Diversity, schmiversity. Walk away from the Greenlight.

My insides hurt.  Physically hurt.  And I highly doubt it's the Greek food I had for dinner.

I watched the first episode of PROJECT GREENLIGHT tonight.  I heard faint murmurs of a social media uproar over this season, but I wasn't sure what it was about and didn't stay up late enough to investigate (I keep senior citizen hours--dinner at four, bed at eight).  But now I understand it.  Matt (of all people [at least, in my mind--he just seems so wonderful]!) made a statement that, at first, I understood, which was (paraphrasing) you don't hire someone because they fit a diverse profile; you hire on merit/ability.  I get that.  I wouldn't want a job just because I fill a quota, rather, I'd want to be hired because I'm good...AND fill a quota (who am I kidding? I fill three quotas in one and these bills aren't paying themselves, and I'd jump at any chance to work.).  He could've stopped right there, but like so many people do, he continued on, and stepped waist-deep into the Bog of Eternal Stench saying (paraphrasing) having diversity only matters in front of the camera.

This hurts.  On a deeply profound level that I can only begin to pontificate on.


I have admired Matt (and Ben) since I saw GOOD WILL HUNTING.  That film and its quotes have been recalled at very pivotal and defining moments in my professional life.  I was in awe of the movie, the acting, and, more importantly, for me, the writing.  I left jobs because I knew I was capable of so much more than what I was allowed to do.  I was once told by a studio executive, that if I wanted a creative job I would need to leave...as in, leave the studio...the place where they made TV and film.  I finally got the courage to leave that job after another executive quoted a scene from GWH to me, saying every day he'd walk towards the office and hope that was the day where I wouldn't be there anymore (it doesn't sound as sweet in writing, but, trust, it was).  I wanted to be able to be creative.  I wanted to be able to tell stories.  I wanted to be a writer and a filmmaker.  Granted, Matt and Ben's career trajectory is different from what I envision for mine, but the film they became famous for made me feel like I could do what they did, too.  And I've been trying ever since.

So, it's heartbreaking to hear someone I've admired for a handful of reasons say something so thoughtless, yet with such arrogant conviction.  I've never (seriously) thought I've lost out on opportunities because of my gender, or ethnicity, or disability.  I just never wanted to make my success, or lack thereof, about what anatomy I have, or my glorious, glowing, tan skin.  Maybe I should have, because there it was--slapping me, and the much more graceful Effie Brown, in the face.

I understand what he was saying about hiring for quality of work and not just because of diversity.  I don't think I would want a handout like that.  But, if I was one out of a mere ten candidates left standing (most of whom were white and male) after weeding through thousands of submissions, I would say I, along with the other nine candidates, did work that made me good enough for the job, and, I would hope, seeing the small pool of candidates before them, an EP would say, "we thought her work was great enough to bring her this far...she's kind of kooky, she's crass, wearing sweats, and her eye is a little wonky when she's nervous, but she wants this, she's good, smart, capable, and is open to learning and growing...let's see what kind of perspective she has to offer for this story."  And I would've been grateful for the opportunity--not because I should be because of my gender, or ethnicity or because I'd think I was given a handout, but because I love filmmaking and making stories come to life, and every opportunity to do so makes me happy and grateful.  Also, I wouldn't fire the writer.  I'm much more collaborative, and much less of a prick.  I'll say it--that guy didn't deserve the job.  Let's give opportunities to people who want them!


I didn't pick an easy career, and by and large it's been a really soul-crushing road, for a variety of reasons.  But here I am, still stupidly hopeful.  Scenarios like the one I gave above aren't super likely to happen.  And I'm sure there are more executives who think like Matt Damon, and maybe would say it out loud, too.  But if there are more executives like Effie Brown, and a couple others I know, who are carrying the torch and see the value in a different, diverse voice and perspective, it's bound to happen...and then every individual who thought I wasn't capable and I didn't belong anywhere but in an office, politely smiling and nodding while answering phones and making lunch reservations can go kick rocks.

Furniture Warehouse

The insomnia is back, although I'm not sure it ever left...I can't really say that about too much else in my life.  Ok, roll the eyes, cue the violins, call the shrink.  What can I say??!  I'm sullen.  It's fucking 4:45 in the morning on a Saturday and I'm awake.  And not because I never went to bed on Friday either.  I did "go to bed" on Friday at a rather sad time of 9:45PM, only to wake up an hour later to a freeze-frame of Calista Flockhart's sad "Ally McBeal" face, courtesy of Netflix, on my juiceless laptop.    And if you're wondering, no, this isn't bottom.  I realized I was done Rip Van Winkle-ing my way through the night about two hours ago, but how I wish I could sleep...or maybe...no, just sleep.

For the past week or so, I have been holding a garage sale in my garage-less home.  My apartment has become a Big Lots! for fine furnishings and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't slightly depressing.  Strangers have been coming into my apartment and walking out with my furniture that I've accumulated along my way into adulthood; pieces that I remember picking out and getting excited over, that were maybe too expensive, but worth the money because they were "going to be with me forever."  For example, that Crate Barrel dresser that I got when I was 26, which now belongs to some 3-year old in Pasadena who will draw on it in crayon and outgrow it in two years; or the Crate & Barrel nightstand I got when I was living in North Carolina trying to become a doctor which now belongs to woman who bought it for her baby that's not even born yet (which is ironic considering I kept condoms in there because I'd rather be safe than sorry...that woman, obviously, had a different life approach).  Out of my door go my memories and my pride as an adult, all at bargain (by my standards) prices, to make ends meet.  Soon, I, too, will be leaving my apartment, though I'm pretty sure it won't be on anyone's dolly.  I don't know, I haven't tried listing myself on Craigslist yet...though after a conversation I had where one person argued, "I'll usually only pay about 30% of the value of an item," I'd be very concerned about what I, personally, would finally be sold for.  To be honest, a few coins aren't really going to help my current situation.

For a few reasons, this has been sad as hell.  Even though I look at what I've been so fortunate to have been involved with these past few months (the projects, the casts, the crews, the sets) and what may be on the horizon, as I watched "Mario" carry my refrigerator out yesterday with the last bit of Wondermutt's fur hanging from the bottom, on some level, I feel like a bit of a failure.

This past Wednesday was the L.A. premiere of Heterosexual Jill, the first feature film I ever worked on (I was a production assistant, and if you recall, it was also my acting debut as "Reclaimed Lesbian" thankyouverymuch).  It was the first time I had seen the finished film, the cast and crew since February 2012, and it was such a thrill.  I've said it before and I'll say it a million times--there really is nothing like seeing a movie you've worked on, completed and up on the big screen.  It was thrilling and really so much fun.  On my way home, as I was driving through downtown L.A.,  a film crew was setting up for what looked like a big budget movie car scene with cranes, cameras on cars, elaborate lighting setups, the whole nine.  They did two takes, and I was right in front of the action at a stoplight (you might see my license plate...).  I was completely fascinated, the whole time (the only other times I'm that giddy is on Christmas Eve before Santa arrives or when the bartender comes with my drink).  When the police finally gave us the go ahead to drive through and I saw everyone reset for the next take, I was certain of two things amidst this time of general future uncertainty and bleak financial status: there is nothing I'd rather do than make movies and I have no regrets about pursuing that.

Unemployment Line

It's important to have goals in life.  It gives one purpose, something to dream of achieving, to work towards and strive for.  Every December 31st, millions of people set new goals for themselves--most of them have to do with losing something (i.e., flab, a sucky relationship, the monotony in their lives), or gaining something (i.e., fabulosity, a 401k, someone who has fabulosity and a 401k, or some perspective).  Every Lent, Christians set a 40-day goal of giving up something they (we) love that will be very difficult for them (us) to go without, to remind them (me) of the Lord's suffering to save their (my) otherwise horrible souls (*spoiler alert* - this Lent I'm going to have to take a mulligan...I forgot about my "goals" and had a three-peat offense in one sinful week...trust me, I already know I'm in the back row of heaven when the apocalypse finally does come).

Unemployment is no exception--I feel goals should be set while unemployed, nothing crazy or overreaching, but little goals that are attainable, rational; most likely within reach, but possibly require a little stretching to keep the inner engine running and that little fire burning, so to speak.  So I'm going to share my little list that I've put together for myself in a time of paychecklessness.

In no particular order....

1 - Wash at least three body parts from the forehead down at least once a day.

2 - Ignore sale emails from Neiman Marcus and Nordstrom, no matter how many points they're offering per every dollar spent.  They aren't really friends.

3 - *Remove hair from at least two body parts from the shoulders down at least three times a week (*chin and lip hair not included, as that look could prove profitable with the circus, if necessary).

4 - Flush.

5 - Write.  Anything.  Everyday.

6 - Do not apply to any "freelance artistic" jobs on Craigslist that are located in Chatsworth no matter how tight money gets. (Wondermutt seems to be objecting to this one--although I might not have to, a mutt has got to eat on a daily basis).

7 - Eat only human food (Wondermutt's kibble and treats, though vegan and human-grade, are not technically human food).

8 - Instead of crying (do not cry!), dance...but not like this.

9 - Keep regular sugaring appointments--just in case Wondermutt gets his way with #6

10 - Work on a somewhat tanline-less tan (why not?!) on the balcony.

11 - Make sure the female neighbor across the way isn't home for #10.

12 - Brush teeth daily.

13 - Research freeway off-ramp sales pitching and in-season fruits.

14 - Do all of the (free) things during the week that I hated not being able to do before.

15 - Think about learning how to make duck calls, moonshine, or enter toddler beauty pageants.

16 - Do not leave the house looking like this or this ---- ever.

17 - Enjoy living life, laugh, and be ok if #1-15 slip on a rare occasion.  #16 is non-negotiable.

christmas day

At midnight, when superparents around the world (or the block) were climbing onto their roofs in faux reindeer hooves and sleigh bells to create the magic of the real meaning of Christmas for their kids, I was in church, getting burned by wax, at a candlelight service at my mom's church.  I tried to get out of it this year; I was annoyed, tired, and cold, and my sweatshirt and sweats were so much more appealing than pretty much anything else I could wear.  Alas, I lost that battle, because at Christmas, my mom gets what she wants, at least, she does from me (hence, my solidly cemented "golden child" status).

I woke up this morning just after 7AM to a dog barreling through my bedroom door that doesn't close all the way, activating the winds chimes that are inexplicably hanging on the back of it, after which, he stood extremely still at the edge of the bed, stared me down, and waited for me to open my eyes, move or grunt.   And with a very slight shift of my foot, the mutt pounced on my bed and started licking my face and hand.  I don't ever remember being that obnoxious on Christmas morning; I certainly never licked my mother, though I also never waited until past 6AM to wake her up, so I guess it's give and take.  He escorted me into the living room where I was pleasantly surprised that I was, in fact, not on Santa's naughty list this year (hooray!)...I guess Santa isn't always watching, kids (*wink*).

However, before the traditional gift distro and opening was tackled, I had two very important items of business to take care of--find an open Starbucks, and find an open grocery store.  Sacramento is not like Los Angeles, things actually shut down on Christmas, and I had to travel outside of the neighborhood to find a Starbucks.

To take care of this second very important thing, I had to travel outside of my comfort zone.  Those of you who know me (not biblically), know that I do not typically shop at places that have any of the following in their name: a number, "Sav-" "Valu-" or "Mart."  However, desperate times call for desperate measures, and when no other place is open and a key ingredient needed for the holiday is missing, one must do what one must do, and SaveMart, the double whammy of grocery stores, was what I had to do.

I was only slightly mortified when at 8:20AM, the checkout clerk called out, "Can we please get assistance for this lady right here at the liquor cabinet?" over the abnormally loud PA system.  I say "slightly" because the people that were shopping at this one store didn't seem to be the type that would care too much about such a request at such a time of day.

And PS, check out that sale price!  SaveMart, indeed.

I came home, gifts were opened, and everyone was pretty happy.  Wondermutt got some new squeak toys, bones, and the poop bags he's been eyeing, and my gramma seemed to be pretty excited about that IHOP gift card I got her; I'm pretty sure that was the pièce de résistance.  Although, I did get The Neverending Story on DVD and that's like getting a part of my childhood back (Falcor!).  Kinda hard to top that.

Here's hoping your Christmas Day is shaping up to be just as FUNderful...or at least you, too, have a bottle of something that can make it FUNderful.  Cheers!

christmas eve

Since the world survived the non-apocalypse, I had to prepare for the next potential uh-oh:  going home for Christmas.   As you may recall, I skipped this adventure at Thanksgiving this year in favor of avoiding both the drive on the 5, and the wrath of the grandma, but I just couldn't bring myself to go full-Scrooge and skip out on my mom on this holiday, the holiest of holy holidays (besides her golden child's [that would be me] birthday).  As I've gotten older, I've ascribed to the notion that the "a little dab'll do ya" mentality completely applies when it comes to going home.  Where once I used to take two weeks off for Christmas and spend nearly the entire time with family, I find less is more-better, for everyone...except Wondermutt, who has a fan club here in the 'burbs of Sac, and as soon as the sun comes up, all of the neighbors will be over here to see him, to get his autograph, to get their pet on, and maybe, if they have time, throw me an, "Oh.  You're here, too?  Huh."  And then go back to adoring the boy wonder.  It's fine, I understand.  He always comes bearing homemade gifts for them and leaves them on their lawns.  I'm not quite as giving.

Wondermutt is comin' to town.

I drove up yesterday, and despite white knuckling it for the last 100 miles or so, it wasn't too bad.  Now, I think in a past life, if there is such a thing, I was a race car driver, because very few things on the road scare me.  I don't even have to turn down the radio when I park, or when I'm looking at directions.  There have only been three times in my life where I have white knuckled it with my hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel:  driving from Pullman, WA to Sacramento in winter, through the mountains, on a narrow two lane highway, in a storm, with one windshield wiper (the other one froze to my windshield and then snapped off) in a Saturn coupe; driving in North Carolina through a storm (that was a pre-cursor to a tornado I was trying to outdrive) with hail so large I swore my windshield would break and the body of my Land Rover would be pitted unrecognizably--I actually had to pull over for that one and turned off the radio so God could hear my prayers; and then there was this 100-mile stretch yesterday.  It wasn't just the weather, it was actually a combo of the rain, wind, and the fuck-tards that were going apeshit on the road, which normally wouldn't call for the 10 and 2 approach, but I had the mutt in the car, and when I have another being's life in my hands, that ups the ante.  How would I explain showing up without him to the neighbors, no matter if I was hurt, or on life support myself?  "What happened to Wondermutt?!?" they'd shout in horror.  There'd be public outcry.  They'd cancel Christmas forever.  I'd cancel Christmas forever.  Drama.  Anyway.  We made it.  Crisis averted.


I'm back in my old room from high school, and it doesn't feel like much has changed, except it feels more frilly and flowery--I guess that's the mom go-to motif, you can never have too many flowers or frills, or tote bags, or pictures up of your children when they were going through their awkward phase (years 6 - 26, those years are the same for everyone, right?), but you still think they were cute...which is impossible because clearly they were not.  Because no kid who was missing two random teeth in the front, had cheeks the size of grapefruits, eyes that seemed to looked two different directions in some pictures and eyebrows that wrapped around their entire forehead is cute.  And these pictures that parents lie about only start family arguments and thievery will eventually ensue.  And then, when they comment on how nice the fire in the fireplace feels but later in the evening say, "where did you find the wood or paper to start it with," after everyone is warm and cozy, it'll be noticed that those pictures are missing, and laughs will be laughed (by the culprit) and then--war will break out.  Fingers will be pointed, shouts will be shouted, babies will cry, vows of "never again!" will be vowed, dogs will bark, sirens will wail, mothers will sob, doors will be slammed...it's all part of the miracle of Christmas.  Hooray!  What fun!  Who wants pie?

I will say, in all my destitution, when I do come home, it does begin to look and feel more like Christmas.  After all, home is where I can get the full experience; there's a real fake tree, lights inside and outside, decorations galore, one, two, maybe even three baby Jesuses, wrapped presents (Santa Claus still leaves gifts in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve--this is almost contractual and can never end), there's central heating and even food in the cupboards AND refrigerator.  I'm even sleeping in a bed that's in the shape of a sleigh.  And I happen to know where I can get a reindeer on very short notice.......

And so, I make the drive and hope for the best, brace for the rest, and pray that Belvedere is on sale.

Merry Christmas!