"Only the crap ones had their shirts off..."

...said one of the girls on set to explain why she hadn't joined us to watch the crew guys play lunch-rugby. But I'll back up...

Today I righted yesterdays wrongs by waking up early, kickboxing and getting all my days writing done by lunchtime. Stella arranged to have a driver come pick me up at home to bring me to set for lunch (free! catering! yay!).

Any of my friends who have visited me on set will agree- I hate set visits in general. How do they know? Because I complain about it loudly and constantly. Taking care of a set visitor is the worst thing ever. Second worse is being the visitor- Its like going to your dad's job and sitting in the corner. I never visit anyone else's set unless I have a bunch of friends on the crew and it coincides with lunch because, honestly, there is just nothing to do at someone else's job.

I got to Stella's set (or as its known on IMDB, "The Wolverine") a little more than an hour before lunch. Of course, everyone was busy working. I chatted about horror movies with my new best friend Hugh Jackman (nbd) and watched them shoot til lunch. I have to admit, though I've been off and on sets for the last 12 years, I've rarely had the opportunity to just watch and listen to the director direct, and damn- it was cool.
It was better than cool.

It's easy to get jaded or bored or both about moviemaking (or life...?) if you're not doing what you want to be doing in them. If you don't have a passion for the role you play, it becomes like any other job you do to pay the bills- something you tolerate at its best and dread at its worst.

This set visit was supposed to be the highlight of my day because of the free hot lunch and Stella of it all. I wasn't in the least prepared to have my passion for moviemaking reignited by Jim Mangold or "The Wolverine" of all things, but... that's what happened. These last few years of details, minutia and coffee dissolved and I felt new again. I feel new again...

 lovvvvvve this...
at Fox Studios, a little hint of Baz

i...

love...

I was actually disappointed to break for lunch (that's when you know it's serious), but break we did. After eating like a lumberjack, I followed Stella and Jen to the field to watch the boys play rugby for the rest of the lunch break. I love boys. I love boys playing sports. I love boys playing sports with their shirts off. It was a good afternoon.

rugby.

I decided to hit the Sydney Opera House on my way home (NOT anywhere near on my way home as it turns out) because I'd taken the last couple days off from sightseeing, and was starting to stress. Why stress? All dumb reasons, the main of which being my name is Bianca and that's what I do.

Bus shenanigans to the tune of right bus, wrong direction, right direction, wrong bus landed me still in the general area and I found my way to the Opera House. NOT before I bought and ate another candy bar straight out of the wrapper like a Garbage Pail Kid.

"a unique combination of peanuts,
wafer, caramel & rice crips
covered in milk chocolate"

I have this thing about how I eat a candy bar - its my thing and probably no one else's. I hate eating candy bars straight out of the wrapper like they want you to. Commercials with kids taking a huge smiley bite off the end of a partially wrapped candy bar screams white trash to me. Still, that is what I did today. And I grossed myself out.

"Then why did you do it, you weirdo?" the world asks. Self-sabotage is the best answer I can come up with- that, and the candy bar was unruly enough as I walked that I couldn't dismember it with my germ-covered hands like I like to.

Sydney Opera House is party central

Anyway, I'd heard raves and gushing about Sydney Opera House from every book I've seen, website I've visited, etc, etc. To say my expectations were high was putting it mildly. The Opera House was definitely impressive, but I think the scene surrounding it was more of the charm than I'd anticipated. I hit the Opera House for sunset and there were throngs of people there for after-work/pre-dinner drinks. Though the Opera House is definitely a city highlight, I could see by the crowd that it wasn't just for tourists. I love when locals appreciate a city gem as much as the guide books want the tourists to.

i bet they have the machine from 'Big' here

Another highlight? A cool, creeeeeeepy looking amusement park at the far end of the Sydney Harbour Bridge across the water. I will find it, and I will go there. (I think it's Luna Park after doing a bit of research.)

I saw a sign for the Royal Botanical Gardens and decided to check them out, even though it was officially dark at this point. I learned a garden at night is less impressive than a garden during the day.

Maybe its because I was on set today or maybe I was inspired by Sydney's dark cinematic qualities, but the wind was blowing my hair just right and the streets had the perfect lighting for me to go noir and play "THEY'RE RIGHT BEHIND YOU" all the way home. I made the 20 minute walk back to Stella's in heart-thumping 15 minutes. God, I love that game.



Sydney Harbour Bridge  (see the amusement park??)



Sydney Opera House close up



man do i appreciate a great bathroom
(Syndey Opera House)

Sydney Cove and Circular Quay

 

"Have you tried Harry Krishna?"

I broke my New Year's Resolution today for the first time.

For one month and eleven days I succeeded in journaling and meditating every morning, and not half-assing it either. So today when I found myself ready to kick anyone who annoyed me (everyone) in the face, I surmised it was because I missed meditating.

My day wasn't bad: pole class, chocolate, CostCo, teaching, bestie dinner, and The Muppet Movie (ga-gong, ga-gong, my heart speaks Muppet).

But somewhere past CostCo I developed a pissy, restlessness that felt (feels) like someone's rubbing sandpaper on the back of my neck. My joints are wound tight, aching to karate chop a bitch. A grubby little storm cloud hovers over my third eye. That "somewhere" was Salon.com.

As I fixed lunch, I checked my twitter feed to find this tagline: "I was at the height of my screenwriting career. Too bad I was nearly fifty—and a woman." I knew the story was going to piss me off from the Debbie Downer teaser, but I couldn't help myself. I'm a woman, I'm a writer, and I'm a glutton for getting my buttons pushed. So I read.

The article is an except from a book by Tracey Jackson called "Between a Rock and a Hot Place: Why Fifty is Not the New Thirty," and is essentially a one-page bitchfest from what I presume is a 300+ page bitchfest coming out Feb 15 from HarperCollins. I haven't read the book, so I can't judge it, but I did read the except and I'm DYING to judge it.

Let me start by saying that witnessing someone play the victim is MY BIGGEST EFFING PET PEEVE. I have no sympathy when anyone points to their circumstances for no constructive reason other than to bitch/wallow/whine. Jackson's excerpt does just this.

She begins by qualifying herself with her career track as a female comedy feature writer (yes, very hard job, I certainly wouldn't want to do it). She lists a couple high-profile projects she got replaced on by younger writers until she couldn't get another job and had to resort to pitching BS guys movies and kid stuff. Jackson never indicates anything that motivates her beyond wealth, fame, and recognition.

As I read Jackson's declarations of ageism and sexism, all that kept running through my mind was, "It doesn't have to be." I'm not deluded. Ageism, fine. Sexism, sure. Its the way the world works. Favoritism, nepotism, classism - they are all facts of the business, always have been, always will be. They work in your favor until they don't. My point is, if you buy into the bullshit, you're just as guilty in perpetuating the bullshit. Rise above the status quo and make your own way.

Rather than kowtow in desperation to every whim of the business (3D! Vampires! Matthew McConaughey romcoms!) do something you're passionate about. At least then you can enjoy your work because it means something more than its prospective outcome. What you spend your time on has to amount to more than wealth, fame or recognition, because these qualities are so transitory they barely exist.

I know I'm talking about Hollywood where surface rules, but you know what? I refuse that- if I don't, I'm as bad as Tracey Jackson. I refuse to give up passion. I refuse to give up integrity. If that makes me naive and stupid, good. I hope I stay naive and stupid forever. At least then I'll still play the game my way, instead of buying into the same old bullshit.

It seems Tracey Jackson may have discovered this in some form or fashion, as well: she couldn't get hired to write what she wanted to, she got passionate enough to write a book about her experience, and now, whoop-dee-doo, she's a published author.

If you don't like the rules, make up your own. If you're tired of the game, find a new one. Just don't play the victim. We're so much more powerful than that.