Two blog ladies who I really love - Sizzle and the Hollywood Housewife - put their new year's resolutions in the form of a mantra or an intention, something that is an overall guiding principle for the 365 (366?) days ahead.
The last six months has a whirlwind. The second half of 2011 saw me getting back into the writing game full-time as I made my return to tween TV on the new Nickelodeon show How to Rock (premiering February 4!) I went from noodling around on a couple of scripts to run-throughs and tape nights and the writers' room and a regular paycheck and other exciting developments that I will have to share with you at a later date.
I find that I require a lot of downtime. Or I think I require a lot of downtime. I tune out "to think" and "to work on a new idea" and while I do that, about 10% of the time is spent thinking the rest is literally in a time-suck that finds me coming to two hours later leaving comments on strange Tumblrs.
So my intention for the year is to be present and produce. Whether it's scripts or blog posts, whether it's miles run or time spent with Will (rather than time spent next to Will on our respective laptops on our respective projects and respective Twitters.)
Of course, we won't be producing any offspring. My uterus will retain its amateur/Olympic Hopeful status.
Here's wishing you everything you could possibly want in 2012, by granting you the wherewithal to actually go after it.
If you want to see photos of when I was 200 pounds, you don't need to skulk through cached versions of my blog. (Because those show up on my webstats, which means trying to hide your tracks is kind of silly.)
They're up on Flickr for all to see, but I've attached it below for your enjoyment. (You should check out some of my high school photos, too. It's pretty funny stuff.)
That first outfit that Andie wears was my dream outfit that I attempted to recreate (poorly.) I don't think there re pictures, although I rocked the vest CONSTANTLY and did a lot of boxy jackets with pins.
If you didn't want to be Annie Potts character Iona in Pretty in Pink when you grew up, then we wouldn't have been friends in High School.
Iona talks about her friend missing Prom... "She realized nothing was missing...it was side effects from missing the Prom." WHICH IS WHY I WENT TO PROM STAG.
I coveted that pink Kharmann Ghia. I now drive a pink Mini Cooper.
I met director Howard Deutch at a party a couple of weeks ago. I tried not to fan out, so I turned to talk to the person he was with. His wife.
Watching Andie listen to her messages from Duckie reminded me what a big deal it was to get a phone in my room. The phone jack was there...I just wasn't allowed a phone of my own until I was in 8th grade.
I modded my gym suit my freshman year. I think there were boxer shorts with a ruffle that I wore under my gym shorts.
Note: This post initially was published a couple of years ago on the comedy blog Pointless Banter, which Bobby Finstock sold for a tube sock full of lube.
I am constantly assaulted by images that the Almighty Cock is King. One Pizza Delivery Guy can turn a couple of lesbians straight. When coupled with a business degree, a suit and a smattering of greed, it can turn the American economy on its ear (I didn’t see anyone who possessed a vagina testifying in front of Congress about the Wall Street Bailout Bill, although I did see a bunch of pussies who didn’t want to give up their private jets.)
The penis: what can’t it do?
Here’s one thing it can’t do: get or maintain an erection as it gets older. That’s okay, though, the drug companies have come to your rescue!
It’s just their advertising that’s a wee bit confusing. Here’s a look at the advertising campaigns from some of the, erm, big ones.
I love Elvis. Elvis – even fat Elvis sweating gravy in that white polyester jumpsuit – is manly. And if Viagra was around when the King was alive, I bet he’d take it. Add in the idea that Lisa Marie’s “Church” probably wanted a slice of that Fat Elvis money cake and we’ve got Viva Viagra!
Now there’s that guy, you all know him: he’s constantly bragging about the chick he’s banging. She’s always a Playmate, a Supermodel, or lives in Canada. But do guys hang out and jam about how they’re going home to bang the wife? According to Viva Viagra, they do.
A longtime blog reader once confessed to me that he didn’t get all that excited about the thought of having sex with his wife. I told him that she probably wasn’t doing the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy over his old, saggy Nutcracker either.
Rock Hard is one of the “natural” performance enhancers, promising to get it up and keep it up for 72 hours straight. Guys, I’m going to let you in on a little secret here: there are precious few women that want to have sex for 72 hours in a row. Even a couple of hours and it feels like you’ve been humping Velcro. Yeah, I know Sting has Tantric sex which lasts for days with his wife Trudie Styler, but he’s also filthy rich and probably pays people to crap for him. The rest of us like to shower and walk the dog and catch the Real Housewives Marathon.
Rock Hard Weekend works the party route with the “Rock Hard Red Carpet.” (I was hoping that meant an entire lineup of redheads, but alas, I’m the only one that crass.) The Hollywood shindig is staffed (ahem) with an assortment of skankalicious babes paid to hang out and let you think you have a shot at nailing them. Hot chicks to shill product is nothing new. What I don’t get are the famous dudes that show up to pimp the product. Isn’t that advertising that you can no longer get and keep it up?
Every Cialis ad ends the same way: An older couple. Taking baths. Outside. In separate tubs. I’ve been on a few nice vacations in my life, but I’ve never been somewhere where they dragged a claw foot tub into the wilderness so I could clean myself. Where are the native people holding the water buckets? Where are the towels? What abut shoes? The thought of myself at age 70 trying to get my saggy ass out of a slippery tub and walking barefoot and butt naked through the wilderness makes me want to break a hip now and get it over with. Not to mention that the only thing I want to do after a bath is nap. I’m already an old person.
The current Levitra ads say “See Our Ad in This Old House.” Well, that’s the problem. The problem isn’t that you can’t get it up because you’re older. You can’t get it up because you’re a woman.
Enzyte is another “natural” male enhancer. But instead of using rock stars and skanky babes, they use…Santa.
Maybe there’s some sort of Secret Santa Fetish that I was previously unaware of, but I’m pretty sure that no one wants to sit on Santa Boner’s lap. Especially when he’s Bob from Accounting.
Don’t get me wrong: I support the Penis Economy. I look forward to the day that my husband and I have old people sex. But these drugs sell themselves. Dump the ad agencies and use that money you were spending there for something really important. Like developing a cure for cancer. Or jetpacks.
I've been vocal about my thoughts regarding how Hollywood - writers, specifically - have been slow to investigate new technologies. While all of these new technologies and tools can be opportunities for new ways to tell stories, they can also be a way to take the temperature of an audience - sometimes one that you weren't even aware that you had.
I'm always shocked at who follows me on Twitter. Right before Christmas, I was absolutel delighted to discover this in my inbox:
It made me reconsider posting about Daisy's flatulence and the nasty rash on my ankle from my air cast.
Last night I was watching Men of a Certain Age, a show that I season pass. I realize I'm not the target audience, but I love Andre Braugher, Scott Bakula, and it's nice to see Raymond finally gettin' some. The writing is good, and although I find their female to be a bit one-dimensional (except for Owen's wife, Melissa), I appreciate the fact that they're creating entertainment for a demographic that has a tendency to be forgotten. And while I'm not in that demographic, I appreciate good storytelling.
But I'm also a smartass. Last night, I posted this after the show:
A few moments later, this showed up in my mentions column:
That's Mike Royce, Co-Creator & Executive Producer of Men Of a Certain Age.
I exlained that I liked last night's episode, that I was being a smartass, but that I fet the women were a little one-dimensional. However, I also said that I understand that the show is MEN of a Certain Age, and that the TV process is a bit like a hot dog factory: there's a lot of pieces that go into creating the perfect all-beef frank. I've spent plenty of years in the TV Writing Mines not to know this.
When I was working on MTV's Savage County, I had a few vocal detractors on Twitter, but instead of getting offended or huffy, I pressed them to discover what could I have done better? That's what makes me a better writer, a better creator, and in the end creates more fans.
If I found out that Mike Royce was on Twitter and didn't respond to anyone, I wouldn't think much of it. And yes, it's easy to respond to fans of your work. The fact that he chose to engage with someone who was being a smartass by not being a smartass is a classy move, and one that I hope that all creators - not just TV - will take advantage of.
There's been a lot of talk lately - on both sides of the equation, about the TSA's new security measures - Backscatter machines, which take photo of you, but sans clothes or pat-downs, which involve a TSA employee touching you - palms facing forward (it used to be backwards), reaching up the legs, around the genital area, and inside the waistband.
I do not intend (ha ha HA) for this blog post for people on either side of the argument (if you know me, you're well aware of where I fall) but to I asked this question on Jessica's blog and no one answered.
So I'm asking here.
1. Would you let a stranger touch your child's* private areas**?
*Child = boy or girl, less than 13 years of age. **Using this term because I don't want certain search terms to end up on my blog.
Feel free to disagree but keep it civilized - the only person allowed to call people names on my blog is me. I have a delete button and I'm not afraid to use it.
