Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
- If you have no interest in the film industry, then LA has no interest in you.
- The Valley is a lot like most of New Jersey, only with palm trees and In-N-Out. So, slightly better than New Jersey, but basically still a giant strip mall.
- It’s hot. Inferno hot. Welcome to LA, also known as the eighth circle of hell! Enjoy stewing in your own juices alongside pimps and panderers.
- On the upside, there are beautiful beaches nearby. On the downside, if you want to drive anywhere you must first slaughter a bull and make an offering to The Traffic God. Otherwise, he will make your two-mile journey take two hours and by the time you get to Malibu you will want to hari kari. But everything will be better once you run screaming into the cold Pacific and fall out of your ill-fitting bathing suit and drink some red wine and take a disco nap.
Honest though, I had a great time in LA, but for some reason I'm no good at describing happy events--I'll leave that to David. Angst is easier; I could talk all day about unrequited love, guilt, spiritual emptiness, ego and unhappiness. I have a hard time admitting when life is good. Temperamentally I'm more like Matt Chester, who has a wonderful sense of humor but writes post-apocalyptic plays that end in suicide:
"After all, the point of art--like war--is to show people that life is worth living by showing that it isn't."
Right? Am I right?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
I have ill will towards Los Angeles. I went there once when I was twelve and I hated it, but at that age I also hated my mother, eggs, and walking. I’ve learned to appreciate all of the above, so maybe I’ll have an LA about-face in the next few days.
Or maybe I’m so loyal to San Francisco that I refuse to clear out even a tiny nook of my heart for another city.
I spent the past hour in Golden Gate Park with a log tucked under my neck like some kind of feral geisha. A few pigeons and one homeless amputee veteran wheeled around my body while I lay listening to the brute grunting of tennis players on a nearby court and waited for the fog to come down. Once the wind picked up I started to walk home but got sidetracked when I ran into someone I used to work with because this is a small town disguised as a metropolis. I love it here. I’m bordering on effusive. Must stop now.
Los Angeles, I’m yours, but only for the next five days.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
For the past year I’ve been held hostage by writer’s block, and by “writer’s block” I mean myself. I’ve (metaphorically) held a gun to my head and screamed write you fucking coward! I worry that my thoughts are like lightning bugs trapped in a jar: they need to be released, articulated, or else they’ll rot. But I can’t pistol whip myself into creative production; all of this self-abuse hasn’t helped me perform a single definitive act. Here’s a truth that I hate: if you want something too desperately, it flees from you.
Fanny Howe says that decorating and perfecting any subject can be a way of removing all stench of the real until it becomes an astral corpse. Meaning, over-analysis is lethal.
So what’s a girl to do? Step 1: remove gun from head. Step 2: acknowledge the fine line between self-reflection and self-absorption and try not to cross it. Step 3: not to sound new-agey, but I need to leave the door of my mind open, which feels risky--what or who am I inviting inside? Hopefully les mots juste will wander in. And if that doesn’t happen, I’ll need to find God or start drinking more than I already do: whatever, as long as there’s movement in any direction, up or down.
Well, this was cathartic. Thanks, blog.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
I’ve recently realized that my snobbery is cyclical. When I was young I’d watch any movie, eat at any restaurant my parents told me to. If dad liked it, I liked it. Did the movie make me laugh? Was there an explosion of fire? A great big kaboom? Nice…love that movie. Did the waiter at the restaurant bring everyone their food? Was the food as good as mom’s tuna casserole? Right on…love that restaurant. My general standards for tv were, anything that’s good enough to make it onto the TGIF Line-up must be a winner, and my guidelines for theater were, we don’t go very often, so it’s good (whether I think so or not).
That all changed mid-High School, and reached its peak by Junior year of college. What started as a marked decision to refine my artistic and epicurean palette hastily snow-balled into a full-on snobfest. Nothing would match the artistry demonstrated by “Six Feet Under”, the schizophrenic brilliance of David Lynch, the bleak insight of “Endgame” and “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf”, and, of course, the unbeatable jalapeno-infused yellowtail sashimi at Nobu in New York. Very quickly, few things met my standards of excellence. And just as quick, my intake of the arts became massively stifled.
These days, though, all I really need is to be entertained. And my taste- my firewall of sophistication- is crashing. This means a few things. First- I love family films. I got a kick out of “The Spiderwick Chronicles”. I saw “Up” three times in theaters. I’ve recently gotten hooked on the Showtime Network flop “Dead Like Me”. In a previous entry I mentioned that I’ve enjoyed JJ Abrams’ sci-fi detective thriller “Fringe”. I saw “Away We Go” in theaters recently and had a great time. The characters were quirky and hilarious; the two leads were understated and relatable. In fact, Maya Rudolph gave a subtle and poignant performance that I didn’t see coming a mile away. This puts me in quite a minority; Rotten Tomatoes rates the film at 35.
I imagine that at some point soon I’ll overdose on “High School Musical 3” and the Cheesecake Factory and the cycle will shift again. But in the mean time, I’m quite enjoying…you know, enjoying things. Please though, if from some act of madness I end up seeing Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, find me, and slap me out of my mediocrity-loving reverie.