My maternal grandmother received her last rites from a priest today. This event prompted a beautifully introspective conversation between myself and my older brother, Eddie.
Eddie and I have some beef with this life. Oh yeah we do.
As humans, the more we know, the more questions we ask. The more questions we ask, the more we realize we don't know. And, the more we realize we don't know, the more tired we become.
That's probably why I sleep a lot.
So, in this fleeting, frivolous, complex, and exhausting existence, how are we to survive? How are we to suppress or overcome or disguise our fears? How are we to accept the fact that we can never really know anything for sure?
People always say that there are certainties. Here are the certainties I've observed in my twenty-four years:
1. People are unpredictable, fear-ridden, quirky little creatures. Beware anyone who projects otherwise.
2. Music, art, design, film, literature, nature, and athletics are capable of restoring the human spirit.
3. When you doubt the sanctity of life, it helps to spend time with children.
4. There is beauty in everything-- even the ugliest, scariest moments.
5. Truth and certainty are over-rated.
6. The happiest, most fulfilled people are their own best friends.
7. Bacon is delicious.
That's all. You'd think in twenty-four years I'd know more things for sure, but, let's come clean and be really honest about it-- none of us know what the hell we're doing here. Isn't that part of the joke? We all have personalities and passions and weaknesses, and while we work it out in our own brains, we have to play nice with one another.
A lot of people say it's all about love. I like this position. I don't really know how it can be applied to life. "Just love one another." Why? How? I have to love everyone?! But, it does sound pretty.
This makes me think about this crazy woman I met when I was auditioning to be on Deal or No Deal. (Yeah, I needed some fast cash, so I auditioned...no judgin.) I waited in line behind this crazy woman (we'll call her Karen) for three hours. Karen told me something that stuck: “When you need to work with someone difficult, pretend that you are God. Look at them with the love and insight that God looks down at us. Really, picture that person from the view of the ceiling and pity them. Want to bestow your love and insight on to them.”
Karen smelled a lot like marijuana and she wore band-aids on every one of her toes. (Needlesstosay, she, too, was not selected for the show.) I wonder, however, is Karen's philosophy on "getting along" the most loving and insightful thing, or the most condescending? Anyway...I'm one with USA Net's "Characters Welcome", so Karen was a hoot.
I have to close by saying that I think we need to remember to not only be nice to others, but also to ourselves. Just as Kermit reminds us that it isn't easy being green, it, too, isn't easy being human. Even on good days there's something that can make us cry or sting or just want to spoon the afternoon away. I guess if you look for the sad, you'll find it, and if you don't, you'll find it. So, we might as well laugh and dance and drink, right? Live the Dionysian life and have babies and write blogs. Some may call it narcissistic. I say do what works for you. We're only here once, so you better have fun.
4.03.2009
The Bitter Bitch
So a million years ago you were in love with me and now you’re engaged to her, the girl after me, who looks nothing like me because I was never your type anyway. She is long and lean and her dark hair swishes when she turns. She is going to be your wife.
A million years ago you watched me from across the room and hoped I’d make you mine. You asked me questions. Do you like this book. Did you see this movie. Did you hear this song. Will you call me later.
Do you love me.
Yes.
So I realize I am not a simple girl. A swishy hair girl. A girl with all the convenient answers, the cozy lies. I realize I challenge and provoke. I realize my soft skimpy boyshorts are accessorized with a sharp tongue. Didn’t keep you from tearing them off.
She probably doesn’t drag you to the theater, the zoo, the park, the obscure bookstore. Probably just the mall. An occasional Costco run. Artless, easy, safe. Have fun with a long life of swishy hair.
Swishy swishy swishy.
If I may now speak honestly, I will admit, I am the bitter bitch. At least I own it. Now the only thing you’ll own is the key to a charmingly predictable life. You needed someone like me.
You cut me lose and now I’m out. But, you should know, I’m out looking for someone like you. Because someday I will be someone’s wife and I want them to look at me the way you looked at me. Long before I scared you and you ran to her with her safe ways and swishy bangs.
A million years from now, I’ll re-read this ode to the bitter bitch and smile. It will seem funny to mock someone I’ve never met. Really, Abbey, just knock someone for swishy hair. Bit childish. I will nod at this realization and then catch my face in the mirror on the way out the door to do something unpredictably fabulous.
I’ll shake my wild mane and add a little more red lipstick.
There. That’s better.
A million years ago you watched me from across the room and hoped I’d make you mine. You asked me questions. Do you like this book. Did you see this movie. Did you hear this song. Will you call me later.
Do you love me.
Yes.
So I realize I am not a simple girl. A swishy hair girl. A girl with all the convenient answers, the cozy lies. I realize I challenge and provoke. I realize my soft skimpy boyshorts are accessorized with a sharp tongue. Didn’t keep you from tearing them off.
She probably doesn’t drag you to the theater, the zoo, the park, the obscure bookstore. Probably just the mall. An occasional Costco run. Artless, easy, safe. Have fun with a long life of swishy hair.
Swishy swishy swishy.
If I may now speak honestly, I will admit, I am the bitter bitch. At least I own it. Now the only thing you’ll own is the key to a charmingly predictable life. You needed someone like me.
You cut me lose and now I’m out. But, you should know, I’m out looking for someone like you. Because someday I will be someone’s wife and I want them to look at me the way you looked at me. Long before I scared you and you ran to her with her safe ways and swishy bangs.
A million years from now, I’ll re-read this ode to the bitter bitch and smile. It will seem funny to mock someone I’ve never met. Really, Abbey, just knock someone for swishy hair. Bit childish. I will nod at this realization and then catch my face in the mirror on the way out the door to do something unpredictably fabulous.
I’ll shake my wild mane and add a little more red lipstick.
There. That’s better.
4.02.2009
How I Like My Cake
It has occurred to me on lonely nights, to my trainer’s dismay, I bake.
Hence,
“How I Like My Cake”
Cake should always be enjoyed slowly. The bite with the most frosting should always be enjoyed last. Cake should always be sweet and memorable. The baker must be familiar with his cake consumer, and should always approach the baking as a professional. Prior to the baking of the cake, the baker should attentively prepare the ingredients. The baker must be confident in his skill and should never, under any circumstance, ever, reference any other baking experiences. After hundreds of cakes have been enjoyed, the baker should continue to add creativity and ingenuity to his cakes, while still maintaining the general pleasing qualities. Cake should never be reserved for only celebrating an occasion or event. Cake should be enjoyed as regularly as possible. Cake can be enjoyed in combination with other dishes, or ala cart. Though this has yet to be a problem for me, it should be mentioned that some bakers don’t think that cake is particularly important. I hear some bakers think it’s maybe just a hobby that they can dabble with in several kitchens. I think cake is very important, and if the baker is in my kitchen, he is forbidden to spend any time in others’.
Why? I seriously love cake.
Hence,
“How I Like My Cake”
Cake should always be enjoyed slowly. The bite with the most frosting should always be enjoyed last. Cake should always be sweet and memorable. The baker must be familiar with his cake consumer, and should always approach the baking as a professional. Prior to the baking of the cake, the baker should attentively prepare the ingredients. The baker must be confident in his skill and should never, under any circumstance, ever, reference any other baking experiences. After hundreds of cakes have been enjoyed, the baker should continue to add creativity and ingenuity to his cakes, while still maintaining the general pleasing qualities. Cake should never be reserved for only celebrating an occasion or event. Cake should be enjoyed as regularly as possible. Cake can be enjoyed in combination with other dishes, or ala cart. Though this has yet to be a problem for me, it should be mentioned that some bakers don’t think that cake is particularly important. I hear some bakers think it’s maybe just a hobby that they can dabble with in several kitchens. I think cake is very important, and if the baker is in my kitchen, he is forbidden to spend any time in others’.
Why? I seriously love cake.
3.22.2009
T.G.A., Resident of No Man Land
The verdict is in. The snowy hill of tissues has been swept from my bed. The secret comfort quart of pralines and cream has been devoured.
He will spend four more years in Columbus, Ohio.
Vices and crutches aside, I now sit in my little writerwoman office, ready to welcome acceptance. It's a cloudy, especially windy day in Southern California. Perfect for dealing with the difficult. Now more than before, I'm on my own. Better make it worth it.
Los Angeles, America's headquarters for getting ahead via bed, is my No Man Land. The past year and a half is just a drop in the bucket. Looks like my 'happy ending' must be seriously earned.
No one really chooses who they love or when they love or how they love. It just comes down to instincts. Intuitions. Stars on a calendar. Post-its on a mirror. Snap-shots on a desktop. Little indicators that it's real, it's deep, it's unconditional. It's in his hand playing with my hair or his voice when we say good night. It's not a choice or a decision. It's not an option. It's just an admittance: I love him here or there.
The changing winds crash tree branches into my writerwoman office window. It's a new beginning. I don't know if I like it yet, but I'm thinking you just walk. Eventually the wind is on your back instead of in your eyes. Eventually you forget the walk is a long, uphill, scary trek. Your muscles memorize the movements and you just keep walking. I'm on my way...carrying the hope it leads to him.
He will spend four more years in Columbus, Ohio.
Vices and crutches aside, I now sit in my little writerwoman office, ready to welcome acceptance. It's a cloudy, especially windy day in Southern California. Perfect for dealing with the difficult. Now more than before, I'm on my own. Better make it worth it.
Los Angeles, America's headquarters for getting ahead via bed, is my No Man Land. The past year and a half is just a drop in the bucket. Looks like my 'happy ending' must be seriously earned.
No one really chooses who they love or when they love or how they love. It just comes down to instincts. Intuitions. Stars on a calendar. Post-its on a mirror. Snap-shots on a desktop. Little indicators that it's real, it's deep, it's unconditional. It's in his hand playing with my hair or his voice when we say good night. It's not a choice or a decision. It's not an option. It's just an admittance: I love him here or there.
The changing winds crash tree branches into my writerwoman office window. It's a new beginning. I don't know if I like it yet, but I'm thinking you just walk. Eventually the wind is on your back instead of in your eyes. Eventually you forget the walk is a long, uphill, scary trek. Your muscles memorize the movements and you just keep walking. I'm on my way...carrying the hope it leads to him.
3.11.2009
9 Days, 8 Nights
In nine days and eight nights Anthony will learn where he will spend the next four years. On March 19th around noon eastern standard time he will receive an envelope with the name of a program. That program will be in a U.S. city. And that U.S. city may be 60 miles from me, or 480 miles from me, or 2,200 miles from me.
Upon receiving this said envelope, Anthony will soon arrive at Port Columbus Airport and fly to Los Angeles. At LAX, around 10:30pm pacific time, I will find him and his envelope. And the rest will be Abbey history forever.
I am terrified. I am genuinely terrified.
Like your first trip to the dentist?
More.
Like when you studied abroad alone?
More.
Like when you submitted your passion project to the producer?
More.
This is a special kind of terrified. It is a long-awaiting, long-growing, friendly terrified. The weight has just become one more thing I carry around. Like when I started lugging my laptop everywhere. Just get a bigger bag. That's what you do when you need to carry around more baggage. Just get a bigger bag and keep on moving.
I have saved a bottle of Riesling. We like Riesling. I will have kleenex and my softest sweatpants and chicken noodle soup ready. I will be prepared. It's what I do. I lay out clothes and pack lunches. I put happy stickers on the calendar's most scary days. I buy waterproof mascara. I shoulda been a boy scout. I am always prepared.
But how does one prepare for March 19th, 2009? It's a Thursday. Not many Thursdays in one's life are important must-prepare kind of days. Monday. Now that's an important day. A lot of big stuff falls on Saturdays, too. Yeah, Saturday is a big deal. But Thursday? Thursday is most people's purgatory. Just the boring waiting room before the weekend.
Anyway, sometimes even Pollyanna gets tired of playing The Glad Game. I'm done. For the next eight days and nine nights, I'm just gonna live with this knot in my stomach. I'm just going to own it. Wear it. Surrender to it. If it wakes me up, I'm gonna write, and if it knocks me out, I'm gonna sleep. If it follows me around I'll just hold its hand.
Today I'm wearing my pearl bracelet from Bath. It is my favorite little souvenir. I bought it from an eccentric vendor along the Avon River. I saw it in her case and couldn't take my eyes off it. Smiling, I asked the old woman how much it cost. She removed it from the case and put it on my wrist. "Take them. Pearls make me sad." My face must have shown my confusion. She continued, "These look like little teardrops." When I looked up at her, I realized she was teary. Maybe it wasn't the pearls.
"Are you okay?"
"They do look like teardrops, don't they?"
"I guess so. But I think they're beautiful."
"If that's what you think, you should have them."
I always think about this when I wear my pearl bracelet from Bath. What can one take from this? Is it a classic "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?" That doesn't make sense. She beheld them before me. Is it a "You're as happy as you decide yourself to be" kind of thing? I don't know. All I know is that without realizing it, I gravitate to that bracelet on my sad days.
Maybe pearls didn't really make the lady sad. Maybe she was just a sad lady. Maybe she looked at pearls and saw teardrops instead of little moons, or the center of flowers, or soapy bubbles. Maybe when she looked in the mirror she didn't see her spooky blue eyes. Maybe she just saw the wrinkles around them. I wonder what made her cry so much. I think she wonders, too. At least I know what I cry about. I cry about March 19th.
On March 19th I will not wear pearls. I may wear them on March 20th. I will let you know in nine days and eight nights.
Upon receiving this said envelope, Anthony will soon arrive at Port Columbus Airport and fly to Los Angeles. At LAX, around 10:30pm pacific time, I will find him and his envelope. And the rest will be Abbey history forever.
I am terrified. I am genuinely terrified.
Like your first trip to the dentist?
More.
Like when you studied abroad alone?
More.
Like when you submitted your passion project to the producer?
More.
This is a special kind of terrified. It is a long-awaiting, long-growing, friendly terrified. The weight has just become one more thing I carry around. Like when I started lugging my laptop everywhere. Just get a bigger bag. That's what you do when you need to carry around more baggage. Just get a bigger bag and keep on moving.
I have saved a bottle of Riesling. We like Riesling. I will have kleenex and my softest sweatpants and chicken noodle soup ready. I will be prepared. It's what I do. I lay out clothes and pack lunches. I put happy stickers on the calendar's most scary days. I buy waterproof mascara. I shoulda been a boy scout. I am always prepared.
But how does one prepare for March 19th, 2009? It's a Thursday. Not many Thursdays in one's life are important must-prepare kind of days. Monday. Now that's an important day. A lot of big stuff falls on Saturdays, too. Yeah, Saturday is a big deal. But Thursday? Thursday is most people's purgatory. Just the boring waiting room before the weekend.
Anyway, sometimes even Pollyanna gets tired of playing The Glad Game. I'm done. For the next eight days and nine nights, I'm just gonna live with this knot in my stomach. I'm just going to own it. Wear it. Surrender to it. If it wakes me up, I'm gonna write, and if it knocks me out, I'm gonna sleep. If it follows me around I'll just hold its hand.
Today I'm wearing my pearl bracelet from Bath. It is my favorite little souvenir. I bought it from an eccentric vendor along the Avon River. I saw it in her case and couldn't take my eyes off it. Smiling, I asked the old woman how much it cost. She removed it from the case and put it on my wrist. "Take them. Pearls make me sad." My face must have shown my confusion. She continued, "These look like little teardrops." When I looked up at her, I realized she was teary. Maybe it wasn't the pearls.
"Are you okay?"
"They do look like teardrops, don't they?"
"I guess so. But I think they're beautiful."
"If that's what you think, you should have them."
I always think about this when I wear my pearl bracelet from Bath. What can one take from this? Is it a classic "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?" That doesn't make sense. She beheld them before me. Is it a "You're as happy as you decide yourself to be" kind of thing? I don't know. All I know is that without realizing it, I gravitate to that bracelet on my sad days.
Maybe pearls didn't really make the lady sad. Maybe she was just a sad lady. Maybe she looked at pearls and saw teardrops instead of little moons, or the center of flowers, or soapy bubbles. Maybe when she looked in the mirror she didn't see her spooky blue eyes. Maybe she just saw the wrinkles around them. I wonder what made her cry so much. I think she wonders, too. At least I know what I cry about. I cry about March 19th.
On March 19th I will not wear pearls. I may wear them on March 20th. I will let you know in nine days and eight nights.
3.01.2009
Meeting Your Characters in the Flesh
I received news just a few days ago that my producer and I will be going to Las Vegas tomorrow to meet Mark Rodney.
Last Spring I wrote a script called "Downbeat: The True Story of Red Rodney." It is a biopic piece about Red Rodney, who was The Rat Pack's trumpet player, a notorious conman, and a jazz prodigy. It is essentially a caper-flick revolving around the two greatest cons of his life. The story explores the relationships in his personal life, as well-- mostly that with his sixteen year old son, Mark.
Now Mark is 58. And I'm going to meet him.
There is something very strange, surreal, magical even in preparing for this encounter. What does one say to her character? I am desperately curious to watch his mannerisms, hear his speech patterns, observe his demeanor. Luckily, the script is done. Otherwise I would be scribbling notes the whole time.
There is a sense of responsibility I felt to Red and his family while constructing the story. I think it's probably good I hadn't met them before. I may have been crippled by an even greater responsibility to present them in a good light, and truthbetold, this swinging, '60's Vegas, drug-swindling saga doesn't lend itself to much good light at all.
Mark will be taking us to Sammy Davis, Jr.'s former home, Sonny Liston's stomping grounds, and Frank Sinatra and the gang's favorite spots on the old Strip. What a treat!
This biopic thing can be mighty rewarding for a little writer like myself.
Last Spring I wrote a script called "Downbeat: The True Story of Red Rodney." It is a biopic piece about Red Rodney, who was The Rat Pack's trumpet player, a notorious conman, and a jazz prodigy. It is essentially a caper-flick revolving around the two greatest cons of his life. The story explores the relationships in his personal life, as well-- mostly that with his sixteen year old son, Mark.
Now Mark is 58. And I'm going to meet him.
There is something very strange, surreal, magical even in preparing for this encounter. What does one say to her character? I am desperately curious to watch his mannerisms, hear his speech patterns, observe his demeanor. Luckily, the script is done. Otherwise I would be scribbling notes the whole time.
There is a sense of responsibility I felt to Red and his family while constructing the story. I think it's probably good I hadn't met them before. I may have been crippled by an even greater responsibility to present them in a good light, and truthbetold, this swinging, '60's Vegas, drug-swindling saga doesn't lend itself to much good light at all.
Mark will be taking us to Sammy Davis, Jr.'s former home, Sonny Liston's stomping grounds, and Frank Sinatra and the gang's favorite spots on the old Strip. What a treat!
This biopic thing can be mighty rewarding for a little writer like myself.
2.27.2009
T.G.A. Brainstorm Session: What Makes the Little Ones Laugh?
The last year I've written dramas in a spectrum of gray to white. It's time to embark on the comedy. Not even the romantic comedy. The true comedy-comedy. And my audience is 4 to 6 year olds. Let's explore what makes them laugh:
1. The obvious, Slapstick: From the 3 Stooges to Ren and Stimpy, people (little people especially) love watching people fall down, trip into a pie, or lose a toupee.
2. Silly voices/clothes/faces: Silliness is absolutely key for the 4 to 6 year olds. They're silly little creatures. I must match em!
3. Sarcasm: Little snarky lines, followed by an intoxicating laugh track can go a long way sometimes.
4. Neurosises: A duck that can't swim? An owl afraid of the dark? A little girl who rejects everything pink, despite the fact that her mother brings her pink dress after pink dress and she soaks them each with her water gun? Neurosis can be golden.
5. A Character's Inability to Achieve Something Over the Long Term: Think Charlie Brown trying to kick that football. Think Doug Funny trying to ask out Patty Mayonnaise. Failure can make the little ones giggle!
6. Crazy, Inventive Oddities: "Spongebob Squarepants". The parents say "what?!" And the kids sing his theme song. "Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!" He looks funny. He sounds funny. He makes serious money.
7. Repetition: Same catchline, predictable events they grow to anticipate, someone getting covered in mud everytime they try to dance. Rinse and repeat!
8. Tickling: Which I cannot do through the t.v., so I guess #8 doesn't really count.
Do you have any 4-6 year olds in your life? Do you remember what made you laugh when you were 4-6? Please do share!
1. The obvious, Slapstick: From the 3 Stooges to Ren and Stimpy, people (little people especially) love watching people fall down, trip into a pie, or lose a toupee.
2. Silly voices/clothes/faces: Silliness is absolutely key for the 4 to 6 year olds. They're silly little creatures. I must match em!
3. Sarcasm: Little snarky lines, followed by an intoxicating laugh track can go a long way sometimes.
4. Neurosises: A duck that can't swim? An owl afraid of the dark? A little girl who rejects everything pink, despite the fact that her mother brings her pink dress after pink dress and she soaks them each with her water gun? Neurosis can be golden.
5. A Character's Inability to Achieve Something Over the Long Term: Think Charlie Brown trying to kick that football. Think Doug Funny trying to ask out Patty Mayonnaise. Failure can make the little ones giggle!
6. Crazy, Inventive Oddities: "Spongebob Squarepants". The parents say "what?!" And the kids sing his theme song. "Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!" He looks funny. He sounds funny. He makes serious money.
7. Repetition: Same catchline, predictable events they grow to anticipate, someone getting covered in mud everytime they try to dance. Rinse and repeat!
8. Tickling: Which I cannot do through the t.v., so I guess #8 doesn't really count.
Do you have any 4-6 year olds in your life? Do you remember what made you laugh when you were 4-6? Please do share!
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