Archive for February, 2007

Hot like me

February 28, 2007 | Filed under: La Madre

“Establishing goals is all right if you don’t let them deprive you of interesting detours.” ~Doug Larson

I had this rather garrulous literary masterpiece three quarters written about my propensity for being a lush, versus my roommate’s propensity for looking at me funny when I say “holy fucking hangover”. All of which went to the wayside when during the premiere of ANTM, there was a long preview for a new reality show in search of the next…great…PUSSYCAT DOLL. Almost like being the next…great…BEATLE, but with less clothing and more eyeliner and acrylic nails.

I watched in awe as girl after girl sat teary eyed and confessed that being a pussycat doll was what they wanted in life more than anything. How it would change their world forever and all carried signs that said “Live Pussycat or Die!”

I’ve had some crazy goals in life, ranging from neonatology to fictional novelist to Ballerina, which I know, right with the size of my ass. But never before nor will I ever, get on camera, in front of a million and ten people and announce that I, Heather B, have the aspirations to dance in my bra and boy shorts, with my ass cheeks hanging out, lip synching that I would love nothing more than for Snoop Dogg to push up on my buttons, baby.

Some people may remember this night

February 26, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine

This post brought to you by the letter ‘H’ for ‘Hmmm…maybe she’ll stop bitching and start drinking again and be funny, then maybe I won’t want to poke my eyeballs out after every other paragraph’

“A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you’ve been taking.” ~Earl Wilson

Sunday evening I was directed toward a Facebook photo album courtesy of a friend from another life. ‘Another life’ that involved packing up my possessions and going to play with the monkeys in Gibraltar and wondering around in the dark night after picnics on the beach. The photos had been long forgotten. But as soon as I saw Clay making the word ‘poop’ out of his fingers like gang signs, I remembered the bottle of Bacardi that we hid in the tree and how much we drank in the hotel. And that Thekla covered herself in yogurt to help the sun burn and I too this day, do not recall how we got home that night.

What happened that night is unimportant and only the five of us would remember, but it was the deluge of memories that took over me. Like the nights of wandering around Madrid drunk at 3 AM or the Valentine’s Day spent in an Amsterdam coffee shop or the numerous bus trips through the Moroccan mountains without getting shot. All of which done without a care in the world and frivolous at best.

Things have been shitty. Not “I have cancer and my boyfriend died and my dog got shot by a cop and I have worms coming out of my eyeballs” shitty, but severely inconvenienced and stressed out shitty. It’s more like the type of shitty that you explain to others and they say ‘That’s nice, take a fucking number’*. I’d enjoy that life of frivolity again. The ability to say ‘fuck it’ and drink grey goose and tonic like water. I say these things like a 47 year old with kids and a mortgage trying to pay the Pepco bill, trapped in a 23 year olds body.

So I’m doing what any normal person my age who realizes their incessant bitching is really fucking annoying, would do; I bought a ticket to Boca: Because nothing screams, “I’m embracing my responsibility and saving my money by investing in my 401K” like spending your last $14 on a vacation.

*as said by Schnozz** and her infinite wisdom.

**leave it to her and her crazy editor skills to notice that there was even an asterisk there in the first place.

Always on a Sunday

February 25, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine, Humdrum, Invierno

“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.” ~Andrew Wyeth

Why never on a Monday? Wednesday, even. I’m not that picky.

*these are over at flickr as well, but since I’m an idiot who can’t figure out how to upload them from flickr to here, this will have to do.

Interruptions and complications

February 22, 2007 | Filed under: Gruyere With That Wine, Straight Jacket

“If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you got a problem. Everything else is inconvenience.” ~Robert Fulghum

I began saying things with extra emphasis and added dramatic flair: “Can you believe that the bar ran out of all hard liquor and then my car blew up and HE is the father of HER child?” Just like that, with much purpose and expression and a little hyperbole. Because if there is anything I know, it is how to be as hyperbolic and exasperated as possible without any really imminent disaster looming.

But that’s how it feels at time: one thing inevitably will need to lead to another equally disastrous circumstance and my death is threatening because of the lack of Pinot Noir at Trader Joe’s and so help me God, if I have to deal with another inept leasing office I’m going to climb through the phone and choke a motherfucker.

Breathing though mandatory seems like something not being done ever. I had the gall to say that I hadn’t been drinking. This said smugly with a pat on the back for being so responsible and not drowning my sorrows in pear flavored vodka. The response was less than optimal, a head shake and an ‘oh honey, now is the time to start drinking. Now run for the hills with that bottle of Tempranillo under your arm.’ Sage advice that landed me in bed until 5:45 PM the next day with a headache much like the one I had been experiencing for days on end prior.

I relayed this all to Kris, with a heavy sigh and to Peg with a few choice words and to the women at my leasing office with a few more choice words. All of these incessant things are annoyances, I know this. But the build up of annoyance leaves me thinking that Albany is a fine place to spend the rest of one’s natural life. In the comfort of one’s true home. Or perhaps curled up in the fetal position with the aforementioned bottle of wine.

I said that life is one big shit sandwich. She says that she wants her youth back. I’m left wondering when exactly I lost mine and how I get it back.

Last but not least: Citizen of the Month

February 21, 2007 | Filed under: Straight Jacket, You've Got Guests

-My final guest post, because really now, is by Neil of Citizen of the Month.

“One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.”~Bertrand Russell

I moved to Los Angeles to go to film school and become a screenwriter. I was surprised by how quickly I got a job involving screenwriting at a major Hollywood studio. Unfortunately, it was not a job writing scripts. It was a job READING scripts.

Yes, I was a low-paid, low-on-the-totem-pole script reader (or script “analyst” as we liked to call ourselves). It was the worst job I ever had.

“What’s so bad about getting paid to read?” you might ask. It sounds like the ideal job for an English major and someone who loves to read. First of all, a true “reader” reads for enjoyment or enlightenment. A Hollywood script reader reads and reads and reads and reads endless piles of CRAP. Serial killer movies. Vampire movies. Retreads of whatever comedy was successful the year before. If a dumb movie like “A Night in the Museum” is successful, be assured that within three months, there will be a hundred similar scripts about “A Night at the Zoo” or “A Night in the Art Gallery.”

Step one of being a reader is reading the material. Step two is doing the “coverage.” Coverage is the equivalent of writing a little book report for each script or book submitted to the company. It is never-ending homework. You summarize the written material. You write a one sentence “log line.” You give your opinion of the story, the characters, and the writing. You decide whether the material deserves a “pass,” “consider,” or “approve.”

Within the first week, I was called into the producer’s office and told that I was being TOO honest in reviewing the terrible scripts. As a newbie, I didn’t realize that Hollywood is mostly based on relationships. My job was not so much to review the script, like a critic might review a book in the New York Times. My main goal was to read the script so the producer didn’t have to, but still enable him to LOOK like he read it. Part of my job description was to help the producer be like Paula Abdul on “American Idol” — finding something positive to say while still rejecting the person. Since you never know who a script may come from, it is always important for the producer to be able to say SOMETHING positive. For instance, if Tom Cruise’s aunt wrote a really bad screenplay about a League of Superheroes, the producer should be able to say “the script had some fine moments of dramatic action, but we aren’t going in that direction right now.” This way, the producer can look like a cool guy — and blame someone else for the script’s rejection.

During the second week, I was called into the producer’s office again because I “approved” a script about women’s wrestling during the Depression. I thought it was a moving story with great characters, exactly the type of oddball movie I would want to see. No one else agreed with me. Even worse, by “approving” a script as noteworthy, the producer actually READ the script, and HE doesn’t like to have his time wasted. That’s why he is paying YOU. So, out of fear of losing their jobs, most script readers rarely approve a script unless box-office gold is dripping off the pages (which is rare). In four years of reading scripts, I think I “approved” four projects, all of them vehicles for popular actors.

During the first month, I was called into the producer’s office a third time — this time to learn about a new wrinkle to my job. The producer had taken on a partner and they disagreed over some projects. “My” producer said he would appreciate it if I “liked” certain materials more than I did, in order to convince his partner that a script was not as bad as it seemed. For example, he handed me a script that “he knew had major rewrite problems” but wanted his partner’s approval because he thought he could get Eddie Murphy to be involved. So, surprise, surprise — my coverage of the material contained only mild criticism, with expressions like “flawed, but with a little work, this can be a rollicking comedy, maybe for someone like Eddie Murphy.”

For four years, I never read a book for pleasure. Writing became a chore for me. I saw how difficult for any screenplay to get past a reader. There was always going to be a jerk like ME, some frustrated writer, dismissing my script after reading it in a coffee shop at three o’clock in the morning. I lost my ability to distinguish between good and bad. When everyone said a movie sucked, I would just be impressed that the project actually got made!

Eventually, I quit this job and my mind got a needed rest.

In the scheme of things, being a Hollywood script reader isn’t the worst job in the world. You can do a good portion of your job sitting in Starbucks. You don’t have to shovel horse manure. You don’t have to wear a suit.

But for me, it was the worst job I ever had, because it was soul-destroying.