Friday, December 30, 2011

Shit Hollywood Girls Say

Published 12/30/2011

So unless you’re some internet deprived weirdo, you’ve probably seen Shit Girls Say by now. These little morsels of comic genius have already spawned parodies such as Shit Black Girls Say and Shit Gay Guys Say.  In keeping with the time-honored Hollywood tradition of being completely derivative and creatively flaccid, I give you Shit Hollywood Girls Say .  I challenge you to find the majority of these phrases outside of the Thirty Mile Zone.
                                                           Shit Hollywood Girls Say

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Twas the Night Before Hanukkah…Because Openly Celebrating Christmas in Hollywood is Damn Near Offensive

Published 12/19/2011

If you haven’t been living under a rock and/or you’ve watched at least one episode of Entourage or Curb Your Enthusiasm, then you know that Hollywood is run by the children of Israel. Don’t get angry or offended, it’s just a fact and the sooner you realize that being one of the chosen is the way to go, the better. Besides, in this liberal climate where practicing every religion except Christianity is accepted and encouraged, Christmas has become passé at best.  Jesus is not politically correct guys! So pull up a chair Jews and goys alike because I’ve got a Christmas Chanukah story for you:

Twas the night before  Hanukkah and all through Hollywood,
studio execs wondered if their box office numbers were good.
The Oscar buzz had started  but they only wanted to see,
if real acting would ever come from the cast of Glee.
The ICM Holiday party had gone off with a smash,
and agents hoped that the near implosion was a thing of the past.
The “professionals” at UTA admired their sparkling new logo,
while failing to answer the phone in client info.
Poor assistants and interns consoled themselves with cheap beer,
while Ari Emanuel counted his ridonkulous money with cheer.
As I weaved through the 101 I had such a fright,
before realizing it was the newly skinny Jonah Hill, what a sight!
I perused the Blacklist but what did I see,
every script already attached and repped- this looks fishy to me.
I texted a daughter of Abraham to find out where to purchase chocolate gelt
and delivered them for my boss’ kids before they should melt.
Nikki Finke had hung her snarky stockings with care,
and Kim K’s waxed her newly-divorced body hair.
Not a sleigh did I see but a TMZ tour bus instead,
and I tried to erase Lilo’s Playboy shoot from my head.
I raced to the Whitney set to do my background work for the night,
Wishing Happy Hanukkah to all, and to all a good (eight) nights!











Sunday, December 18, 2011

My, How Eager You Look…

Published 12/18/2011
In most career fields eagerness is a good sign. It means you’re ready to hit the ground running, you have fresh ideas to contribute and you’re dedicated to your profession. In Hollywood however, eagerness is the kiss of death, one because fresh ideas are frowned upon, but mostly  because the only people in LA bubbling with optimism are the blissfully ignorant transplants who’ve been here less than a week and have yet to have their souls crushed. They probably spent weeks on end watching Fame until finally deciding to escape whatever dismal flyover state they were living in. Unfortunately,  they had no way of knowing that their hopeful expressions are the very thing that people who are successful, or unsuccessful and therefore exceedingly bitter, will spot as a sign of their west coast naiveté, and  avoid them like the plague. The best way to fit in around here is to look, or actually be very jaded and even more blahze. Remember kids, no matter what time of day  it is, it’s always way, way too early for all  your enthusiasm.
I recently attended the @tempdiaries holiday substitute party at Bar Lubitsch and I planned to network like the dickens. Surely in a gathering of those who are similarly plagued with low level jobs I would find someone who understands my struggle as a broke-ass writer and be moved to all but force their boss to read, option and greenlight  one of my masterfully written screenplays. Good plan right? Nope. Everybody there was way too nice, they were smiling, and they were  eager. The problem is that a party for assistants is well, a party full of assistants. Assistants have no power and their bosses (decision makers and people with money) will definitely not be at a gathering of this nature. So guess who’s  still eating cereal multiple times a day and not flying off to Milan just for the hell of it?
As for Bar Lubitsch on the other hand, I was quite pleased. The space was ample, I found a meter and the comedy was comedic.  After the jokesters left the stage there was a dance party of sorts- I say of sorts because I’m assuming that what was going on in the area designated as a dance floor was in fact dancing. There was a charming young lady who very much resembled Mel from Flight of the Conchords and watching her was like seeing every drunk bridesmaid, awkward cousin and grandmother from every wedding reception I’ve ever been to, rolled into one. It was priceless.
EVENING SCORECARD:
Venue: 4
Alcohol Situation: 4
Actual Beneficial Networking Achieved:0(I did not discover the identity of Temp X, so fail)
Personal Victory/Dignity Retained: 5
Atmosphere: 3

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Get. Some. Friends. Seriously

Published 12/10/2011

Well 2012 draws closer and I still have yet to sell a script, I haven’t gotten a new development job, I haven’t managed to derail the relationship of Ryan Gosling and Eva Mendes and subsequently marry Ryan Gosling, and I am as yet not a go-go dancer. (Incidentally, a few people close to me have strongly advised against that, saying that “a go-go dancer is just a stripper with no balls” and they’ve  thoughtfully suggested that I try porn instead. Anywho, As I have yet to realize the Hollywood dream of becoming rich, adopting a foreign baby and checking into rehab, I must continue my ill-fated attempts to network. Sigh.
It’s Saturday and as per usual I have tried to convince several people to venture out into the world with me, but as per usual I was unsuccessful. I would muster up some of my usually endless don’t-give-a-fuckitness, but today it’s just too damn cold. Lonely I can do, but cold and lonely together- uh uh.  I even considered going out in “downtown” Burbank because it’s close, but one and a half streets of scattered bars does not a nightlife scene make. A friend and I explored this so-called downtown area  once and we both felt like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. I mean people were wearing cutoff denim and flipflops! At night! It was disturbing in a way that only a place that appears to cling to Midwestern values can be. Needless to say I ruled that out, and then another option occurred to me: I could go to a party in the hills! That would be a great idea, had I any influential friends or associates who had houses in the hills in which to have parties.
One of the last house parties I went to was costume themed, and I remember leaving my house in my high school cheerleading outfit with a bottle of wine in my hand. That sounds like the beginning of a bad Lifetime movie doesn’t it, but unfortunately for me, no lecherous older man (producer) made any untoward advances towards me. Just as in life, there are many important milestones in a girl’s life in Hollywood: the first time you curse out a tourist, the first time a stranger offers you illicit drugs in a bathroom, the first time you catch yourself driving like an asshole and realize you belong in LA, and the first time someone in the industry suggests you trade sex for career advancement. I have yet to receive that offer, not that I would take it, but I’d at least like the chance to say that “so-and-so told me that if I slept with him he would shoot my pilot,” so that I could then say “ of course I said no!” Because everyone knows that integrity is more important than getting rich by sleazy means in Hollywood… okay, it’s really, really not.
So in the absence of friends willing to leave the house, and friends with house parties that may see the likes of Bryan Lourd, Kevin Huvane, Ari Emanuel, or anyone who looks like they could have inspired one of the characters in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang I decided to stay home and be productive. Re-watching Nine and rewinding every scene to learn the choreography is productive, right? (Who does that? Am I in ninth grade?) Okay so maybe this evening is not going to get any of my scripts sold, but by the morning I will know all the steps to Cinema Italiano, though Fellini will be turning in his grave. #failing
EVENING SCORECARD:
Venue: 5 (Well I live here so, I guess..)
Alcohol Situation: 3 ( I think there’s some leftover Strawberry Smirnoff in my freezer and there’s bound to be a bottle of Two Buck Chuck around here somewhere.)
Actual Beneficial Networking Achieved:0 ( Does talking to my neighbor count?)
Personal Victory/Dignity Retained: 1.5 (I’m mimicking Kate Hudson’s dance steps as we speak. Do you  really have to ask?)
Atmosphere: #meh (I should really buy a space heater.)

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Go-go Dancing Always Leads to Doing Coke…

Published 12/2/2011
Apparently this is something that my coworkers at my loathsome real job are aware of. In an effort to get out of the valley before the end of the year, I’ve been considering career options that range from morally reprehensible to outright illegal. Since my plan to be famous in 365 days or less has failed miserably and jobs involving my degree are scarce, I’m determined to get involved in some sort of money making venture so I can stop pretending that I like doing things like getting gas twenty dollars at a time and going to matinees at 10:35 in the morning.
After considering human trafficking (I’m not okay with selling children, adults maybe…), stripping (I am not built like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, or even her friend who could skate, but not that well), dealing some sort of illegal drugs (anyone who knows me can tell you that I would get caught immediately), and smuggling immigrants across the border (my Spanish eh, not so good), I’ve decided that becoming a  go-go dancer is the logical choice. Why is that, you ask? Not only have I cornered the heroin-chic-look-without-doing-heroin market, I’m a pretty decent dancer. Not a great enough dancer to put dancing on my acting resume, or great enough to audition for one of those corny tales of urban youth achieving their way out of the ‘hood, but good enough that were I four inches taller and equipped with a good lacefront wig and a miracle bra, I might actually book a music video.
The first time I went to a Hollywood club and saw go-go dancers I laughed out loud, rolled my eyes and thought  this dumb bitch…  I mean who dances in lingerie, or spandex depending on where you are, around a pole but not on the pole and doesn’t actually strip? In my mind go-go dancing was the biggest tease and waste of time because it’s like the junior college of stripping before you can get your hoe Ph.D and become a full-fledged hooker or something. Anywho, after a year of not getting booked for anything with my clothes on, I started to justify… they don’t take all of their clothes off, I thought.
 And somewhere in the back of my mind I was secretly hoping that if I embarked upon this questionable career path, one day I would be climbing off a stage, counting sweaty ones that some douchey USC grad had shoved into some part of the unfortunate and scant costume that I would no doubt be wearing, and would run into a kindhearted development exec who would look me in the eye and just know, that behind the unsanitary handprints on my boobs and my smeared mascara lies a great writer who should be taken seriously. Then this exec would not try to sleep with me, but instead set up a general and option 1 or 3 of my scripts. Okay so I’ve watched Pretty Woman too much, but I swear there is a Richard Gere type of guy out there and I am going to find him!
In case you’re wondering, I have yet to audition for one of these gigs because I just fear that it wouldn’t end well, but also because I shared this plan with my previously mentioned coworkers and they seemed to think it was a bad idea. One said that go-go dancing would lead to me becoming a cokehead once the hours started to get to me. Or I could just drink a Red Bull maybe, but what do I know? Another looked at me and said “You don’t have it in you. I can look at a girl and tell how slutty she is and I just don’t think you can do it.” Uh, thanks?  In defense of go-go dancers everywhere, the ones at Drai’s were actually pretty clothed and they weren’t gyrating with sleazy “producers.” FYI, reading a book and wanting to maybe hire someone to adapt it does not automatically make you a producer, Mr.-Dude- in-your-40s-Leasing-an-S-Class- Living-Off-the-Glory-Days- When-You-Were- a-2nd AD-for-a-Disney-Channel-Movie. Still, I’d like to have a career that couldn’t so accurately and euphemistically be described as smarmy.  Sigh.
While there is no go-go dancing in my immediate future, I can’t promise that it won’t happen someday and for that I apologize in advance. I only ask that if you should run into me and I am writhing on a stage with 75 percent of my body exposed that you not laugh, and no I will not give you change.