To Do List.

Apr

2009

Today was my last day of filming in my “blink and you’ll miss it” feature film debut! But it was very fun. I play a bartender. I always want to be a bartender until I actually go to a bar and then I see how crowded it is and how I’m afraid of counting and I think, “Oh, right. This is why I’m not a bartender.”

Peter Dinklage is the star of the film. My favorite Peter Dinklage performances are his wedding planner in “The Baxter” and his “CALL ME ELF ONE MORE TIME” guy in “Elf”.

Can I say something about Peter Dinklage?

He’s sexy.

No, really.

He’s got a deep sexy voice, a cross between Don Draper and Mufasa. He’s got charisma. He walks around and he stares at you with that classic angry Peter Dinklage stare and you’re frightened that he’s going to kick you but you’re oddly turned on. We were shooting in a restaurant/bar and between takes he wandered over to a piano in the corner and with one hand played the theme from “Jaws”. He’ll keep you on your toes, that Peter Dinklage.

So this brings me to my Celebrity To Do List. Everyone has their list of top 5 celebrities they would get down with, if given the chance. But everyone’s list are always so predictable that I feel silly for sharing mine. The celebrities I want to do are either really old or really dead. But there must be people out there who have similar lists. So I’m going to give you mine. My real one. Not my “1. James Franco 2. James Franco 3. Adrien Brody 4. James Franco 5. James Franco” bullshit list.

5.) Michael Caine
To be honest I probably wouldn’t have sex with him today but I don’t think he’d have me. If I were to try it would probably go something like, “Hey Michael Caine, wanna put it in me?”

And he would say, “I beg your pardon?”

“You wanna do it?”

“Young lady, certainly not.”

“You sure?”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are but I don’t sleep with common prostitues such as yourself, though you have a lovely face. I suggest you spruce up and get a real job and don’t come sodding ’round these parts again.”

“OK, ALFRED.”

And I guess that would be it.

4.) Peter O’Toole

I once tried to write a song and here’s how it went:

“Oh Peter O
Peter O
Peter O’Toole.
Look what you’ve done to my heart!

Peter O
Peter O
Peter O’Toole.
I shoulda known from the start.

I (something something something
something something something) rule.
But I (something something something
something something) in love with Peter O’ Toole–

Oh Peter O
Peter O
Peter O’Toole.
Look what you’ve done to my heart!”

The “(something somethings)” were subsitutes for unwritten lyrics. I sang this song to a musician friend of mine and he said, “Ha…” and then gave me a look that said, “I think my friend is autistic?”

3.) James Dean.

OK BEFORE YOU COMMENT, I KNOW THIS IS A FILM STILL OF JAMES FRANCO AS JAMES DEAN, okay? DO NOT COMMENT “THAT’S JAMES FRANCO, NOT JAMES DEAN” BECAUSE I KNOW THAT. To be honest everything I find sexy about James Dean is probably only because of James Franco’s portrayl and really I would probably rather do James Franco as James Dean rather than James Dean.

2.) Roger Daltrey

Sometimes I’ll be going merrily along through life and I’ll suddenly think, “Why am I not having sex with Roger Daltrey right now?” And I’ll realize just how unfair life is. True story.

1.) David Bowie

I would have sex with Bowie today, tomorrow, 10 years from now, 10 years ago, 20 years ago, 30 years ago, basically right on the day he became legal and every day after. When I was younger I had a big thing for 80s Bowie, with the bleach blonde hair but today I’d rather have late 70s Bowie, but not when he was too strung out because he’d probably impale me with one of his shoulder blades or ribs. But oh what a lovely death.

Honorable mention goes to Don Draper
and YES I KNOW HE’S NOT A REAL PERSON, THANK YOU. I would fuck Don Draper. But I would have a relationship with Roger Sterling.

DAMN I LOVE ME SOME ROGER STERLING. SILVER FOX GODDAMN.

He’d treat me real nice and we’d go to a supper club or Sardi’s back when it was really hip and he’d always light my cigarettes and give me jewelery and say things like, “My God you’re so gorgeous I’m going blind” and he’d give my ass a cute little pat. One dude on Mad Men I would not have sex with is Pete. Pete would probably have a mental breakdown during and then choke back tears and try to spoon with me after and I’d light a cigarette in a long holder and say, “Be a dear and leave, won’t you sweetie?” And he’d say, “I just want to hold you” and I’d say. “Aw, that’s cute. But really hon, you gotta get the hell out.”

BUT THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.

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What shall I wear?

Apr

2009

Sometimes I think my life would be easier if I lived in a community where everyone wore the same thing.

Like those women from the Zion Ranch.

They all have slight variations of the same brightly colored dress with the puffy sleeves. I know this because I watch Oprah (OK wait, in my defense I Tivo it and I laugh at her, not with her. Also, shut up). During one point in Oprah’s interview with the female Zion teens, she asked, “Why y’all dress the same?” And one of the girls said, “We don’t, our dresses are actually all a little different. For instance, my dress has [so and so minor detail] while hers has [other minor detail]. Sometimes we’ll say to each other, ‘I love your dress, where did you get it?'”. At this point Oprah laughed really hard, because, well, the question is silly. “Where did you get your dress?” “Oh I got it at this really neat little place — THE ONLY CLOTHING STORE IN TOWN.” “I love that place!”

Anyway. There almost IS a uniform for the young twenty somethings of my age, and that is American Apparel. I am certainly not above American Apparel, though just for fun I’ll get incensed over their prices, and stalk ebay for a better deal. But it’s all so predictable. Ex. If it’s a skirt from AA then it will usually be paired with a white tee, black tights, and either those fugly low-heeled oxford/jazz shoes or mile high heels. Large rimmed glasses are optional. But as I bemoaned in my last post regarding AA, when I go out I like to eat, and their material isn’t very forgiving.

(And by the way, what is so alluring about low-heeled oxford/jazz shoes? What asshole decided, “I feel like looking like the Grandpa from ‘Rugrats’ today” and made that an acceptable trend? Fuck me.)

BUT THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.

Every day I try to feel inspired about my clothing. I’ll hunt the internet for fashion blogs. (The chick at leblogdebetty.com BTW is my fucking FRENCH DOPPLEGANGER I swear to God). But usually what happens is I’ll just grab whatever’s clean from my closet and wear that. I used to care about what I wore but then I got busy with life and somehow the clothes lost their way back in. I keep a folder on my laptop full of clothing inspiration. I have a scrapbook too. I am lame. But still I dress like someone who just doesn’t care.

Which means that when I actually have to get dressed for a specific event, I freeze. I used to intern for a certain legendary/eccentric producer at Paramount and even though I was but a lowly intern I was required to dress “nice”. No jeans. No flip-flops. Getting dressed in the morning was probably more stressful than managing Nicolas Cage’s career. I hated having to “dress nice”. And what is the big deal about jeans anyway? Most of my jeans cost more than my shoes. Let’s just say I relished working at Fox where the dress code was not draconian. Also that job was better. I was paid. BUT THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.

What’s my point to all of this? you may be asking yourself.

I don’t have a fucking point.

I have a closet full of clothes, a good chunk of it American Apparel, and nothing to wear.

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WWBBD?

Apr

2009

My motto in life is, “Would Brigitte Bardot put up with this bullshit?”
By which I mean, “Would Brigitte put up with this bullshit and if not then why should I?” Say what you will about Brigitte Bardot — that she’s racist, crazy, and probably a terrible mother and all around person — but one thing she is not is a motherfuckin wallflower. NO ONE walks on Brigitte Bardot. This is a woman who has said, “I don’t get left. I leave. I decide.”

And yet, when it comes to relationships (I know, I know, I hear Carrie Bradshaw in my head too) I rarely leave first. My inner BB is screaming, “Stupid femme! This is merde!” or you know whatever else angry French people say. I put up with a lot of merde.

After all, if young women didn’t make such mistakes then songs like, “Under My Thumb” and even “Look At That Stupid Girl” would never have been written. (Or maybe the lesson is just don’t date Mick Jagger. Both “Under My Thumb” and “Look At That Stupid Girl” have the dubious honor of being written about Chrissie Shrimpton. Poor girl.) But I think it’s time we all asked ourselves, “Would Brigitte Bardot put up with this bullshit?”

Brigitte Bardot would never have wasted her time with McSleaze. Yes, my codenames aren’t terribly clever, I will be the first to admit this. But my first codename was actually just his name, which isn’t a codename at all. And he’s so vain he’d probably think this post was about him. What was my point? Right. McSleaze. BB would have slapped McSleaze on the first date.

It took me weeks.

Things started out just fine with McSleaze until he sent me a facebook message saying something to the effect of, “I just got out of a really difficult relationship and so I’m not looking for anything right now One Tree Hill dialogue insert here blah blah” the night after we hooked up. That’s fine, I wasn’t looking for anything solid either. However, most alarming, was that that same day, the day right after we made out, he ALSO sent a facebook message to one of my best friends with the SAME EXACT RELATIONSHIP SPIEL only adding, “I like your moves. Let’s hang out.”

Here’s where I have to admit that despite this…I gave him another chance. I know. BB would have spit in my face and put her gitane out on my arm. The weird thing though was my friend actually decided TO BE FRIENDS WITH HIM. So then I thought, “Well fine, if she’s going to be his friend, then I’m going to be an even BETTER friend. If she’s going to take him to lunch I’m going to take him to Disneyland. With blow jobs.”

Obviously I was an idiot in deciding to see him. But I did. And the truth is, I didn’t even like him. I’m not sure if he even liked me. But we continued to go out to dinner and get drinks which was basically an excuse to wind up making out at his place later. I even worried when I didn’t hear from him or when I couldn’t see him. Once I texted him asking him what his plans were for the evening. “I’m just going to kick back,” he said. I offered to kick back with him. I offered to bring pizza and wine. And he said, “I can’t, I have plans.” So I said, “You just said you were kicking back.” And the next day he said, “Sorry about that, I meant I had plans kicking back.” And yes, I continued to see him.

Even when after dinner he said, “By the way, I might be moving to London.”

Even when once I was at his place and we were making out and being all cuddly and I threw my hand back and grazed an empty condom wrapper. He apologized for his carelessness and I knew it was an accident and that he didn’t mean to leave evidence of whatever sex he had the night before with whatever, even after that, I still continued to see him. (I never slept with him.)

Even when he told me, “You have a perfect mouth. Will you blow me?”

Things all came to a head (pun intended) where one night he couldn’t keep his erection and decided to blame me. Then things got weird and serious. He suddenly stood up and said,

“This isn’t going to work. We’re both scorpios.”

I laughed. I said, “Are you serious?”

“Yes, get dressed.” He was damn serious.

(This still isn’t the part where I slapped him Scarlett O’Hara style.)

Then I actually PLEADED him to tell me what I did wrong (Me!!) and to give me another chance. And he said, “It can’t work, we’re both scorpios. Go home.” And the entire time he said this, he was TEXTING ON HIS PHONE.

Yes, that is when I slapped him. He was stunned and shouted at me to get out of his house. Yeah, way ahead of you there, dude.

Now violence is not a good solution, I know this. But I also know that slapping skeezy dudes across the face is pretty awesome. So I think you can see my point. McSleaze was not a good person to give another chance to and not a good person to date and I was at fault for thinking he was someone different.

It’s like what Oprah says Maya Angelou told her, “When people show you who they really are, believe them. Believe them!” (And the way Oprah says it on her show, sounding like the wise old tree from “Pocahontas”, you expect the set to tremble beneath her and James Horner music to swell and Tom Cruise to cackle into a crystal ball or some shit.)

I should have listened to Oprah. Or Maya Angelou. Or even Gail. But I didnt. And in doing so, I dragged down my self-worth. I turned into The Stupid Girl.

Brigitte Bardot would have NEVER put up with that bullshit.

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just what is it about american apparel?

Mar

2009

(somehow or another my hair always winds up in my face right before the shutter clicks)

I KNOW THAT everyone and their mother has this dress from American Apparel. It is the double U neck dress. The short sleeved one. I bought it on ebay in a clever move to try to avoid paying AA’s shameless prices and wound up saving about a dollar. GREAT.

I have no idea how to wear this thing. I know that it’s probably a prime piece for building on but sometimes I just want to put on a fucking dress and be done with that shit. I don’t want to have to build on it. I want to wear it. And I don’t want to have to wear spanx with it and some magical Harry Potter type alohamora bra that magically hides underneath the tight material.

BUT LOOK AT THE FABULOUS CLEAVE:

To quote Blondie, “I didn’t have the nerve to say no.”

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David Bowie and relationships

Mar

2009

It has come to my attention that people are actually reading this blog.

Which, don’t get me wrong, is great! But this means that I need to come up with things to write about and to fix this atrocious layout. I can’t do web layout for shit so expect the same crappy look for a while until someone takes pity on me.

I haven’t had a boyfriend since ’07. This is not an accident. That was an odd relationship, one of those where you look back and think, “Huh, how ’bout that”. Which is the same sentiment I have while watching Alton Brown’s “Good Eats” and if your feeling on a relationship is the same as that on a show on the Food Network you’ve got some problems there, stardust.

I emerged from the whole ordeal a little worse for wear. I can no longer listen to the Magnetic Fields. Which honestly isn’t a huge drag for me. They’re like Belle and Sebastian but with a deeper voice. I’ll take B&S.

One of the most awkward things about breaking up is what to do with all of the stuff that accumulates. Everything that he gave me, I sold. However there was one item in particular that was a bit harder to get out of my life.

I have a huge thing for David Bowie. He is my favorite musician of all time. My ex, in an attempt to be thoughtful, bought me a HUGE framed photo of David Bowie. Sweet, right? Well the problem here is that 1.) It was friggin HUGE and 2.) It was the scariest fucking photo of David Bowie that I have ever seen. Seriously, it was in black and white and it was a closeup of his face, and the expression he had made me want avert my eyes and start praying to Jesus Christ for fear that an albino priest was going to emerge from my bathroom with a whip. I mean that’s how fucked up David Bowie looked. His eyes followed me everywhere. And by this point in the relationship I knew I wanted out but I was too much of a pussy to say so. So every time I went out the door or into the kitchen or really ANYWHERE (I lived in a studio apartment in New York) all I saw was David Bowie and all I heard was, “Ground control to Major Tom…YOUR RELATIONSHIP IS FUCKED WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING GET THE FUCK OUT YOU STUPID BITCH commencing coutdown engines on…”

When we finally broke up I had a bit of a quandry with this giant Bowie face. He was not as easy to sell or give away as a Magentic Fields CD. Again, I lived in NYC at the time and it just so happened that as I was breaking up I was getting ready to move back to LA. So everything that I didn’t want to grag with me back to California I needed to get rid of, and fucking fast.

(note: this is not the actual GBF but it’s close enough)

Now there was this unwritten rule about my apartment building: whatever you didn’t want you would leave on the bench in the hall. This was how I managed to snag some cool items like a stack of LPs and an H&M sweater. But could I really leave Giant Bowie Face in the hallway? In my hallway? I know it sounds ridiculous but I felt like it was just saying, “HEY EVERYONE I JUST GOT OUT OF A BAD RELATIONSHIP AND I’M WEIRD. WHY ELSE WOULD I BE HERE IN YOUR HALLWAY?”

My BFF was helping me move and she had no suggestions for disposing of Giant Bowie Face. I just couldn’t leave it in my hallway. It was saying too much. So I devised a plan. “We are going to drag GBF into the elevator, hit a random button, and leave him in the hallway of that floor.” And my friend actually agreed that this was a genius idea.

So we dragged GBF into the elevator and prayed to God that no one else would get in. Now at the time two friends of mine also lived in this building and so I couldn’t choose their floors. But for some reason I also decied that this meant I couldn’t choose the floors immediately above or below them. This left us fewer options.

“Why not the top floor?” my friend suggested.
“The top floor? THAT’S THE FIRST PLACE THEY’LL LOOK,” I screeched.
“Who?”
“I DON’T KNOW. You pick a floor.”
“Ok, how about eleven?”
“ELEVEN? BUT THAT’S THE FLOOR RIGHT BELOW MINE.”
“So?”
“So they’ll figure out it was ME.”
“How??”
“I DON’T KNOW. PEOPLE TALK.”
“What people?”

FINALLY, we got out on a floor, I don’t remember which one. She checked to make sure that no one was in the hallway and we dashed out with GFB, dumped him on the bench and shot back into the elevator like we were having that classic high school dream where we’re naked in the halls.

The last thing I remember before hitting the button is seeing this giant, angry David Bowie face staring back at me, and wondering what poor soul was going to have the shit scared out of them once they got out on their floor.

And then I laughed. And couldn’t stop.

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STARS IN MY EYES

Mar

2009

I’m going to be in a movie that stars Steve Buscemi and Sam Rockwell and Peter Dinklage. Yes, in case you couldn’t tell, it’s an Indie movie. My part is small — I play a waitress — but I am very excited. Not so exciting? I have to wear a catsuit (Apparently I am a sexy waitress).

BUSCEMI.

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Is Mick Jagger my real dad?

Mar

2009

I don’t want to overwhelm anyone but I have lots of evidence that Mick Jagger might be my real father. The evidence being photos. And faith. Because you gotta have faith. Faith-a-faith-a-faith-faith. Besides, I don’t need evidence. The evidence is in my heart. And in the music.

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