F-bombs, incoming...

What would happen if you just didn't give a fuck? If you said what you wanted to say, did what you wanted to do, kissed who you wanted to kiss? I'm betting life would feel a lot more like you were living it instead of whatever you're doing now. Whatever I'm doing now, is probably actually more the point.

I shouldn't be this fired up- I just got out of a 2-hr long free class for writers about studio vs. indie blah, blah. The information wasn't groundbreaking, and the outlook the Hollywood-Insider-Guy painted was dismal.

Meh. I'm not even fazed by grim Hollywood Chicken Little bullshit anymore. But I got to thinking on the way home of some of the break-into-the-biz options HIG mentioned and I wondered why I hadn't tried any of them. My best reason - and it sucks - is because my shyness is arresting and I'm scared of my own shadow. How's that for Chicken Little bullshit?

It's the worst excuse, and it's a topic that's been on my mind more than the usual all-the-time-constantly that I examine myself. The WHAT-IFS. What if I suck, what if they hate it, what if he hates me, what if they don't get it...

What if I don't give a fuck? What if I tell people what I really think? I have a reputation for being honest, and I am, unless I'm lying to your face. What if I tell you I'm not interested instead of taking an hour to explain the reasons why you and I aren't such a good idea right now? What if I RSVP "No" to Evites without a benign explanation why I can't make it? What if I tell you, you're wrong, when you are?

What if I don't give a fuck? What if I do what I want to do? People think I already do that. I pole dance, and I write about blood-tinged semen and sociopathic teenage girls. My secret is, that's the tip of the glacier. I can fill reams of paper with the things I want to do and be. What if I tried more? What if I wrote and directed the short that haunts me, even though I have no money, even though I don't know how? Who gives a fuck?

Who would give a fuck if I kissed whoever I wanted? "Who haven't you kissed?" snears Igor from behind a fold in my frontal lobe. I've had make-out dreams about a friend, and I could dismiss my dreams as sweaty manifestations of the day's particular stresses but... I'm curious. So what if...?

Having given my blog addresses to family members recently, I guess I'm putting my money where my mouth is - they don't get a lot of fuck this and fuck that from me. And I guess if I don't give a fuck, it really doesn't matter. (Sorry anyway, Mama and Daddy. Don't stop loving me! xo!)

But think about it: What if you didn't give a fuck? What would you do? What would you say? Who would you kiss?

Six degrees of Cynassa

I got a quick job, so my blogging took a backseat for a while. Not that I wasn't dealing with the demons of having the same job I started production with ten years ago (same producer, same position: assistant/Office PA. It was humbling, to say the least.) or with the HELL that is Beverly Hills. Thank God, I'm unemployed again and back to my damned friends. Like CYNASSA.

Fabulous doesn't do him justice. His nature is described as quicksilver. I love that adjective! Cynassa is shining and malleable like Kevin Bacon. He manifests himself medium-tall and the color of a shining star. Whuut?! He incites love and lust in mortals, and increases a human's sense of pleasure- again, much like bacon. (Umm, I wanna meet this "demon"...) Bonus: Cynassa has the power to provide luxurious gifts like spendy perfume and fabrics. He is a minister of the demon Sarabocres and connected to the planet Venus. Three angels, Hanahel, Raquyel, and Salguyel, have power over him.

Why did I choose Cynassa? How could I not? After a week of feeling less than quicksilver doing PA runs in traffic all over the city, I needed a little awesome to feel like myself again. Don't get me wrong- this job saved my life and I love my bosses. But it gave me a new appreciation for how hard the entertainment business is on people. Not because I was doing an entry level job with entry level bagel responsibilities that I thought was long behind me, but because I was doing it with the gift of perspective.

Eighteen months away from a production office is a sizable chunk of time. It's enough time to realize entertainment is what it is. We're telling stories and trying to make people happy. And if you take yourself or the business too seriously, you won't succeed at either for very long. So you enjoy the little things like the word "quicksilver", getting taken to lunch by your boss, and Kevin Bacon.

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

Proculo, my newest... zzzzz...

Once upon a time, there lived a not-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman (sorry, I can't be more specific) who was average in most ways, except for the ways she wasn't. She'd rise with the sun, accomplish a ton, check things off her list, til she'd crash with the mist (of night fog. Can't resist a nice rhyme.)

One day, the sun rose, but she didn't. The city awoke, but she didn't. The neighborhood bustled, but she didn't. Her eyes cracked open at the stroke of noon and she breathed, "Ugh..." before rolling over and slipping back under her heavy blanket of sleep. With no other symptoms to indicate she was dying of an exotic sickness, she accepted her new life. Sometimes she'd eat, occasionally she showered, every once in a while she'd crawl to the TV to sleep through DVDs, but for the most part, she succumbed to her newest demon: Mr. Sandman, or officially, PROCULO.

Proculo serves under Hael and Sergulath according to the Grimorium Verum. He is expert on everything sleep, and can knock you out for 24 hours. Proculo also has the gift of prophecy. I'm assuming, likely wrong, that the prophecy thing ties into dreaming.

With the days of sleep I've banked lately, I can only look to Proculo as the cause. Unfortunately, there's no info on how to exorcise him, so I'll either keep sleeping or wake up someday. That I've remained upright long enough to write this is promising.

One thing that's vaguely interesting about having slept the last few days away is that my dreams are so lucid, I feel as if I've been awake. And you, and you, and you, and you were there... so if I mention some nonsense about slaying dragons with you, making out with you, or playing putt-putt golf in Austin with you, just smile and nod.

My Proculo calls...

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

Unlike all my single girlfriends, I adore Valentine's Day. Relationship status and marketing manipulations be damned, I love hearts, glitter, lace, candy and the color red. They are, in fact, my favorite things in existence (not including certain people, certain animals, certain natural wonders, and Friday Night Lights) so Valentine's Day is actually one of my favorite days of the year.

BUT.

There is something about mid-February that screams death to me. Maybe it's because things I love tend to die about now. Here's an example: Roland the-evil-yet-amazing Fish.

Roland has been at death's door a number of times. In fact, about a year ago I bought the smallest container of fish food (1 oz.), certain he wasn't long for this world. But he's a fighter, dammit, and I was forced to upgrade to the 3.52 oz canister of Tetrafin. Just last Thursday, I threw caution to the wind and bought the 7.06 oz canister- and with that probably signed Roland's death certificate.

Yesterday he became very drifty. Within an hour, he was stuck to the filter, too weak to swim free. In a flash of genius (?), I stuck a knife into the tank and nudged him off the filter, imagining scaring the hell out of him with a sharp cleaver as equivalent to defibrillation. I was supposed to be in the car on my way to Grandma's House, but I couldn't leave him. I watched the life float out of him, float back in, and float out again. Over and over. For a very long time.

Unable to bear it, and dying to beat traffic, I packed my dying friend into a Tupperware, packed his VERY HEAVY tank with all it's extra crap into my car, grabbed the cat and got on the road.

I'm a believer in euthanasia. Pull the plug, spare the pain, and lets start healing. But all that changes when you're forced with the decision and you have a life in your hands. I could have flushed him at home, and I considered it- even if he fought his way back to life, he'd probably like the sewer. I imagined the pollution and excrement serving Roland well, and that he'd come out the other side ten times as big and singing Disney songs. But I couldn't do anything but what I did, which was to take him on a 90-minute road trip and sing showtunes to him from "Wicked," because even though he was ready to leave, I couldn't let go.

Did I call my father sobbing? Yes.
Did my neighbor come knocking on my door because I was crying so loudly as I packed him up? Maybe.
Did I overeact? No.

See, it's my fault. Roland had parasites. I was lazy about getting him treatment. He'd lived with them for so long before I knew what they were, I didn't imagine they could kill him. He was scrappy, tough, a badass- he was a sourvivor. Still deep down, I must heard the clock ticking because I finally bought the correct parasite medicine online 2 days before he died. I was anxious to get them and start proper treatment. I thought I had so much more time with him, and I was wrong.

As I coasted into my grandma's driveway, "For Good" came on my iPod. I uncovered Roland's Tupperware casket still hoping beyond hope that it wasn't my jerking the container that was moving him, but that he'd found the strength to overcome my neglect. I was wrong. I set Maggie in her travel case next to Roland and we had a quiet moment as a family. I cried again, as Glinda and Elphaba honored Roland better than I ever could as they sang to each other, "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

Am I still talking about a fish? Yes.


Maggie hunts Roland (the smudge by the filter)

ROLAND the Evil FISH

Swim in Peace, 8/07 - 2/14/11

"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.

Onor & Igor & Sunny

Sigh. I just found out I didn't get a job i really wanted. I really wanted it. It paid almost half my regular rate and was in Van Nuys - who wouldn't want a winner like that?!

The eternal optimist (let's call her Sunny) is literally at this moment in a knock-down-drag-out fight with Igor, my wretched, ugly ego. It sounds like this:

IGOR: You've got no prospects now.
SUNNY (her hand slamming over Igor's chapped lips): You've got nothing but prospect now! You're freeee to find the PERFECT job!
IGOR (pries her hand off): Do you even know what you want to do?
SUNNY (rolls her eyes): Life is about discovery! How BORING to know everything all the time! The unknown is where you get creative!
IGOR (rolling his eyes so hard they pop out. He catches them, prepared.): Speaking of creative, what about that script revision? Why are you blogging? If you used your time wisely, we'd probably have a job by now.
SUNNY (stealing the eyes from his hands and playing keep away): She can do whatever she wants! She's freeee!
Sunny dances away, juggling Igor's eyes. Igor runs after her, arms outstretched. He pitches to and fro, dizzy from the spins his eyes take in the air. He curses, Sunny laughs.

I digest all this along with the huge Chinese pity-party I ate for lunch. ("It's not love, Bianca." Shut up, Dr. Suck.)

They're both right. Technically. In a second, I'll resurface from the half an hour I've allowed myself to wallow in my pain cave, where Igor is king, and get back to my script revision (which is pretty awesome. Thanks, Sunny.). But first, ONOR.

No BS, I just opened to Onor, rather than peruse a few demons until I felt the right one for the situation at hand (...I heard Jersey Shore was good last night. Shut up, Boo, later.) and he genuinely made me smile.

Onor is a demonic squire (not sure of the difference, but "squire" is such an awesome title) with powers of illusion. His claim to fame is he can conjure up an illusionary castle. That's HUGE! Because its a big deal, he refuses to do it unless he receives a proper offering of milk and honey. (Could I love Onor any more? Likely, not.) He works on the tenth night of the moon in remote and secret locations.

And with my Onor-inspired smile, I shake off the pain cave. "What a Wonderful World" lilts in from my neighbor's apartment (nice timing.) I give Igor a nice fat finger, and get back to my revision.

Because it really is pretty damn good...

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

Sobel & The Overthink

Frequently I turn to my eternally damned pals in my Dictionary of Demons to lighten my own mood when I can't effing deal with my own effing demons- along the lines of "I'm freaking the fuck out and need unholy guidance." Then I pick a demon, find out what makes him such a baddie, and feel better that I don't have three heads (tee hee, head. I'm 14. And a boy.) or reek of death (usually) or command legions of lesser spirits (I'm a micromanager, my head would explode.)

Today is opposite day! I'm not freaking out! I've had a fantastic day doing fantastic things with fantastic people! I love my life!

This is not to say any of my circumstances have changed. I'm still unemployed, have a dwindling savings account, and only feel comfortable being in a committed relationship with my cat. However, tonight I taught an Intro to Pole class.

I'm teaching this class more often, which makes me blissfully happy because it's my most favorite thing to teach. The thing about Intro is you take a group of women who are nervous, excited, and terrified and introduce them to a way of life and expression that has the potential to change everything about their world. Am I still talking about pole dancing? You bet your ass.

(Isn't this supposed to be about demons?)

The bonus? We're confronting demons together. (Aaah, see what I did there?)

The most obvious and benign, albeit still a real dick, demon that I confront with my students is YOUR GODDAMN HEAD or, as I'll pinpoint, The Overthink. The Overthink curses eeeeeveryone in an Intro (to anything) class. It makes you sweat, dries your mouth, and strips your skin off leaving only meat and raw nerves. (Sorry, I saw 127 Hours today. BRILLIANT!) You fidget and do things at high speed, you obsess about what your body (or mouth because I'm picturing an Italian class for some reason. Maybe because of James Franco? Hmm...) is doing, but there are so many things to think about that your mind is mostly blank. That is, except for your ego's incessant chant of "That's wrrrong. You're doooooing it wrrrong."

The Overthink is conjured by a magic spell called "Stepping Out of Your Comfort Zone." The Overthink is combatted by teachers (like me!) who reassure you with love, sensitivity and terrible jokes. It's ultimately conquered by not giving a shit and having fun. It is actually worth experiencing The Overthink just for the rush of warm fuzzy accomplishment that comes when you've beat the bastard.

Just to pair this with a demon friend, tonight I picked SOBEL. Sobel only exists because of written errors. In various manuscripts the name appears as Sobel, Cobel or Lobel. Lobel doesn't even have an entry in my demon guide, and all Cobel says is he serves the infernal ruler Magoth. Big woop.

Lots of bluster being A DEMON and all, and yet they can't even get his name set? Like The Overthink, a lot of noise for nothing.

So yes, teaching Intro is a fun way to share my passion for pole and expression; but moreover, helping students overcome their fears and watching their demons vanish in fits of laughter is the real magic.

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010
*Thanks to Heart & Pole for employing me