figure budget, I had brilliantly conceived a production in which all the musical numbers happen at the same time on multiple open-air stages however the sound system had failed and so the audience of thousands was picnicking on a hillside watching silent chorus numbers and booing me. I was a nervous wreck pacing back behind the crowd and I turned to signal the sound team when I was stopped by two giant, lanky, Muppet-like dogs that were covered in fleas and open sores. I felt bad because they seemed so forlorn but I didn't think I should pet them because they looked diseased and as I was evaluating this a guy approached me and somehow I instinctively knew that he had rescued the dogs and was nursing them back to health and I immediately developed an all-consuming crush on him. His face was tanned and deeply creased and his hair was really wiry and greasy and I remember thinking that the look in his eyes was a little creepy but that I shouldn't judge someone by their appearance and so I stuck out my hand to introduce myself but as I did, I sneezed and blew snot all over my face. I was so embarrassed and I tried to clean it but it was chunky and the more I tried to wipe it away, the more it smeared and I was about to run when Crazy Eyes offered me a packet of mini tissues.  I wiped my face and he took my hand and I left the production to follow he and his dogs into the back of a rusted-out van and we drove away while he played me songs on a broken guitar.

I probably don't have to map out the takeaway here. My dating life has clearly plummeted from simply "pitiful" into a menacing danger zone. Apparently I have reached a new low in which I am susceptible to walking away from gainful employment to climb into rusted-out vans with the first available leather-faced weirdo who offers me a tissue. Well done, men of Los Angeles! You've corroded the last of my dignity. My father will sleep like a baby tonight. I have no tools to navigate this uncharted world of desperation, so if any of you out there have any tips, tricks or Mace, all assistance in restoring my self-worth is appreciated. Until then, I'm keeping my cell phone charged and using the Buddy System.

The 2013 Everyday People Awards

The Oscars are upon us, which means that Awards Season is finally coming to a close. Yes, "Season". Those of you who don't live here may be blissfully unaware that for the months of December, January and February Hollywood morphs into a preening, air-kissing, lacquered-faced monster that celebrates itself from every angle. Producer's Guild Awards! Cinema Audio Society Awards! Black Women in Hollywood Awards! Annies! Eddies! Streamies! Now, I'm not saying these people aren't worthy of recognition for a job well done. And I certainly hope to be counted among the bronzer-ed, sequined, swag-bag-carrying elite one day HOWEVER I think it's only fair to lay down our shrimp forks and look up from our Dior compacts from time to time and acknowledge that there is a world of people who go above and beyond at their jobs each day with no gala affairs incentivizing them. 

It goes without saying that I am profoundly grateful to groups like our military, police force, fire fighters and teachers. They are the backbone of our great country and have all my respect. But this post is not for them (with one exception; See: Best Firefighter). In this post, I am digging deeper and giving a shout-out to a few Little People who I interact with on a weekly basis and who do their ordinary jobs with extraordinary enthusiasm. They bring joy to my routines and they deserve recognition so here goes:  

The 2013 Everyday People Awards (Click here for soundtrack) 

Best Dry Cleaner: The adorable Asian woman with the gigantic smile at Regency Cleaners in Echo Park who makes a point of coming out from behind the counter to cup my face and tell me "So pretty!" every time she sees me. They also do a great job with my clothes so, you  know, there's that, too.  

Best Supermarket: Vons in Silver Lake/ Los Feliz/ Virgil Village (depending on your realtor). It would be easy to give this award to just about any Trader Joes, since they are consistently staffed with all different shapes and sizes of your favorite neighbor, but I wanted to reward an underdog here. This Vons is the happiest supermarket I've ever encountered. It's like, Disney-level happy. It is so happy that I actually find myself consciously shopping less and less at my favorite TJ's just because I feel like this place deserves business for being so freaking happy. From the bagger who trades recipes with me to the stock boy who sings me Elvis songs to the cashier who once taught me how to do a fishtail braid, these people bring "connecting with the customer" to a whole new level.  

Best Movie Theatre: The Vintage Los Feliz 3 because it is cheap and always has current movies and it is two doors down from arguably the best happy hour in the area (Figaro!) AND I can bring my own food and drink in, which means I can sip homemade spiked hot chocolate or chow down on an  In-N-Out burger while I watch a $6 movie. 

Best Cardio Instructor: Jordan at Pop Physique in Silver Lake does not treat me like the winded lard-ass that I am. Instead, he exalts my pitiful performance with exclamations like "You're a beautiful, powerful tree!", which we all know is a lie. I am not powerful in the slightest, in fact from the moment the class begins I feel certain that I'm seconds away from blacking out and cracking my head on the ballet barre but his passion is intoxicating so I keep coming back. 

Best Car Repairman: Tony at Silver Lake Collision. I hope not to have this award category in 2014 but let's just say that my car was in three accidents last year and he did such a beautiful job and has such an awesome Italian Grandpa-ness that it's almost (almost) a delight to write that deductible check.  

Best Dog Groomer: DeeDee at Moonshine Grooming. Chicken goes into convulsions when you try to cut her nails. Somehow this 5lb dog acquires the strength of three pit bulls when you pull clippers out of your pocket and it is impossible for me to handle her so I pay $15 to make it someone else's problem. Enter DeeDee. It takes about half an hour for her to accomplish what should take under two minutes because Chicken writhes and hyperventilates like there's a serial killer in the room and all the doors and windows are on fire. DeeDee doesn't even break a sweat as she walks the entire property with Chicken cradled in her arms, alternating each clip with nuzzles and kisses and songs. How do you tip an angel? I love her.   

Best Gas Station Owner: The Indian guy at the Chevron on the corner of Vineland and Moorpark in North Hollywood. He's like a little Buddha, so soft spoken and cushiony and has the most wonderful smile. Just one conversation with him makes me feel like I've been to church. I actually go to the trouble to pay for my gas inside the store just so I can talk to him- that's how sublime a human being he is.  

Best Parking Garage Attendant: To me, parking garages are like the annoying co-worker in the copy room who's holding the printer hostage with some overly complicated copy job while she tells you stories about her kids. I just want to run into Target for some laundry detergent and a birthday card but first I have to endure noise and lines and stupid people pushing carts in the middle of the lane. Parking garages exhaust me so I really appreciate attendants like the guy at the $5 garage on Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills who asked me about my night and told me a funny story about going to the spa with his wife and getting a terrible massage that ruined his back. Human interaction! It's so easy and yet so rare. 

And, last but not least, Best Firefigher: Adorable, charming Anonymous Firefighter at Fire Station #63 in Venice. I was leaving Abbot Kinney with a just-purchased coffee on the roof of my car and you took time out from saving lives to  wave me down and point it out to me. I made a joke and you laughed a perfect laugh that lit up your perfect face. I drove away and have cursed myself every day since for not giving you my phone number. Please call me. It's really easy to find me with some simple internet stalking. You haven't thought of that because you are pure and true and uninitiated in these ways but your feral firehouse buddies will help you. Of course, I expect that you are probably married but until I get confirmation on that I am moving ahead with planning our future together and it is a safe and blissful one filled with smoke detectors and flame-less candles and homemade birthday cakes shaped like hydrants. Seriously, call me. 

And that wraps up the 2013 Everyday People Awards! Feel free to add your own. Who brings joy to your routines?

Cue Randy Newman: 8 Reasons to Love LA

It was Girls' Night at mi casa last night (Four young women in sweatpants drinking tea and listening to jazz records - Take a step back, boys, you're embarrassing yourselves) and while conversation revolved around the usual (Five Strategies to Reboot My Career! Single Men in Los Angeles: Attractive, Creative, Elusive), my friend Anastasia made a comment that stuck with me: "I need to fall back in love with LA".

In the moment, we pleaded with her not to jump ship and promised to romance her with rooftop cocktails and trips to Palm Springs but it got me thinking: I've always believed that you can make a home wherever you are, that "home" begins with you and is your own creation, but as I settle into LA and enjoy a lightness and sense of belonging that I've never experienced before, I wonder...  should this be what we aspire to? Should everyone live someplace that they "love"? And, if so, what should we be looking for? What does it even mean to "love" a place?

I don't have any answers, it's just something I'm chewing on, but I do really love where I live and for me that means feeling like my community is a natural extension of myself. My LA is bountiful farmers' markets, cheap live music, margaritas by the beach and trail hikes with my dog. It's also writing and acting. LA has a bad rap for being "All About The Business" but I find it really stimulating to be part of a city that is so creatively charged. Being successful here demands your full intellect. You are called on every day to question, rework, edit, alter, innovate. You are also called on to provoke; whether it's laughter, tears or tension everything you create needs to be infused with emotion. It's at once exhausting and exhilarating and I find it really satisfying.

That said, my friend Anastasia is not part of the industry. The thrill of creation is not going to woo her. But I happen to think that, even independent of the entertainment business,  LA is an all-around wonderful place to live so, for her, here is my list of  8 Reasons to Fall In Love With LA:

1. Hiking. Right here. Like, really. Right. Here. No, you're looking too far. Here.
2. Strawberries in winter. I don't know about you but, where I'm from, you only get strawberries for about three weeks in June and they do not taste of sugary sunbeams like these do.
3. Pink sunsets. Especially driving the PCH. You are instantly transported to an '80s movie.
4. Night jasmine. It smells like the Moon is taking a bubble bath! This makes me so happy.
5. No bugs. I don't know where they are and I feel like maybe it's not a good thing that I never see them because aren't they an essential part of the ecosystem? but I definitely don't care. I accept whatever environmental apocalypse comes of this. You cannot put a price on a summer night without mosquitoes.
6. Average rainfall = 13 inches. Which means no mold, which is huge. Also, it means that precipitation becomes a celebration of woolly blankets and hot chocolate instead of a force of evil that ruins your favorite shoes.  
7. Cheap  beauty treatments. One advantage of living in a youth - obsessed city? Lots of competition driving down prices. Where else can you get anti-cellulite treatments for $40? I think there are entire states that don't even have anti-cellulite treatments available to them, never mind for $40. Count your blessings.  
8. Palm trees. Party in a tree. They look like Muppets or  a family of Dr. Seuss characters. I submit that your worst day is less worse here because you are surrounded by palm trees.

Now, I know you can find palm trees lots of places and go hiking lots of places and I'm sure those cities are all great, too. I'm not saying that I love LA to the exclusion of all other locations the world around. This is just my way of giving a warm shout-out to a city that makes me feel at home. Stay, Anastasia! Stay!

How about you? What do you love about where you live?