the slack daily

Technical Difficulties.

I woke up this morning at 5:03am to the sound of the coffeepot gurgling; I don't always remember to set the timer the mornings that I have to be at the gym at 5:30am, but the days that I do I am incredibly pleased with my amount of forethought.

However, that forethought didn't include coffee.  Whoops.

Later in the morning,  I received an email from Amazon to let me know that  Madden '09 marks twenty years of Madden NFL Football.

Nine years ago, Older SlackBrother J. purchased Madden NFL as well as a Playstation for Christmas for young slackbrother j.  However, we decided to take it for a test run before we flew it from Los Angeles to Chicago - y'know, jusy to make sure it worked -  so we carefully opened the box, set up the system, and awaited Madden glory.

Twenty minutes later we were still figuring out how to get to  the Team Selection Screen before we finally gave up, repacked the contents, and sent the console and game along to its intended recipient.

Madden NFL: making me feel old...again and again.

In happier news:

We have more flatmistress sightings.  I am on tour!

The rest of the set here, taken by the ever-fabulous Piglet!

...while reader and artist Rick takes it in a Shepard Fairey direction:

The clearest my skin will ever look.  The  rest of the set here.

Secrets and Lies.

Where the hell have I been? 

I have not been working on super-sekrit plans or on the lam from the mob or even traveling the world like my fauxbo neighbors.  I've been working.

Good, right?

Not really.

Last Tuesday night, in-between answering emails for one job and making phone calls for another and reminding myself that each extra second I was awake shaved another minute of sleep as I had to be up to work at the gym at 4:45am, I started to wonder when the last time I worked on a piece of writing.  Not a slack daily post, not a rumination on nerd-boy dating, not 140 characters in a row, but an actual piece of writing.  The outline for the book.  The rewrite on the script.  The new animated series.  Something that actually had to do with, y'know, the thing that I supposedly do, but hadn't done in...gulp.

But what was my choice, really?  I needed to stay on top of bills and we needed to do things like, y'know, eat.  I put this thought on repeat and let my brain do the rest of the work. Five minutes later I was in front of Will.

I need to quit one of my jobs, I told him.

So quit.

But then we can't pay bills.

But we'll figure it out, he promised me.

On the surface, all of the jobs are perfect part-time jobs - except the gym, although it's relatively easy and comes with the bonus of a free membership. I could cut down on my gym hours, work maybe once a week...

So do that.

I don't know, that's eighty dollars less a week.

And that's when it hit me.

I was being held hostage by eighty dollars a week.

Everyone has their own version of what failure feels like.  To me, it was to be held hostage by eighty dollars a week.  But the more i thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't that at all, but the idea that I half-assing it.  I had become the thing that I hate the most - the writer who doesn't write, the person with a goal who doesn't actually pursue it.

Will had said in our last chat that the one thing he wants is a quiet, anonymous, happy life.  I don't disagree, but I'd like that life to include things like creative endeavors, the ability to travel see our families more than once a year and a house, and actual house with a yard and electrical outlets and kitchen counters that aren't made of wood and no crazy packrat landlady and a parcel of fauxbos in the front yard.

So I'm using that eight dollars, that small parcel of financial breathing room to purchase myself some creative breathing room.  

What's the point of running the rat race if there's not a piece of cheese at the end?

Note:
Fauxbos = fake hobos, coined by BetheMarriage LIVE! viewer Ike.

I was looking for YouTube videos of hamsters running around in those ball things (or the American Gladiators in the Atlasphere) and came across this.  Enjoy!

An Ode to My Car.

I love my car. I don't LOVE my car - I don't suffer from mechaphilia and you can't find me humping the hood a la Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video (or at least you can't prove it.) But I love my car.

I also secretly think this makes me an asshole.

It's been no secret that times have been tough.  Even before the Detective Agency, gigs were getting harder to find and magic green envelopes (containing Lizzie McGuire and Romeo! residuals) were arriving in my mailbox less frequently. Thankfully I was able to secure a few animated projects to get the bills paid, but the downside of that is that a lot of animation isn't covered by the Writers' Guild (although they want to - companies just aren't willing to pay Guild residuals and pension and health benefits.  See the most recent result here.)  About 18 months ago, everything came to a screeching halt and I started picking up any sort of non-writing gigs I could in order to pay the bills.

Alas, I discovered that I wasn't the only person dealing with the fickle hand of economic fate, as temp agencies were packed to the gills and those part-time jobs that Los Angeles seems to manufacture also had a waiting list.  An ex-boyfriend once called me lazy.  (He also told me I was fat, but that's another post altogether.)  I don't think he truly understood that my lack of results meant that I lacked effort.  I've managed to scrape together an odd amalgamation of jobs while keeping my finger in the TV-writing pie and trying to launch a new blog (so, so lax on this one) or two (much, much better at this.)

Falling a few notches down the food chain has been an interesting experience, and not as terrible as you'd think.  That's not to say that I hate money.  Or success.  Or that I'm not busting my hump every day trying to further my - and our - lot in life (as every friend and family member who gets the weekly one-line email I love you and I'm thinking of your but I am busy as hell and not ignoring you je promis!)  But it's also taught me that there's plenty of stuff I can live without. 

Except for my car.

In my darkest times, I've considered selling it.  It's a conversation piece.  Total strangers take pictures of it.  The gym isn't far and maybe biking to work at 5:00am isn't as scary as I think it'll be.  It's just a thing, a possession.  It doesn't define me or who I am.

Except that it does, a little bit.  One could consider it part of the Slackmistress Brand.  The car is an anti-depressant, like the prozac of the automobile industry.  Strangers wave to me on the street.  Little kids stand open-mouthed as I drive by.  It would make Angelyne jealous.  Not to mention that it'll be paid off in a few months, gets good gas mileage, and isn't an arm and a leg to insure.

So I love my car.  I'm pretty sure that makes me an asshole.  I'll live.

Related topics: The 5! Workin' Blue.

Who Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

My friend Carla and I always said that once we hit 65, we were retiring to Florida and bagging groceries at adjoining registers at the Piggly-Wiggly.  It was between that and wearing a turban, drinking martinis by the pool and banging the pool boy.

Now that I'm married, so the pool boy scenario is out.  The Piggly Wiggly is still a strong prospect, as is the Slackmistress' Home for Elderly Pit Bulls.  Maybe somewhere in there Will and I will become the couple at the ballpark who shakes their angry fist at those damned kids while gumming our shared bag of peanuts.

Today I had my first eye exam in four years so they insisted on dilating my pupils*.   I forgot my sunglasses, so I had to rock the little old lady sunglasses for the way home.

The Ghost of Christmas Future:

Part Roy Orbison, part Whatever-Happened-to-Baby-Jane?

What kind of old person d'you want to be?

*Check out the email I sent Will from my Blackberry here.  And please use the term "afterboob" at least once today. 

Being Genuine is the New Irony.

My husband has a saying, and that's Being Genuine is the New Irony.  We invoke it when we encounter hipster douchebags, people who think that they're cooler/better/awesomer (okay that's not even a word)/funnier/savvier/worldier/just plain better than everyone else because of the cocktails they drink, the concerts they attend, the new media people they know, the guest lists they're on, the places they hang out or the fact that they got a table AND got served during rush hour brunch at Doughboys.  And of course we mean Irony in the most unironic sense, because even irony ain't what it used to be.

Last Saturday saw Will and I heading out to West Los Angeles to the Skirball Museum.  I was taking him to see Bob Dylan's American Journey, where not only do you get to see part-and-parcel of Dylan's life but you even get to sit in with his band.  We watched movies and played drums and  generally Bob Dylan'd ourselves out.  As we trekked over to the opposite side of the museum to grab a late lunch, we passed a sign for an exhibit about balloon hats.   I caught a snippet of the sign as I passed by. 

BALLOON HAT EXPERIENCE? I said to Will.  I gotta get a photo of this.

Like a hipster douchebag, I took a photo and chuckled smugly to Will.  I told him we just had to go in to see the ludicrousness of the "balloon hat experience."

I walked into the brightly lit room and saw the first photo and I couldn't catch my breath. Have you ever read the phrase overcome by emotion?  There were photos from Kosovo, photos from Rwanda, photos from Nigeria.  There were photos from New Orleans and photos from Oklahoma.  There were photos taken amidst poverty and tragedy, photos of old people and photos of children, and they were all smiling.

Laughing.

While wearing balloon hats.

It was real and it was pure and it was joy, and it was mostly in places where you wouldn't expect joy to exist, much less survive.

I react to art in a visceral way, but I've never had the experience of walking into something fully prepared to make fun of it and been knocked flat on my ass in mere seconds.   Had I been alone, I would have just let the tears leak down my cheeks but I choked them back, shaking my head over and over, repeating this is amazing. 

It was a small moment in a series of moments in my life where I am forced to remind myself that I am lucky - and every one of you who is reading this right now, YOU are lucky.  For the most part, we live in a world of our own creation. We have a roofs over our head and food in our bellies and opportunities at our fingertips if we just reach out and grab it.  We have families and if we don't have families we have friends and if you don't have friends you've got people in this electronic universe who care about you.

How amazing is that?

And for me, that's the balloon hat experience.


The Inflatable Crown runs until April 6th, 2008 at the Skirball.   

Ctrl-Alt-Delete

It's not often that I stare at a blank screen and have no idea what to say.  My brain is always working a million miles an hour, to the point where I almost find it easier to communicate online because I have a chance to organize my thoughts in some sort of coherent fashion rather than my Lovechild of Kathy Griffin and Betty Boop with a Meth Problem RL manner. 

My subconscious is hotwired to not miss a single opportunity (another reality of freelance life.)  I'm forever busy trying to spread my creative capital as far and as wide as I can manage.  The new site has launched and I'm thrilled about the reception it's gotten.  Whatever free time I had left is going into writing and organizing and researching and participating in the punishing physical component as well.  I now communicate with Will through the occasional email, as I'm leaving before he wakes up and he chains himself to the computer when he gets home (working on his own pet project, which is a Good Thing.)  These are all positive steps, necessary steps to complete the goals we've set for ourselves, but the reality is we're trying to carve out moments of time that were already dwindling at an alarming rate. 

When I first moved to Los Angeles in 1995, I ran the gamut of Assistant Jobs.  I worked in the mailroom at UTA, for a VP of Development at TriStar,  as an Agent's Assistant at ICM during staffing season.  I worked 100-hour weeks, getting to the office when it was still dark and leaving long after dusk.  I socialized with friends by calling for takeout at Kate Mantilini and having them pick it up and bring it and a couple of beers so we could have dinner at my desk.  Then I'd go home, walk Thurber, and work on a spec, fall asleep in my clothes and wake up and do it again.  Saturday and Sundays differentiated themselves by days I didn't have to be in the office until 10am.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I don't know how I did it back then.  Is it the difference between 20 and 30?  Is it because I now have 4792384239 projects rather than one or two?  Is it the fact that at 22, my future was infinite and at 35, the horizon has an definite end?   Is it because I know exactly how my husband feels when he writes about being disconnected? Is it because I'm catching a cold so I just feel run down and a little bit lousy?

Sometimes I think I'm so busy trying to suck the marrow out of each experience that I end up in a sort of sensory overload.  I need a manual reboot. 

I'll still be training and updating The Post-Apocalyptic Workout.  But give me a couple of days here, mmmkay? 

Mile 25

A couple of years ago, a woman I knew said to me:

You're lucky. It's so easy for you to be a writer.

I wondered to myself which part was lucky?  The part where I sat in front of a blank screen, praying silently for words to come out of my head, or at least my fingers, willing them to type in some sensical format that might result in a script?  The part where I read back over what I had written, cursing loudly at what I had chosen to do with my life?  (Which resulted in the part where my neighbors thought I had Tourette's.)  Was it the part that resulted in months, sometimes years between jobs? 

Ryan over at the CDP asked me a couple of weeks ago about writing for a living and did I still enjoy it?  I responded:

The reality of being a writer means sitting down at a computer to earn food, rent money, and a car payment. It's not exactly romantic.

Writing for a living is really that: doing it for a living. You have to take notes that you don't like, listen to non-writers discuss your work and depend on them to see the genius - or the flaws, because good notes are worth their weight in gold.   

Writing is heartbreaking and frustrating and demoralizing. You don't get a lot of writing for fun, because you always have to look at each project as "can I sell this?" because, well, that's your job. However, what you can and can't sell, that's even up for debate.  I was once told by my Manager that my script sucked because it was "a quirky indie feature" and that "no actress will dye her hair blue" and to "rewrite it for Ashton Kutcher."  Except that then the market changes. And changes.  And changes.

Considering that I'm stupidly responsible, this is a pretty odd career choice.  It's a constant gamble, and for awhile now, I've been on the losing end of the bet.  This year I'm trying to focus on specific goals in order to perform CPR my career, all of which are outlined here. 

I've been thinking about it, thinking about how I've gone from making nothing to making a good living writing to making nothing again.  The constants I have are the work and the feeling of abject terror.  But I think that doing things that scare you is a good thing.   I imagine it's a lot like being a marathoner.  You do it because well, you run.  You're a runner.  It's what you love to do, it's part of who you are.  But mile 25?   It's always a bitch. 

 

Resolute.

I imagine I'm supposed to use this space to tell you all about the New and Fabulous Things I Will Do in 2008.  Except that many years ago, my only resolution was to Make Resolutions That I Could Keep.  Floss Daily was the only item on that list, and I'm proud to say that I've kept it.  Well, mostly.

But looking back on last year, on personal triumphs (hey! I got married!  He's made of awesome!) and professional failures (hey! I had no writing work!  I pick up sweaty towels for a living!) as well as financial feats of strength (hey! I've managed to cut down my debt while making $300 a week!  I am a fiduciary Rock Star!) If I did one of those end-of-the-year memes it would tell you that I am thinner.  And poorer.  And happier.  (The last one is the only one that counts.)

So while I am not a fan of resolutions, I am a fan of GOALS.  And MAKING LISTS.  And to that effect, I think that it's time to dust of Ye Olde Resolution Maker and crank out a few of my very own.

1. Write the damned book already.  I have piles and piles and piled of notes and scribbling on cocktail napkins and character studies on index cards that I have accumulated over the past SIX YEARS on what I guess would be termed a "young adult" or "tween" novel.  Seeing as how the only thing I'm professionally known for is writing in the tween genre, I could probably get someone to look at this.  Provided, y'know, I write it.

2. Finish the magic screenplay.  My friend S. calls this the "Theoretical Oscar Winner."  When you write professionally, you have Agents and Managers and such who instruct at you to only write things in the world that you're known in, because those are the things you have a chance at selling.  Or, as was once kindly explained to me by my Manager when I pitched an idea that I wanted to take somewheres, don't bother, your name means nothing there.  Now that I'm making nothing, I really have nothing to lose.  However, I do need to invest in a library card and get the research wheels a-spinning.

3. Roll out the new blog.  I am not replacing the slack daily, but I am adding a new blog to the mix.  More on this as I finish up the design and get all my internet ducks in a row.  Yes, this is an actual blog about something.

Yes, three goals and they're all about writing.  Sure, I could be a better person and reduce my carbon footprint and adopt an orphan and wish well upon those who hate me, but screw it, there's only so much time in the day.  And I still gotta floss.

Happy Assface Day!

Last night at the gym, me and a late-50-something client:

Client:  Merry-- I mean Happy-- I mean...oh, dammit.

Me: Don't worry, I'm a Merry Christmas who can totally pass as a Happy Hanukkah.

Client: Isn't it funny that you can insult someone by just trying to wish them well?

Me:   I try to look at the intention. If you say 'Happy Assface Day' to me in a kind tone, I'll take it.

Client: Well Happy Assface Day then!  I think I'm going to adopt that from now on.

...

My earliest memories of Christmas are my parents arguing while they assembled the fake Christmas tree.   For some reason their harsh tone didn't worry my wee toddler brain, but reminded me that there were a whole host of fabulous, forbidden adult words to learn from an overworked and overtired parent. 

Every year, along with bubble lights and gold-flecked elves with crazy eyes that seemed to follow you around the room, SlackMom would haul out the brand-new JCPenney catalog for Older SlackBrother J. and I to peruse.  We were supposed to put our initials next to anything that caught our eye. 

Of course we wouldn't get all of these things, but it was just to give Santa - the same Santa who preferred a salami sandwich and a beer to cookies and milk - an idea of what we wanted.  I happily complied, scribbling my shaky NB across Barbie Dream Homes and Mickey Mouse Phones until one day I stumbled across the Valhalla of Holiday goodness: Neiman Marcus Christmas Book. 

SlackMom had a Neiman Marcus credit card. She didn't use it mind you, except for small purchases, things that you could buy for the same price anywhere else, except that it was Neiman Marcus.  She would explain to me as we walked through the heavy glass doors into the perfumed interior, that it was a way to feel like a million bucks without spending it.  Like a 1970s Holly Golightly marching into Tiffany's to get her Cracker Jack ring engraved. 

But at six years old, once I saw that list of polo ponies and life-sized Barbie cars, I knew I had found my One True Catalog.  After that year, mom started hiding the catalog.  After I tore the house apart to find it, she requested it not be sent altogether.

I've had a few of those get-everything-you-want Christmases.  When work was steady and the paychecks were constant, I went a little bit overboard every year.  The house was decorated and dozens of cookies were baked and parties were thrown and lavish gifts were exchanged.  I don't live like that anymore, and minus my big white fake Christmas tree, I don't miss it all that much.   Having been on both sides of the money equation, I can say for certain that money makes things easier.  But it doesn't really make things better.  Or happier.

But to be honest, I really wish I didn't have to work next week.  And from reading out there in blogland, there's a whole bunch of you that feel the same way.  I no longer want polo ponies or jewelry or life-sized Barbie cars (although you might say I already own the last one.) What I want for Christmas is to sleep late, eat breakfast with my husband, and have a few uninterrupted hours where we don't have to do anything but eat cookies and read books and watch TV.   If the house could somehow become magically clean in the process, I'd be in heaven.

...

Call Guinness:

I had to jet over to Target today to pick up a gift card for our cleaning woman at work.  Yes, Target.  Five days before Christmas.  Time elapsed from the moment I stepped out the door to walk to my car and then moment I crossed the threshold to my apartment?  Forty-five minutes.  I rule.

Faith.

A honk and a screech of tires against the street outside makes me think that someone's driving a getaway car.  I'd say I hope that they're getting away from something good, but that would defeat the purpose of getting away.

Speaking of getting away, it's being reported that Diablo Cody and her husband Jonny split up.  Supposedly journalists first took notice that her "Jonny's Girl" tattoo was missing, as apparently we now catalog the inkwork of press darlings.  I'd say that such people have way too much time on their hands, but then again, I have a blog.

Upon finding out about the breakup, Will said to me

Are you going to break up with me when you become successful?

I looked at him.  Baby, please.  What're the chances of that happening?

Tomás and I discussed the ups and downs of this business while we picketed today, how it can be - hell, it is -  incredibly difficult to stay upbeat and open maintain creative energy and focus when times are tough.  Regardless of whether or not you believe in any higher power, faith is something you need in this business. Faith in yourself, faith in your ability to persevere, faith in your talent.  The one thing I tell anyone who wants to be an actor or a director or a writer is that you can be amazing and talented and work your ass off and never get a shot.  Or you can get a shot and do amazing things and then never get another shot.  You just never know how it's going to work out.

Will and I just celebrated our seven month wedding anniversary.  Which came a few weeks after our one-year anniversary of dating, which came a few weeks after our one-year anniversary of meeting.  We like to keep track of these things, because it's a source of endless amusement.

Longtime readers know that professionally, things have been incredibly rough for the past three or so years.  Add to that a big breakup and a move and, well, faith had been in short supply 'round these parts for a good long time.

Talking to Tomás reminded me about this, reminded me that I'm not the only one who feels this way, and that I'm not the only one who's hit a rough patch.  Things with Will haven't totally been a cakewalk, and while lately my time is short and I imagine my patience is shorter, he reminds me to have faith.  Not just in us, but in myself.

Things have been tough.  It's not that they've gotten any easier.  To be honest, with the demands on my time and my energy, going from 4:45am 'til midnight some days, it's actually been tougher.  I am exhausted, the apartment is filthy, I survive off sandwiches made by a wonderful wife of a Teamster and cookies baked by the Strike Captain's wife that are brought to the picket line.  I haven't gotten any proper exercise in ages, minus the eight-to-twelve hours I'm on my feet.  Our finances dictate that there will be no Christmas gifts exchanged this year.  I should be miserable.  I should feel worse.  But for the first time in ages, I finally have faith that it's gonna be okay.

...

Blogger night is back on, although we don't have a room reserved or anything of the sort.  Will and I will be at Bar Lubitsch at 8pm this Monday, December 17th if any blogfolk want to meet up.  If you don't see us in the front room, make sure to check out the back (there's a room behind the bathrooms.) I'll send around an email to those who were interested...