This Saturday, February 4th at 8:30pm, How to Rock premieres on Nickelodeon!
But that’s not all…right after the premiere you get a bonus episode of How to Rock, “How to Rock a Messy Bet” written by me!
So tune in this Saturday! Check your local listings for details.
(Click to embiggen.)
Woke up at 4:50am.
On the road to Santa Monica by 5:20am.
Three blocks away from the preferred parking (which I shelled out an extra $20 for) at 6:10am.
The half-marathon was supposed to begin at 7:00am.
We were told that preferred parking was going to close at 6:30am. We had 20 minutes to go three blocks. Will had to pee so I let him out and told him I'd meet him at the starting line.
At 6:48am I reached preferred parking. I was told by the race official that it was closed. We were dead-ended at the beach, so I asked him where else I could find parking. "On South Venice" he told me and then waves me away. There was a line of cars behind me who were about to be told the same thing.
I turned down an alley and grabbed my phone. I didn't know where South Venice was - I don't go to Venice. A car behind me honked and I realized the entire traffic jam was coming my way.
At 6:58am I was two miles from the starting line with no place to park. The lots were either full or unattended, the street parking filled up with the extra 2,500 people who were running the race that morning.
At 7:05am, I finally parked - a half a mile from the starting line.
I texted Will. "I don't think I'm going to make it." There weren't any other racers around me, I was stranded and the race had begun five minutes ago.
I admit: I started to cry. I had trained and gotten up early and because of parking - something that I had planned for by getting there with plenty of time and paying extra for preferred parking - and it didn't look like it was gonna happen.
"They haven't started yet," Will texted back. "I can not run," he continued.
"No, go," I texted back. "I'll figure it out."
I sprinted toward the starting line (.63 miles I learned later) and got there just as the horn was going off. I ran straight into the corral of runners and began my 13.1 miles out of breath, frazzled, and really having to pee.
I used the facilities (aka, race porta-potties, aka gross central) at Mile 2. Relieved (in more ways than one) I just decided that while my goal was to come in under three hours (I was hoping to run an average of a 13-minute mile) I would be happy just to finish.
I ran the first four miles, then walked through the water/electrolyte station.
At Mile 6 my back seized up. I started to run/walk.
At Mile 8 my feet started to hurt.
At Mile 10 I told myself "now you just have a 5k to finish."
At Mile 12 I restarted my playlist, because I was pretty sure that I would hit the Dirtbombs "Wreck My Flow" which would take me to the finish line. If the Dirtbombs don't make you want to move, then there's something wrong with you.
At Mile 12.5 I realized that I was going to hit the song early. I unhooked my iPod.
At Mile 13 I saw Will.
I finished at 2:45:10 - a full 15 minutes better than I thought I would.
I still don't consider myself a runner. I don't particularly like it, but I appreciate the lesson. Place one foot in front of the other. Remind yourself not to worry about however many miles lie ahead, but just the next step.
The Dirtbombs "Wreck My Flow"
In the late 70s, George Burns starred in Oh God and Oh God, Book II. The movies were in a constant loop on cable a summer later. My brother Jeremy and I watched them over and over (and over and over) until we could recite them from memory. One day, my mom had had enough.
It wasn't that we were spending our summer inside, planted on a scratchy wool cushions of the sofa and slurping back Pepsi Lights, but that George Burns was so much more than what we were seeing.
That evening she took us out for our favorite candy (chocolate covered raisins for me, something gummy-ike for Jer, I think) and then we crowded around the glow of the TV for the "Burns and Allen Show." During commerical breaks Mom told us about Gracie Allen and George Burns rose through the ranks of vaudeville, then radio, then television.
It was in black and white and it looked old even on our new TV, but I remember being so awed at the fact that something that was written so long ago could still make me laugh and Gracie Allen was probably the first truly funny woman I had ever seen.
Later that year, our 4th grade teacher at Ben Franklin School (Mrs. Keen?) taught us how to write formal letters. The assignment was to pick people you looked up to, and ask them for an autographed picture. She would take care of sending the letters off.
The year was 1982, and most kids chose to write the cast of Star Wars.
My mom told me that Gracie Allen died before I was born, so I chose to write to George Burns.
Over the next few months, letters would come back in care of Ben Franklin School. Autographed photos of Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher. And then one day, an envelope came for me.
I forgot about the letter until yesterday, when a package arrived on my doorstep from SlackMom.
Dear Nina
Thank you for the nice letter. I'm just sorry I couldn't get around to answering it sooner. I'm very honored that you chose me. I thought a letter would be nicer than a picture.
It's nice to know that today, kids still look up to someone. It's a nice feeling. I had my heroes when I was young. Abe Lincoln. Thomas Jefferson. I knew Jefferson personally. That's a joke.
I'm not really that old. I'm older. Anyway, sweetie, stay happy and healthy.
Love
George Burns
He sent it from Hollywood Center Studios Which is not far from where I spend my days writing comedy now.
Thank you, Mr. Burns. And goodnight, Gracie.*
*Lizzie McGuire won a Gracie Allen Award for comedy in 2003. How cool is that?
Slackmistress, circa 2004
I just looked at this photo of myself, pulled from the depths of a nearly-dead computer that was sent out to pasture, and thought I don't look half bad with short hair. Maybe I could keep the front short, and just grow out the back.
Then I realized I invented the mullet.
It starts with finding the door.
A few weeks ago, Will scored a reservation to Disneyland's uber-exclusive Club 33. At first I thought it was a joke. I wrote for a hit series for the Disney Channel and even though we begged and pleaded, we couldn't get in. Flash forward ten years and my husband and I are weaving through the throngs of tourists to do our "test run."
You see, Club 33 has rules. A dress code. And they expect you to be on time.
We found the door in New Orleans Square, tucked next to the Blue Bayou Restaurant.
Test run.
A few hours later we were back, dressed in our finery. Here's the thing: you don't see a lot of finery in Disneyland. We received more than a few raised eyebrows as we wandered through the park (me in my flip-flops and dress, as I tucked my fancy shoes in my purse. So it wasn't as fine as it could have been.)
When we returned, a couple of tourists were taking a picture in front of the sign. We waited until they were done, then stepped forward. They grabbed each other and gasped
THEY'RE GOING INSIDE!
Except that we weren't going inside, not just yet. Because we were at least ten minutes early. So we took a photo instead.
Goin' to the Show.
By this time, a small crowd had assembled, all whispering they're going to ring the bell! He's going to ring the bell! I wondered if they were going to break into a musical song-and-dance number, and if that was part of the Club 33 experience.
(It wasn't.)
Will rang the bell and the door opened. He gave his name. The door closed.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The door opened again, a tiny bit wider.
Welcome to Club 33, the voice said.
I have been lucky enough in my life (and my career) to attend events and activities that many people do not. But I was never so excited as I was walking into Club 33. The dark wood, the clink of glassware, the servers who don't blink twice as you gawk at everything around you.
Is this your first time? our server asked.
How could you tell? I responded.
We started off with a cocktail (a Manhattan for Will, a Kir Royale for me) and then ordered the tasting menu (with the wine pairing, natch.) The food was good. It wasn't the best meal I've ever had, but you understood it was all about the experience...
I didn't take photos for most of the meal, preferring to just live in the moment rather than document it.
But I did take a picture of the toilet on request. Because I'm classy like that.
Two hours later we finished up with some espresso and looked out the window, realizing we were going ot have to return to earth with the mere mortals.
It's going to suck to be a regular person again, Will said.
But it was sure fun while it lasted.
One day, kid, one day they're gonna know who you are. One day they're gonna be screaming your name on the red carpet. One day your picture is gonna be in all the papers.
From Amtrak's in-train magazine, Arrive, July/August 2010 Issue.
(h/t Helen who was riding the rails and discovered this gem.)
I cannot believe that I am blogging about this.
For the record:
I am neither pro or anti Lindsay Lohan. I don't follow her on Twitter. I have never written anything for her. The only thought I have about the Lohans in general is how did they manage to make their reality show SO BORING?
But you can't swing a dead cat without running smack into TMZ, her "fuck you" nails, and her crying at sentencing.
To be fair, I'd cry if I was being sentenced to jail, too. Of course, I'd probably comply with the terms of my probation. But that's neither here nor there.
Today the talk has been about the following tweet:
The backlash has been, well, predictable. Entitled has-been Hollywood actress living in an over-privileged coke-haze, etc. etc. Some sites, like Jezebel, even have "the whole rant." I've cut and pasted it for you below. Start at the bottom, and read up.
Insane, right? Entitled has-been Hollywood actress living in an over-privileged coke-haze....blah blah blah. You know the drill.
Now I'm gonna add one last tweet from her "rant." It was posted in the same time frame as what was posted above. Ready?
Clicking on that link takes you to a story about Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, the Iranian mother of two who was condemned to death by stoning. (You can read the update to the story, and what you can do at Jessica Gottlieb's blog here.)
I don't even follow Lindsay Lohan on Twitter and I could figure out that she was talking about the stoning, not her sentencing, in 30 seconds or less.
Is she an entitled has-been Hollywood actress living in an over-privileged coke-haze? Yes. No. Maybe. I don't really care. She's not freaking Kim Jong-il. and she's never kicked my dog or called me asking if I wanted to hang out and then hung up the phone.
She screwed up, she's going to jail.
Isn't there enough material there with the hot lesbian prison hookups and 6126's jail-inspired orange leggings line without making shit up?
Listen, I understand that she's rife for tabloid fodder, but if you're gonna hoist someone by their own petard, make sure there's a petard to hoist.
Let's talk about the important questions instead....like what the hell is a petard?
EDITED TO ADD: How did I not include a link to HOW I HELPED START THE HILARY DUFF/LINDSAY LOHAN FEUD?!
