Archive for the 'You've Got Guests' Category

Perfect Timing

July 3, 2008 | Filed under: Humdrum, If I'm not here..., You've Got Guests

“Weekends don’t count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.”  ~Bill Watterson

Since returning from Colorado my sleeping has been way off. Like going to bed between 2 and 3 AM and waking up between 6 and 7 AM. Though blaming it on Colorado isn’t very kind as this has been a trend since well before leaving. Correct me if I am wrong but the last time I had a serious bout of insomnia it was suggested that I give up the evening wine. Which also makes it sound like I have wine every night. I am so fucking tired that until Colorado the drinking had been minimal. And by minimal I mean that I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to use a wine opener. I looked at my complicated Houdini corkscrew and said “Eff this. That’s what my teeth are for.”

So it’s been a long week that has included a three night sleepover at my mother’s house. There’s no reason for it except that I enjoy sleeping in her bed while she’s away. It’s comforting. Mock me if you will but she also has a Heavenly Bed so you’d be sleeping right here with me all snuggled up in the small of my back because this shit is comfortable.

And for once after such a week, the calendar gives me a hand by putting a holiday down for tomorrow.

(I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and it looks like I’m packing heat or at least 47 pairs of peep toe flats in the bags under my eyes)

(I look like someone punched me in the face)

(Hey! If you’re looking for me at BlogHer I’ll be the one with tiny slits for eyes. Don’t be alarmed!)

So long weekend? Joy. While I rarely ever do this but then Aimee suggested it the other night and I figured hey! why not! because I apparently have no problem inflicting pain upon others by forcing them to read what I write. Keep in mind that I’ve been to two different cities (I had the world’s most excruciating day trip to DC) on two different coasts in the past week and then perhaps you’ll give me a pat on the back for not writing “Will Smith is still hot. But even hotter as an alcoholic Superhero. The end.” That said my other places for the week are (drumroll): an interview at The Collective, a review of Hancock and a post about why I don’t freelance over at BlogHer. Answer the the last one: Because I’m 99% sure that talent is required and superfluous use of ‘fuck’ is not.

For all of you Americans, have a lovely long weekend. For the rest of you enjoy working tomorrow, suckas.

La Madre

May 13, 2008 | Filed under: Familia, La Madre, You've Got Guests

“Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.” ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

My mother has written a lovely post for you all. You’ll notice the way she writes an entire sentence using proper grammar and without throwing in a casual ‘F’ word for emphasis. She even deals with problems without drinking. And yet I’m 110% sure that we’re related. I get my meager writing ability from my her and my ability to sip wine and swear at the same time from my father. If the latter ever wrote a blog post you’d be like “OOOOOOOH I get it”. Crazy genetics. Enjoy:

It’s the story of my life:  opportunity knocks and I’m too busy to answer the door.  Not this time.  I consider it a gift to be asked to guest post on No Pasa Nada, and I’ve only been on the blog once.  But I’ve heard good things about it, and I am fascinated by the conecept of blogging.  First, why haven’t I been on Heather’s blog?  Because our mother-daughter connection is such that we need our private spaces-even when those spaces are quite public to others.  Second, why the fascination with blogging? I’ve longed to write for a woman’s magazine since Rosie Acevedo’s big sister, Isabel, shows us Glamour magazine when we were in 6ht grade.  Until then, the only magazines I was aware of were My Weekly Reader and Scholastic. My mother occasionally brought home Family Circle from the A&P. If it interested her, it was of little interest to me.  But, Glamour and its do’s and don’ts and makeup tips and fashion photos and ad spreads had Isabel’s approval and my undivided attention.  Blogging has that same effect today. I’m fixated on the possibility of wiring for women without editors or query letters getting in the way.

Enough about that. I’m one of those people who is in constant conversation with myself–perpetually writing and rewriting any given conversation.  Rehearsing for whatever’s next.  I’m convinved that people who talk to themselves are just giving voice to the internal conversation–oblivious to anyone and anything but the dialog playing in their head.  Lately, I’ve been replyaing a conversation about dying.  My middle sister is living with terminal cancer.  On a recent Sunday afternoon, she called to just check in. In the middle of talk about weather and plans for the coming week, she casually dropped that she had recently named me her health care proxy and she was told she should share with me what medical procedures she would and wouldn’t want toward the end of her life.  On a sunny afternoon, in front of a picture window, I listend to her as she, with the same matter-of-factness that my son give me his weekly grocery list, told me how she wanted to die.  And just as casually as the conversation had begun, it was over and we were on to talking about who was coming in for my son’s upcoming graduation.  I put down the phone and immediately began replaying that conversation.  Shouldn’t a conversation of such siginificance have come with warning?  Shouldn’t there have been tears? Shouldn’t we have been in the same room? Shouldn’t I have said something more profound than “I’m listening,” “I hear you,” “I understand.”? Or, is this really how such conversations are meant to happen? Casually, naturally, mater-of-factly. Life does go on.

This is why blogging fascinates me. I sat down to write about stolen kisses. What’s come out is totally unexpected. Thank you, Heather. This is the greatest gift. Love you the moon and the stars.

Shock me, shock me, shock me

March 26, 2007 | Filed under: Whoopdie Doo, You've Got Guests

For every surprise event I’ve attended, that is one more that I’ve wished for myself. Younger HB always felt that the lack of surprises meant that she wasn’t cared about or for with the same force that others cared for their loved ones. Older HB gets queasy and jittery complete with butterflies flying in perfect formation in her belly at the thought of a remote surprise. I’m one of those people who flinches at sudden movements. I’m one of those people who apparently was beaten far too many times as a child thus, my startled state when someone moves their hands to emphasize a point in close range.

I do not do rapid, unanticipated things. They scare me.

But apparently I do, for in just a few moments, I’m getting a spontaneous visit. And now I’m going to shock the shit out of myself and both make my bed, vacuum and pick up my W-2 from off of the floor.

No Pasa Nada: we never cease to amaze you.

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.

Guest Post: Pink Lemonade Diva

February 20, 2007 | Filed under: Straight Jacket, You've Got Guests

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

-Oh yes, this is a series. To be concluded on Wednesday or when every other sentence isn’t ‘holy motherfucker’. Today’s guest post is brought to you by the lovely Pink Lemonade Diva.

My milkshakes bring no one anywhere

Not a long time ago, I went into a McDonald’s to order a McFlurry and the cashier looked me in the eye and told me the machine was broken.

Karma, it seemed, was having the last laugh.

I have a confession to those in the Annapolis, Maryland, area who wanted frozen yogurt milkshakes in the mid-to-late 90’s: the milkshake machine wasn’t always broken.

But when you’re 16 and working at a national chain yogurt franchise, you’re not interested in giving the customer what they want, rather what’s easiest for you to make.

And that was – always – a small (cup) single flavor with no topping.

And even though the pre-made ice cream sandwiches in the freezer would seem like a preferable option, we made them by hand every time the supply got low, so please not those either.

Yes, I was not the Super Scooper I purported to be and now, as a mature and responsible adult, I’d like nothing more than to find that franchise owner and apologize for being such a sludge. I would also like to apologize for not locking the door at 8 pm exactly even though those people walking through the parking lot were clearly heading into your store to spend money, and, not least, for being caught by the mystery shopper for wearing sweatpants instead of a uniform pant, although I’d like to know how the hell that person caught that detail. I’d apologize for making up our own names for flavors and for the time my friends came into help clean up and sampled the flavors without using new sample spoons. We should also probably apologize for the trivia contests we’d hold offering winners a free topping, but that was just to make the shift a little more interesting – no one buys ice cream or frozen yogurt in winters, as the franchise owner later found out.

I probably should apologize for that Styrofoam tip cup that we put out to earn a few extra dollars each shift, but the one thing I will never apologize for, however, was for letting the customers in the back to customize their own Happy Birthday cakes. Calligraphy with icing is a bitch, and at least when it looked crappy, the customer had no one to blame but themselves.

So just a warning: if you’re ever given the special opportunity to write the custom happy birthday message on the sheet cake you’ve just purchased, know that A) the person behind the counter has shitty handwriting, and B) it’s amazing what those icing roses and balloons can cover.

And to all those kids with tip cups for college funds on the counter of their ice cream shop – I promise to never order a peanut butter shake, and I’ll always give you the spare change.