Evil Queen Magda

Okay. Enough earnestness. Sincerity: yuck! As usual, I’m...

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 12:22:11 -0800

Okay. Enough earnestness. Sincerity: yuck!

As usual, I’m late to the party on this band, but I like ogling many of the players in this video in a lacivious manner. I mean, um, great direction!

From the script for “You Can Count on Me,” Kenneth Lonergan, 2000. SHEILA: Hey,...

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 11:09:43 -0800

From the script for “You Can Count on Me,” Kenneth Lonergan, 2000.

SHEILA: Hey, Terry.
TERRY: Hey.

Terry looks at her and smiles encouragingly. She smiles back.

SHEILA: Where’d you get the hat?
TERRY: Oh, I got it on the street for a dollar.
SHEILA: It’s nice.
TERRY: Well, you know, it’s pretty much your standard woolen hat.
SHEILA: Yeah, I had a very similar reaction to it.

Sheila looks away. Silence.

TERRY: Can I get that money from you?
SHEILA: Yeah. Sorry.

Why does this break my heart every time I read it?

“You’ve been in LA for 6 years. You must like it here.” This struck me as odd,...

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 12:52:00 -0800

“You’ve been in LA for 6 years. You must like it here.”

This struck me as odd, because whether I liked this particular location never really came into the equation. You move to places like NY and LA because you’re trying to accomplish a specific goal. One probably based in art/film/publishing/fashion/music, etc. Whether you like the place is kind of beside the point. But I do. I do like LA, which is just an added bonus. Because in addition to the relentlessly cheerful sun and lack of Applebee’s, you meet other people with similar goals at parties. And you talk about making things and learn how other people make things and sometimes you’re inspired. There’s a lot of really talented people here.

But sometimes those same people don’t say what they mean and don’t know what they want when it comes to living, breathing things. They come and go out of your life, sometimes taking bigger pieces of you than you expected.

And you’re left with the precious, sweet things you create. They don’t react, they don’t have feelings, but they do give back. You bring them to life and live in their world and love them. Trust me, that’s something that can make you happy.

It’s satisfying, for now. And I’m kind of tired of fielding that look people I haven’t seen in a while give me when they ask what my social/love life is like at the moment. The look is one of confusion and pity after I reply that I’ve fallen in a deep word hole and I don’t really need anyone to lower a rope to pull me out. This lady said something related to this that I’m thinking of printing on a card, laminating and handing it to people when they ask why I’ve declined to play the dating game:

but I am not a casual person, really with anything. does that mean I am a hard ass? no goddammit! that means that I take things seriously and I act with intention. and my intention, yall, doesn’t just include getting laid.

this girl recently said to me well meredith, you’re hot, you can get laid whenever you want.

I don’t just want to get laid, ok. i am thirty one years old. i’m a little over that, not that I was ever the kind of person who was just interested in getting laid.

i also don’t just want to date, or just have a boyfriend. no, that is not what I am looking for anymore.

i am looking for love - real love. true love. i’m not looking that hard, tho, because like I SAID, I have been busy.

Replace the name and we have a bingo. So while I appreciate people’s concern about me spending so much time alone, I’m not at home rehearsing suicide. I made a conscious decision about where I want my life to go and I’m taking the necessary steps to make that happen. And in the interim, I’m happy in this city and in my word hole.

"I’m working out again. I’m going to make the sequel to 300. My pecs will be glistening...."

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 10:29:05 -0800

“I’m working out again. I’m going to make the sequel to 300. My pecs will be glistening. I’ll have a codpiece. I’m going to blow your mind.”

- Alec Baldwin

To my list of running experiences I can now add: a 10k in the...

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 12:26:55 -0800

To my list of running experiences I can now add: a 10k in the rain with people in santa hats, elf pantaloons and most memorably, a woman wearing a red, velvet Christmas thong over her running tights.

Did a mediocre 52:04, which shouldn’t be blamed on the rain but rather the kind of “training” I’ve recently engaged in, i.e., assuring myself I don’t want to get burned out by running too much while eating doughnuts and other things made with butter.

This song reminds me of a particular December, in a frigid...

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 12:26:00 -0800

This song reminds me of a particular December, in a frigid apartment in Milan with two Germans and two Russians. We drink cup after cup of tea and turn on the oven, leaving the door open to stay warm. One of the Russians uses playing cards as Tarot cards and gives us readings. She’s vague enough to be convincing. We make bad stir fries and eat yogurt out of tubs while watching videos on Italian MTV. Every now and then dim male models appear, bringing joints rolled with tobacco.

I leave messages for someone in London every other day using a phone card. After a while, I’ve memorized the 20+ numbers I have to dial. He calls once only to say he has a call on the other line; he’ll call me back later. He never does.

I'm going with the alternate explanation.

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 13:01:00 -0800

I’ve been playing music and drinking while writing recently. I’ve never done either before because music is distracting and alcohol just turns coherent thoughts into alphabet soup. But I’ve found that certain kinds of moody music help me plow through manuscript line edit notes like “more intensity” or “more romance” and alcohol helps me pretend I know what I’m doing when I’m playing screenwriter. (Alcohol AND the music come into play here when some sort of emotion is required.)

So I’m going to ignore the likely explanation that the ash in my chest can only be reconstituted to a semblance of a beating heart (think a substance like off-brand Playdoh) with these ingredients and go with “this is my new PROCESS.”

Related: a Doug Limon blog post about Hollywood processes. “A hilarious thing about the movie business is that you can get away with anything as long as you call it “process.” Literally, anything. I mean, he’s sound asleep! The director is literally sound asleep on set — what the hell’s going on here? Well, he’s slept through his last three movies, and they were huge hits. It’s how he works; that’s his “process.” He’ll wake up at some point and give notes, but for now, let him catch a few Zs. I haven’t been in the business that long, but at this point I can’t think of a single outrageous behavior that I haven’t seen occur on set and then heard excused as someone’s process.”

I like how in your 30s, emails threads turn from boasts about how much you drank and how late you...

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 12:47:54 -0800

I like how in your 30s, emails threads turn from boasts about how much you drank and how late you got in to competitions over who gets up earlier and who leaves the house less frequently.

Just living the dream, people.

theanimalblog: (via birdbeak) Oh shit, son.

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 09:30:49 -0800

theanimalblog:

(via birdbeak)

Oh shit, son.

Eclipse X

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 08:30:00 -0800

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX

He had convinced me to go home to my mother, at least for now. “An imperfect solution to a complex problem,” he called it. These were made up words, words with definitions in English but when strung together, were rendered meaningless by inanity. I called him on it and he shrugged. We weren’t using a lot of meaningful words at the moment.

He kept asking where I had been, how I had managed on my own for more than a year, but I wouldn’t tell him. I’d learned to keep quiet. I’d learned it from him and my mother, actually, and I knew both the lesson and the source would break his heart. He was already broken. I wasn’t going to contribute to that.

And she – I worried that she thought she saw something else when he came through that door towards me. She started crying and I wanted to tell her that she was seeing a reunion, not some sick betrayal. But she knew. She could read him better than my mother ever had and I think she was crying out of relief. Relieved that he wasn’t dead inside like he pretended to be. Maybe he had mentioned me before and she put the pieces together. Either way, I wished he’d open his eyes. This girl had cared about me. I was a stranger, but she cared about me. I can tell you that for a year, I wondered if anyone really cared about anyone else.

We all stayed in her apartment for three days. They were on the bed; I was on the couch. Sometimes she made us eggs. Sometimes I curled in between them like I was their parenthetical statement. Only for a split-second would I allow myself to think of us as some kind of family – that wasn’t realistic or even recommended. These two? They needed to figure out their own crap first. But I think they were on their way.

I told him how she found me and how she came back. How she left me alone without actually leaving me alone and just let me catch my breath. It’s stupid to say I’d been running for a year and needed to catch my breath, but, you know. I did. And she knew that. So he started looking at her in a different way, like the way the guy in the movie looks at the girl like he’s seeing her for the first time. Except her shithole apartment wasn’t like any movie set I’d ever seen and none of us had really bothered with brushing our hair or, say, accessorizing while we were decamped there. It would have been an ugly movie, is what I’m saying.

But on the last morning before I had to go home, I woke up on the couch. They had rolled over together and the sound of their clothes pushing the sheets around had pulled me out of a dream.

“Good morning,” he said to her. Really, whispered it, because he thought I was still sleeping. But I wasn’t and heard his fingers poke between her aluminum blinds, heard him raise up halfway in bed to look out the window at the sunrise. I couldn’t hear what she said in return; I think it was something about him avoiding daylight. I don’t know. But I guess he wanted to prove a point, because he got out of bed and pulled all of the blinds all the way up. The sun practically attacked us. I’d never seen the room so bright. Then they laughed, like something hilarious had just happened. And I pretended to sleep because I think they don’t really have many of these moments. But they should. These two should.

(The end.)

There’s magic behind every strip mall. (This photo brought...

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 12:00:00 -0800

There’s magic behind every strip mall.

(This photo brought to you by It’s Not Cool to Hate LA and LAist.)

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)In a world…where supermodels are forced to...

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 10:31:00 -0800

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
In a world…where supermodels are forced to roam the desert, looking for clothing…for love…for REDEMPTION…

This Christmas - strap on your garters. Your corsets. Crawl on top of the pool table to take your shot. Throw knives. Direct a movie. Wear your shoes in bed. BECAUSE YOU FUCKING CAN.

(SFX) EXPLOSION

One gift. A thousand cliches.

[Victoria’s Secret commercial directed by Michael Bay.] (Really.)

fek: Phoenix - 1901 (The Take Away Show)

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 12:35:50 -0800

fek:

Phoenix - 1901 (The Take Away Show)

I’ve taken the Writing Hobo costume to new levels...

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 10:33:00 -0800

I’ve taken the Writing Hobo costume to new levels today.

$3 velour shirt purchased in 1998 at the Goodwill in Salem, OR (Go Bearcats!)
The same gray hoodie I wear to work almost every day
Adidas track pants (not pictured)
Same socks I wore yesterday (not pictured)
Remnants of the tinted moisturizer I applied for a rare, out-of-house trip to see a screening of The Hurt Locker (also yesterday)
(Do I even need to say I haven’t yet taken a shower?)

And for those keeping score at home, yesterday marked the 2nd consecutive Saturday that found me enacting a particularly horrible writing cliche: home, drinking scotch, pecking at a fucking screenplay until midnight thinking “who the fuck do I think I am, Diablo fucking Cody?”

Miranda, Madeline, AmeliaNoah, GabrielColeRyanRider, Wyatt, ColinAdrianne, Jax There’s a...

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 15:28:44 -0800

Miranda, Madeline, Amelia
Noah, Gabriel
Cole
Ryan
Rider, Wyatt, Colin
Adrianne, Jax

There’s a chance I get as excited as I do about new projects because of the name shopping I get to do on baby name websites.

Daria Werbowy for Vogue Paris, May 2009, shot by Inez van...

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 12:12:00 -0800

Daria Werbowy for Vogue Paris, May 2009, shot by Inez van Lamsweerde & Vinoodh Matadin.

heartbeatcity: marion cotillard interviews penelope cruz.

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 09:29:47 -0800

heartbeatcity:

marion cotillard interviews penelope cruz.

"Turn on the television. We have a wedding channel on cable TV devoted to the behavior of people on..."

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 09:31:13 -0800

“

Turn on the television. We have a wedding channel on cable TV devoted to the behavior of people on the way to the altar. They spend billions of dollars, behave in the most appalling way, all in an effort to be princess for a day. You don’t have cable television? Put on network TV. We’re giving away husbands on a game show. You can watch The Bachelor, where thirty desperate women will compete to marry a 40-year-old man who has never been able to maintain a decent relationship in his life.

That’s what we’ve done to marriage in America, where young women are socialized from the time they’re five years old to think of being nothing but a bride. They plan every day what they’ll wear, how they’ll look, the invitations, the whole bit, they don’t spend five minutes thinking about what it means to be a wife. People stand up there before god and man even in Senator Diaz’s church, they swear to love honor and obey, they don’t mean a word of it. So if there’s anything wrong with the sanctity of marriage in America, it comes from those of us who have the privilege and the right and have abused it for decades.

”

- Diane Savino

Screw you, New York senate. Maybe you should outlaw divorce if you’re so concerned about the sanctity of marriage.

Eclipse IX

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 08:30:00 -0800

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII

I had an audition, a last-minute, early morning thing and I didn’t want to leave her alone. For some reason, the girl had burst into tears after seeing that picture of him and she wouldn’t tell me why. If I had the wherewithal at that moment to step back and observe the situation from a distance, I would have seen it as funny. He could make them cry even through a picture frame! But I was too close. I was right up under the tears and the hiccups, fascinated by this first evidence of the girl acting her age.

I knew he would be awake. He rolled his eyes at my schedule, the way I tended not to know which day of the week it was, the way I slipped from day into night as if shifting into second gear. He seemed to think I was adrift. Untethered. But he was worse. He was anchored in the murk, avoiding daylight and avoiding the living. There was his work, yes, but the people in those bars and clubs were the walking dead. Numb and unfeeling, just like his patients.

It was 5 a.m. I had to leave the house in two hours and the girl was inconsolable. She cried silently but without break. I needed him to sit with her. When he knocked, she didn’t stir. She’d been lying on my bed the entire night and hadn’t noticed me on top of the covers next to her. I’d been afraid to ask her to move so I could get under them, afraid to incite her in any way. Now my bare toes were blue and cold.

I opened the door and stood facing him the same way I always did when he appeared. Head against the door, close enough to touch but never a hand on him in case he decided to bolt. I wouldn’t cling or drag. He could come in only if he wanted to. Behind him, the street was still. Crows perched on power lines, black splatter against the sunrise. I shivered in the morning air and began rolling away from him, flattening myself against the door so he could pass. But he grabbed me and pulled me toward him, out of the doorway and onto the concrete steps. Grit stuck to my bare toes as he pressed me to his chest, so tightly I squirmed for air.

Without warning his embrace grew slack and my heels, lifted off the concrete, touched back down. He moved past me into the apartment, leaving me on the stairs, and I turned to follow him with my eyes. The girl stood in the middle of the room, her hands balled into tiny fists, her fists pushing into her stomach. He took that embrace, the one I thought was meant for me, and gave it to her. I watched stunned as she took it. She not only accepted it but returned it, every ounce of anger and sadness in her turning to need. He held her and held her while I stood outside, literally and figuratively.

She had stopped crying but I had started.

heartbeatcity: What editors do for writers is mysterious, and does not, contrary to general belief,...

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 09:58:53 -0800

heartbeatcity:

What editors do for writers is mysterious, and does not, contrary to general belief, have much to do with titles and sentences and “changes.” The relationship between an editor and a writer is much subtler and deeper than that, at once so elusive and so radical that it seems almost parental: the editor was the person who gave the writer the idea of himself, the idea of herself, the image of self that enabled the writer to sit down alone and do it.

This is a tricky undertaking, and requires the editor not only to maintain a faith the writer shares only in intermittent flashes but also to like the writer, which is hard to do. Writers are only rarely likable. They bring nothing to the party, leave their game at the typewriter.

Didion. “After Henry”