January 2007 Archives

A Conversation with the Honeybee:

Me:  Was that the guy to whom you were talking?

Honeybee:  You know, Winston Churchill said it was okay to end a sentence with a preposition.

Me:  Well, you know what happened to him.

Honeybee:  STDs?

Me:  What?

Honeybee:  Because he slept with thousands of women?

Me:  Um, you're thinking of Wilt Chamberlain.

Honeybee:  Oh, who has the initials WC?  Besides our friend WC from college?

Me:  You just can't make a good argument tonight, can you?

 

This morning, as I was firing up my computer, preparing for another day, Cube Boy strolled up. 

CubeBoy:  Know who's great?

Me:  Me.

CubeBoy:  No.  Martika.

Now, I don't know how many of you Children of the 80s are familiar with said Cuban-American sensation who graced the Kids, Incorporated stage many a time before releasing her breakout hit "Toy Soldiers."  She portrayed Gloria with verve, always serving as a mentor to Stacy, or as you might know her, Stacy Ferguson, aka Fergie.  Stacy was constantly skipping about the malt shop in her freakishly bright red sneakers and blue tights, threatening to experiment with drugs if Gloria didn't scold her.  That child needed boundaries, let me tell you. 

Although I was never certain of the logistics behind the show - what town has a malt shop joined by a cabaret-type theater that seats 150? - my early childhood found me home Friday nights (this was before I turned 7 and started dating, you see), glued to the television, to see what escapades an overdose of applause and chocolate shakes would engender in those spunky kids.

And Martika, according to your IMDB biography, you have faded into "Hollywood oblivion."  Come back. Please.  We miss you.     

In case anyone hasn't noticed, I haven't blogged this week.  I will probably not be blogging next week.  Why?  Because I have jury duty.  Why did I not blog this week?  Because I didn't feel like it, and there is too much going on (all of it good, never you fear) for me to put it down in any kind of logical order.  So everyone have a good weekend!  I will be spending mine with Jack Bauer. 

That's right, folks, it's Guest Blog time. Up this week is Cliffhanger, who has, by her own account, put up with a lot of shit from me over the past 48 hours. Although I admit nothing, I am relinquishing the spotlight to her for the day. And just a word to the wise: she is expecting comments. So here ya go!


The first time I met Melissa was over the phone. The introduction came
from her predecessor at PEPPER, LRuch, and though I can't remember the
exact wording of our first conversation, I remember thinking that this new
chick could not possibly replace LRuch in my rolodex without working at
it. I was bereft. Who would I get my super secret show information from?
Who would pre-release production copies of the show to me? Yes, it was
all about me.

I have to say in the beginning it was many days between emails, many
weeks between calls, and many months before we would stare at each other
face to face. Ahhh, that day. I have been reminded (repeatedly, which
should come as no surprise to most of you) that I met "MA" at a real low
point in her life. The meeting could have been a real low point in my
life, too. Not only was she imposing on my Saturday, she was late and
the bakery was out of my favorite cake. With such an ignoble start to
this journey down friendship lane, I guess it's really a tribute to my
impeccable judge of character that I would still identify her worth and
befriend her (despite her many professed flaws). And to set the record
straight, she got the date right, but definitely frosted reality when it
comes to the invite to her maiden hike that fateful August day. But hiking,
as I've told her, is sacred time and not to be recounted willy-nilly on this blob.

So here are a few of my favorite things (in inconsequential order) about
MA:

How she says "ok, ok, ok" just like Joe Pesci a la LETHAL WEAPON to
signal =her excitement prior to relating a story.

When she imbues inanimate objects with
names/feelings/personalities/thoughts. Namely plush toys.

Her lack of faith in her immune system and the belief that every ailment
will lead to her death.

The fact that she doesn't eat or just forgets to feed herself.

And on the rare occasion she does, she likes to share the sweet and
savory.

Her love of RVC (red velvet cake) and Pinkberry.

She is truly insane and expects others to read her mind. Often when she
herself doesn't know it.

Her belief that herpes kills.

She fondly refers to the lord as Wee Baby Jesus.

Her inability to ride an elevator alone. Glass elevators excepted.

She is the mother of self-deprecation and the father of indecision.

Denies that she makes every conversation revolve around Kentucky. And
how she's from there.

And finally, she'll be my friend and post this entry, though she'll
really want to re-write history, as she famous for doing, editing out
both the best and worst parts and making it just THAT much funnier...

There are days when I hop out of bed, delighted with the prospect of sunshine, work, coffee, and the feeling that that particular day, I will do no wrong. I will accomplish each and every goal I've set for myself. I will remember to eat. I will remember to caffeinate before 10 AM. I will remember that I speak three languages fluently, that I can train horses to jump really high fences, and that I can read palms with gusto. I can also guess what song is playing on the radio two notes into it. I am worthy of representation. I am worthy of going out for staffing (notice I said worthy, not deserving. The second you think something is owed you is the second you're gonna be really disappointed). In short, there are days when I am happy with myself.

Today is not one of them. Today, I believe my entire career choice was based on my mom telling me I was talented after she read my second grade treatise on "Why I Want A Pet Panther" (will kill people I don't like; eats Panther Chow, which I developed with Purina and from which I made my fictional second grade fortune; might be purple, like Skeletor's evil cat). Today, I feel worthy of jack shit.

Now where was I?  The weekend.  Ah, yes.  Sunday, I had dinner with the Designated Driver.  Not to jab the knife in, but she's always busy working, and I'm always busy not working, so there you have it.  On the way home, we drove past the Hilton, then Robinson's May, and, as Kurt Cobain sang to us from the radio, the DD mentioned that So and So was having a Green Party (what?) for the Golden Globes there.  Which got me to thinking about my favorite game.  Aka, what if?  What If has lost me several friends over the years, when I ask questions like, "What if you weren't such a slut?"  and "What if I set your hair on fire?"  But Sunday was different.

Me:  (to DD)  What if you had to choose between you never being allowed to recycle again or Kurt Cobain coming back to life?

DD:  (thinking, thinking)  Well, I like recycling...

Me:  But you also like Kurt Cobain.

DD:  Right.  I'm gonna have to choose recycling.

Me:  Recycling over living Kurt Cobain?

DD:  Yeah.  Because, even if I bring him back to life, he's probably just gonna kill himself. 

Me:  (amazed)  Good point!

Later, since I had finished the pilot, Cliffhanger and I went for celebratory cake.  I was still hung up on "What if?" 

Me:  (to Cliffhanger) What if--

Cliffhanger:  -- Don't bother me.  I'm pretending to be a peanut butter sandwich.

The future of Hollywood, ladies and gentlemen.  Grim.  Very grim. 

WTF, weekend?  WTF?  Where'd you go?  I am disappointed in my increased ability to plow through 72 hours like they're 10.  Or, at least, it seemed like 10 to me, maybe more like a thousand to those with whom I spent it.  Friday night, after a catnap in front of the television, I woke up and realized I was late to meet my Ex Film Professor, the New York Filmmaker, and his fiancee for dinner.  I was 15 minutes late to almost every engagement I had this weekend, unless I was being picked up.  I don't know if I do this to get others to offer to pick me up, or what, but it's annoying to all involved, even me, because I don't want to be unaware when trying to manipulate people.  Anyway, back to dinner - we went to Shamshiri Grill in Westwood, and, although it's no Sunin, I will attest to its delectability and reasonable prices.  The Ex Film Professor and I split an entree and still had food left over.  As we ate, we brainstormed titles for his new Russian script.  I came up with "Ural Gonna Die" and "Stalin for Time," neither of which was acceptable and merely served to illicit groans from the entire table, the waiter, and the hobo outside.  But I thought they were funny, and that's all that matters.

Saturday, Cliffhanger and I headed to Runyon for a quick hike before she had to head off to brunch, and I had to head off to... staring at my living room wall.  But I did manage to clean and get some work done on the pilot before she picked me up at 2.  We spent the entire day in the Valley and didn't stumble upon a single porn set.  Disappointing, I know, although we did snag a stellar Oreo brownie from Big Sugar Bakeshop, a movie, and dinner at Mr. Cecil's before returning to my pad for a viewing of SOUL FOOD.  One of our chief topics of conversation throughout the night was dating.  I have no clue why, but I'm being set up by several people right now, and I'm not sure how I feel about it, mainly because I have zero interest in dating.  Cliffhanger is all for it - she thinks it would get me out of her hair, but she is sadly mistaken.  The Designated Driver thinks I should be hooking up with an ex, because it's comfortable.  Um, no.  No, it's not.  Although, remember how all I want to do is wear sweatpants?  That's impossible to do while dating someone new, at least in Phase One, aka the Dress Like a Skank but Act Like a Cocktease phase. 

The entire charade started Friday, when a boy who sits nearby at work asked if he could set me up with a friend of his, and I said maybe, and said friend IM'ed me and asked me out, but my schedule is jam-packed, jam-packed I tell you, plus I'm not up for meeting one on one the first time, necessarily.  Cliffhanger suggested a double date, perhaps at a fondue restaurant, where we could throw hot oil in said dates' faces.  I suggested hanging up our Spinster Shingles immediately.  THEN, this morning I got an email from The Abuser, aka my Favorite PD Writer, with whom I had a lovely dinner last week.  She wants to set me up with another writer who works on her show.  Should writers be allowed to date other writers?  I'm not sure.  Should writers be allowed to date?  Also not sure.  Should writers who haven't gotten their first break be allowed to date?  Most definitely not.  Although I do have a good feeling about this year.  Don't know why, but I do.  Which will guarantee my future employment at Starbucks.  Thoughts, anyone?

Sunday I devoted the entire day to finishing Draft B of the pilot.  I know it still needs a lot of work, but I did what I could and now am getting others' opinions (major props to the Wise Man, who has a notes turnaround time of less than 24 hours).

Which reminds me, I should be working on those notes, not blabbering on like some stupid chick in a rom com.   

 

 

         

This week has been one fraught with peril.  I, for one, will be glad to see it draw to a close.  I hate the waiting game.  I find myself with trains of thought like this:

Me:  (thinking) I'm so bored.  I should update my blog.  No.  Haven't had coffee.  Won't be funny.  What's that saying?  We're all just sitting around waiting with our thumbs up our butts.  Wonder what it's like to actually stick your thumb up your butt... oh, wait.  I'm at the office.  And I'm wearing button-fly jeans, which complicates things further. 

Train of thought interrupted by an IM from My Replacement:

My Replacement: can you  hear that noise?
My Replacement: kind of like a distant high-pitched sound?
Me: no.  are you torturing a pony or something?
My Replacement: why, no
My Replacement: certainly not.  i would never
My Replacement: don'tcomeoverhere

Me:  (continuing to think) I wonder if Jack Bauer makes To Do Lists.  I bet he does.  But I bet he gets every single thing on his To Do List done every day.  As opposed to you, Melissa.  I ask you to do one thing, ONE THING yesterday, but no, you spend all your time composing emails and forgetting to eat lunch or dinner then wondering why you're cranky and faint when you go for a jog this morning.  I have had it with you. 

Train of thought interrupted by CubeBoy, who serenades me with No More Words/You're tellin' me you love me while you're lookin' away...

We are all playing the waiting game here, it would seem.  Although I'd like to think he'd stop to serenade me on a busy day as well.

And in case you live under a rock that's been tossed to the bottom of the ocean, 24 RETURNS ON SUNDAY!!!  Thank goodness.  I was beginning to contemplate a cyanide cocktail laced with lies, deception, and unhappiness. 

 

 

Shitty day. Go away. Ick, ick, ick.

Meeting went awesomely well!!! I expected to be in there for 30 minutes, instead it was over an hour. Now off to deliver two of my scripts to New Boss, who wants to have a pow-wow about what my next move should be. Today, at least, I feel encouraged.

Cliffhanger has accused me, somewhat unjustly, I might add, of passive aggressively blasting someone with each blog entry.  Since I am constantly looking to improve myself, I am going to make it through an entire blog entry without said passive aggressive blasting.  But how?  How can I write if I don't have the added pleasure of knowing someone, somewhere, is reading between the lines and realizing they've brought my wrath upon themselves?  I'm going to make a laundry list of the books on my nightstand, that's how.

1.)  LOLITA - Vladimir Nabokov - One of my personal faves, mainly because it makes me feel all warm and cuddly and safe.  Oh, wait.  I'm thinking of The Berenstein Bears.  But that doesn't mean LOLITA doesn't rank near the top in my own personal book of books.  English was Nabokov's third language, and he used it masterfully to weave this dark, illicit, and absolutely fucking brilliant tale.  If you haven't read it, do.  It is the very definition of seductive prose.

2.)  POP - Aury Wallington - I worked with Aury this past fall.  She's a sheer delight, and her sense of humor is stamped all over this novel about losing your virginity.  I'm totally digging it.

3.)  THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT - John Steinbeck - I know, I know, no wonder I get the occasional bout of depression, reading Steinbeck and all.  But this is an almost fun deconstruction of corruption within one man.  One detached and utterly charming man, in some ways like Nabokov's Humbert, but American, and not a prolific pedophile.   

4.)  WUTHERING HEIGHTS - Emily Bronte - Again with the depression.  But, like a good horror film, WUTHERING HEIGHTS administers a healthy dose of perspective, what with its refusal to portray love from any sort of flattering angle.  Score one for the cynic in me.  I read and re-read this novel the winter High School Boyfriend dumped me for my best friend, then wondered why I was sad.  Not too bright, huh? 

And now I'm off to my meeting.      

I just finished a notes call with my Ex Film Professor, who is coming to town this weekend.  Know how long it lasted?  Two hours.  And, unlike with Cliffhanger, I don't spend 95% of the time doing MySpace quizzes, 5% of the time getting notes.  Or, as was the case today, giving them.  On a script of his I adore.  I'm not sure, but I think I might be a bit of a hard ass.  I will let him buy me dinner and drinks Friday night as a token of his appreciation.

I also finally told New Boss about the meeting tomorrow.  The convo went a little something like this:

Me:  So I need some time off tomorrow.  Cause the agents, you know the ones who don't wanna rep me, well, they've set a meeting for me with Studio Exec, and I was just wondering if I can go.  But I can move it, if you need me to.  You know, whatever.  (long, long silence) Hello?

NB:  I just wanted to see how long it would take you to stop talking. 

Me:  Very funny.

NB:  OF COURSE you can go to the meeting!!!  Why would I say no to that? 

Me:  Uh...

NB:  More importantly, why are these agents sending you on meetings if they don't wanna rep you yet?

Me:  No idea.

NB:  Hrrrrmmmmpphh...

Indeed. 

 

I fear this blog has become a boring tribute to my everyday life.  I hate that.  I don't want to regale you with tales of where I ate, what I did, who I didn't do, who I'm liking more than others on any given week.  The mundane is fun for me, but maybe not so much for you nameless, faceless hooligans.  I get a kick out of reading what someone I don't know ate for breakfast, or why they seem to suffer one dating fiasco after another (although, that being said, I haven't been writing much about dating because I haven't been doing much of it.  By choice?  Perhaps.  A more likely explanation is that I am lazy and have made a resolution to spend as much of my adult life in sweatpants as possible.  Sweatpants and dating mix about as well as Russians and Finns, but if there's a guy out there who thinks the aforementioned apparel is attractive on me, I'm in the book.  Wait.  No, I'm not.).  Point is, maybe we don't find the same things amusing.  So I'm not going to tell you what I did this weekend.  I mean, after all, don't I do the same things every weekend, and see the same people?  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not complaining.  I am pleased as punch with my friend situation right now, and I feel extremely loved and supported, with the freedom to branch out and have some faux Hollywood acquaintanceships as well.  What I don't feel is the compunction to share with you another tale of how the Honeybee threatened to call my mother and tell her I have an eating disorder, or how Cliffhanger enabled my claustrophobia twice by riding an elevator with me.

I'm at a point in my life where I don't feel particularly sad or particularly happy, and that, to me, is the kiss of death.  I think it's the nature of OCD, to shake things up a little.  Things never get boring, because you've probably set your house on fire or forgotten that you ran over a hobo.  Regardless, you've killed your cat or are going to jail.  If you're worried about fake things, you never have to confront what might really be bothering you.  I am a worst case scenario person.  I can magnify things in my brain until the tiniest thing becomes life or death.  I think it's a good trait to have as a writer, a bad trait as a person seeking happiness and fulfilling relationships.  I know my friends get tired of me calling them and asking them the same questions over and over... "What do you think will happen to me if I did this, or didn't do that?"  I tend to get very frustrated with the way I treat my friends (and especially my mom) when I'm going through a bad spell.  But lately, I haven't been too bad, that I can see.  So does this mean I need to go out and seek new drama in my life to make up for the lack of OCD?  Clearly, I should hook up with an ex-boyfriend or flirt dangerously with Oscar Nom or do something else hazardous to my health to avoid this damn contentment.  Suggestions welcome.  

 

I am finally feeling like myself again!  I went for a jog this morning, stopped by the bank for laundry quarters, then came into work, just for shits and giggles, ya know?  I was feeling very accomplished and happy when I stopped by My Replacement's desk for a chat.  She took one look at me and started roaring with laughter. 

Me:  What?  Did I forget to wear pants again?

My Replacement: (still laughing)

Me:  Seriously.  What is wrong?

My Replacement:  (giggle, giggle, roar) You look... so... skinny.  Like you're dying.  It's hilarious!!!

I suppose I brought this entire thing on myself, what with all the anorexic jokes, but it's so unfair, isn't it, to have your humor turned right back around on you? 

Anorexia aside, MONK has got to be finished this weekend.  Does anyone want to read it?  I've only had three viewers so far, and I don't like sending anything to any agent-y type person without at least six reads.  And I have this meeting next week with the studio exec, and I'm not sure what's expected of me except to be funny and charming (I'll drink a lot of coffee and watch JUST FRIENDS beforehand), but she seems kind and engaging enough, and I think I am, in general, a pleasure to be in a room with for ten hours a day, which is a great deal of the battle for television writers, actual writing aside.  The writing is sometimes the easiest part.  But sometimes it's not.  I'm thinking of writing another feature... then there's the worry that, were I a feature writer, I would never leave my house, or ingest anything that wasn't a pill, or be able to tear myself away from Regis & Kelly.     

Everyone enjoy your weekends! 

 

 

Yesterday was shitty.  I'm not even trying to complain, just stating a fact.  I was feeling better, ready to deal with the various annoying administrative things I had to deal with after being away, even ready to try and get some writing done, when Mom called.  Apparently, my dad had gotten a piece of glass stuck in his thumb (don't ask), and, when he went to the doctor, his blood pressure was sky high.  He gets very nervous any time he's in a doctor's office, and he, like me, is the worst kind of hypochondriac, because he has a vivid imagination.  However, there are two differences in our respective hypochondriases.  First, he has no outlet for his imagination; me, if I'm feeling panicked, I just start writing a romantic comedy about a girl who thinks she has AIDS.  What can I say?  It seems to help.  Second, my father is terrified of doctors, but doctors are terrified of me.  My L.A. doc (no relation to the television show) has tried to get me to go to OCD therapy several times.  And I will, just as soon as I get Guild health insurance.  But this isn't about me.  Back to Dad.  I called him after his appointment, just to check on him, and he said, and I quote, "I have cancer."  I stayed on the phone with him long enough to ascertain that no, he does not, in fact, have cancer, but thinks he does because of a commercial he saw for a medicine last month, and going to the doctor reminded him that he should probably get a physical, since he hasn't had one in, oh, five years.  This is much like the time when, during grad school, I diagnosed myself with renal failure on WebMD and refused to leave my apartment for a week.  That was fun for all involved, let me tell you. 

So I am perturbed all yesterday afternoon, still sick, not able to eat or drink or keep any calories in me (and I should not be crossed when operating on an empty stomach), trying to figure out how to deal with several other shitty things I have to deal with, worried about my dad, who has to go back to the doctor today, that's how bad his blood pressure was, when the phone rang.  It was Cliffhanger.  We had a notes call scheduled for the pilot script, but she had a better idea:  Take 5,000 MySpace quizzes, like, for example, "Can You Pass Eighth Grade History?" (and for those of you wondering, no, we cannot, although we did pass math), and "How Masculine/Feminine is Your Brain?"  And who can forget the classic, "Are You A Good Kisser?"  Three hours later, we got on to pilot notes.  By that time my stomach was hurting from laughing, but I felt a lot better.  Of course, I didn't tell her any of this then, and she HATES finding things out from the blog (have I ever claimed to NOT be passive aggressive?), but oh, well.  I'm giving her props whether she likes it or not.

And on a final note, Dad went back to the doctor, his blood pressure is now normal, but he's scheduled a physical, as he should, just in case.  I, on the other hand, have yet to enter OCD therapy.  My mom would like to kill us both.        

I'm back.  Not dead, sadly, after the one-two punches this year has already socked to me, some of which I can talk about here, some of which I can't.  I suppose, instead of bitching, I should give major props and thanks to My Replacement, who has kept a close watch over me ever since, on Monday night, we disembarked from the plane, and she held my purse and coat while I ran for the bathroom at LAX.  You gotta love someone who watches you throw up in your hand (I literally pushed past everyone in line) and will still talk to you.  Then, she made sure I had a private puking spot outside the parking garage at LAX (don't go near the bushes outside Terminal 5), and offered to drive my car home, with her fiance following, so that I wouldn't have to worry about passing out behind the wheel.  All yesterday, she monitored my diet.  When I needed a ride home, she cheefully volunteered (as did Cliffhanger, who said she would forego Yoga, but I would owe her forever), and she didn't flinch when I said I needed to dry-heave behind El Torito.  She even logged a call to her fiance's mother, a nurse, to see what I should be trying to ingest.  "You have to try to drink something, because otherwise, you'll get dehydrated, and if you get dehydrated, your organs start to liquify," My Replacement explained.  Great.  Because I wasn't already queasy.  And as if that weren't enough, she offered to stay with me until the Designated Driver got home from work.  I am eternally grateful to her, and to the Designated Driver, whom I woke on her day off, via phone from the next room, to go buy me Gatorade.  Luckily, I believe the days of puking pizza, and, later when there was nothing left in my stomach, a substance that bore a great resemblance to mucus, are behind me.  And it's a good thing, because puking in public is really, really embarrassing. 

They should make a sequel to SNAKES ON A PLANE, and call it FOOD POISONING ON A PLANE, starring, yep, you guessed it, ME!  I have never felt so horrible in all my life.  Sick.  As.  A.  Dog.  Somebody shoot me and get it over with.