Dear Diablo

Dear Diablo Cody, 

I just watched Paradise, and I need to apologize. I haven't been fair. I've been jealous and petty and hoping that your success was a fluke because I wished I had the courage and tenacity to get my stuff out there the way you have. 

I liked Juno (everyone liked Juno), but I crossed my arms across my chest after your star blew up because I thought it should be ME sitting next to Jay and Dave, talking about my dysfunctional upbringing and artistic salvation through humor and words. 

Bitches be crazy, what can I say? 

You, Jenji Kohan, and Callie Khourie are contemporary writers I admire and envy. Yeah, yeah, yeah—we should think of ourselves as writers, not female writers. Bullshit. Everything's different for women. 

We have to work twice as hard as men for a good 15-20 percent less and show no emotion. We have to shove all critical opinion of our male superiors so far down our throats we teeter into VIVID award territory. 

We're supposed to get up every day and do all of this (while looking pretty) and NOT go crazy? 

I'm going crazy. I fully admit it. It used to be "I can't drive over bridges." Then it became "...or highways." Now I have panic attacks every single morning on my way to work. Sometimes I have to pull over for twenty minutes to (a) stop crying from the depression and fear and anger that this is happening to me, and then (b) find the courage to climb back into the Death Star trash compactor of traffic that's one crass commuter away from blood-soaked anarchy and make it through an endless stream of red lights without passing out from the adrenaline surge of terror that consumes my entire mental and physical being. 

There are no safe medications at this time (that I can take while driving). My only two choices are join a convent or get on with it. 

It's not about cars or driving or traffic. It's about isolation. It's about loneliness. 

It's about fear of insignificance. 


I'm not talking about being famous. I've watched a great number of nice, brilliant people lose skin and teeth from fame. I'm talking about relevance. Leaving something behind. It could be a novel, it could be $5 in a charity cup at Starbucks. It's all proportional based on your dreams. 


But dreaming leads to fear, which leads to exhaustion, which leads to procrastination, which leads to more fear. 

Which, apparently, leads to paralysis. Which is where I've been the past two weeks, battling a John Philip Sousa crescendo of anxiety attacks, coupled with a feverish flu. When you haven't had the flu in a few years you forget how morose it is. 

Thursday night I cried while watching a Rhoda rerun where Rhoda and Joe were breaking up. I don't mean I teared-up—I sobbed. 

When I made it to quitting time yesterday, I drove home, stocked the fridge with comfort food (who knew Kraft now has both veggie and organic macaroni & cheese?), and planned to spend the entire weekend on the couch, kicking the infection. 

Malcolm woke me up at 6am today because he's a cat and cats aren't emotionally equipped to distribute compassion. I fed him, couldn't sleep, made breakfast and scanned Amazon Prime for new releases. 

And there, Diablo, was Paradise. Did I primarily choose to spend $9.99 on your film because Russell Brand was in it? Of course. But if the trailer had shown him dancing around Las Vegas with a Capuchin monkey on his head while he and Octavia Spencer dueted to a Ke$ha version of "With A Little Help From My Friends," I likely would have passed. 

I watched it because I knew—the same way you know how melted butter on a baked potato will taste—that it was going to be the movie I needed to see right now, this week and this day, to make me feel better. 

And it was. It reminded me to get back on the damn bike, drink some freaking spinach juice and B-complex and quit my bitching. Having the flu sucks. Panic attacks are scary. Orlando is hot hellhole full of churches and twits. Blah, blah...

Life's too short to stay curled up on the couch. So I got a little bit burned. And I'm afraid to let the world see me this way because I'm afraid they'll feel uncomfortable.

You know what? I no longer care. I'm tired of hiding away because I might be crazy. I'm a nice person and I try to be good to people who deserve it. I might not be able to drive a car, but I can still make people laugh when they feel sad. And listen when they need to talk. And feed the feral (crazy) cats who wait outside my door every morning because they know I offer safety and nourishment. 

And I can still type.

I"d rather be weird than boring. And I'd rather feel things intensely (even fear) than go through life as a Saltine, floating in a room temperature sea of lumpy instant soup.

Diablo Cody, thank you for reminding me of this. And for writing and directing a movie that's beautiful, hilarious, and original (be careful, that last part might get you thrown out of Hollywood).

And for doing it all while being a human woman in this world. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish hanging aluminum foil around the exterior of my apartment to keep the CIA and aliens from reading my thoughts.

Unbelievably Satisfying!

When I met Layne Staley, back in the '90s, he was knee-deep in heroin, had a broken leg and was surrounded by sniveling sycophants. I wasn't a huge fan, but had promised a friend who worshiped him that I'd try to get her an autograph seeing as I'd gotten a backstage pass by working as a cashier in a record store and knowing (yes, just knowing) their regional A&R rep. As I made my way over to him, shaking in my grunge boots, I remembered that he and I were both people. He was a human being with fears and insecurities and a need to be validated and appreciated just like me. 

But perhaps not on that particular night because he was horrible. 

Toss in two decades and a half dozen or so more encounters with fame (including two back-to-back Soul Asylum moments—the first being wonderful, the second being cringe-worthy), and I've come to the conclusion that it really isn't a good idea to meet your heroes. 

"Please don't put your life in the hands of a rock and roll band who'll throw it all away." —Noel Gallagher 

"You're a star f*cker, star f*cker, star f*cker"—The Rolling Stones 

When I heard Russell Brand was coming to Orlando, after checking the almanac to see if it was, in fact, the beginning of the apocalypse (Orlando? I thought there was a border patrol that kept intelligent, free-thinking entertainers out of the state), my dear and generous mother offered to buy me second row center seats because she knew I'd never be able to afford them. 

Second row center to the Russell Brand Messiah Complex show? Throw in one of those beds from the Westin and a basket of cheese fries and you've got my mental Instagram of heaven! 

A few days before the blessed event, one of the two close friends I was going with found out from her boss (a high powered CEO in the health insurance biz in NYC) that, long story short, he knew someone who knew Russell's publicist and that we should stay on high alert for a phone call before the show instructing us where and when to report for a "meet & greet/photo op." 

Five years ago I would've been hooked up to a liposuction hose on one end, and a collagen needle on the other. I would've been standing in front of my bathroom mirror, practicing my best Bond girl voice: "Mr. Brand, I presume..." I would've convinced myself that this was my one and only chance to say something so clever and so witty that he'd whisk me away to a life of A-list guest writing gigs. 

But last weekend? Not so much. Maybe it's because my anxiety attacks have caused me to give up all consumption of alcohol and I've grown accustomed to liking myself sober. Maybe it's because I no longer need to touch someone's sleeve to feel like I matter. 

Maybe it's because I actually read the f*cking title of his show? 

Whatever the combination, when we never heard from the publicist until thirty minutes after the show, basically to tell us that it wasn't going to happen, I've never reacted in a more Zen-like manner. My friend, who was a little buzzed by that point in the evening, was distraught, crushed, embarrassed (she didn't produce the gift-wrapped celebrity) and angry. 

All somewhat understandable. 

But I was actually relieved.

I've been a fan of Russell's for so long (ironically, this same friend who almost snagged the starf*ck moment once texted me during the VMAs to say "Who the hell is this British guy hosting? I've never heard of him in my life. Where did they get HIM?" To which I replied, "Trust me, you'll know who he is soon.") And seeing him perform live was, to me, so much more than being in a very large room with a very famous person. 

His show made me laugh until I cried. But it also reiterated ideas and philosophies and basic human kindnesses that I've often felt very alone believing in (reminder: Orlando). 

It was kind of like going to church, if church included the occasional blow job joke. When the show was over, he came down into the crowd and allowed the thronging masses to grab, kiss, hug, and paw at him for a good ten minutes. It was like watching somebody open a van of starving hyenas. Forty and fifty-year-old women in brittle peroxided hair, micro-dresses with stilettos, and a half gallon of fake tanner were literally climbing over one another's heads to get to the stage and touch him. I was almost swallowed whole by the tidal wave of pulsing estrogen. 

Being (a) claustrophobic and (b) horrified, I high-tailed it outta there and watched, bewildered, from a few feet away. At one moment, as Russell was being led away, back to his real world by security, he must've caught a flicker of my flaming red hair because we locked eyes—maybe two feet from one another—and he momentarily appraised me, self-removed from the herd (mostly women) who apparently hadn't listened to a single f*cking word he'd said all night about celebrity and false idols and the emptiness of fame. 

But damn if they didn't snap a selfie with him! 

His eyes flickered away, he waved one last wave to us all, and was gone. 

For the next two hours, my friend and her husband lamented the publicist who never hooked us up, wondering why—had they misunderstood? Was it their fault? Whose fault was it? 

I simply enjoyed the three onion rings I'd put on my white appetizer plate in the Hard Rock Cafe, relived my favorite punchlines, and sent Russell a mental hug for reminding me that sometimes, the best way to know your heroes is to listen to them. 

By the way, if you want to learn the significance of this blog title, you'll have to see the show! 

Celebration Day

I hold these truths to be self evident: 

1. When you're home alone and no one can hear you, it's fun to sing in your Cher voice

2. Ethiopian food looks like vomit

3. Jimmy Page is a god 


Did I cram myself into a multiplex last October to see the theatrical release of Celebration Day? No I did not. Why? Because I had to work late each of the two nights it played here. 

Have I since purchased the DVD and watched it a thousand times? Again, no. And I'm not really sure why. Maybe I've been waiting for the perfect moment. I do that with music and movies sometimes—wait for a weekend when I don't have to shoehorn my spiritual salvation in-between scrubbing bathtub sludge and extracting blobs of Malcolm's ear wax from the carpet (he has an issue; let's leave it at that). 

But this is Labor Day Weekend! And...it's the first weekend in months when I don't have any "work from work" to slog through. I actually have three entire days to stay in my pajamas until two o'clock! Paint my toenails at midnight! Play with my new Bumble and Bumble Dryspun Finish and spend an afternoon as That Girl (that B&B stuff is the bomb, by the way). 

So my big ticket purchase this holiday will be the DVD I've been waiting for, lo these long months. I've painfully refrained from watching YouTube clips. It'll be fresh and new. Even though I already know they didn't play "Achilles Last Stand" (my all-time favorite Zep song), I imagine it'll be akin to how devout Catholics feel when they watch the Pope speak at Christmas. Is the Pope getting on in years? Sure, but he still knows how to rock a stadium. 

Clear the furniture, people—I'm gonna boogie!

All I Wanted Was A Pepsi

Don't you love it when someone turns you onto a new band...AND YOU CAN'T BUY ANY OF THEIR CDs IN THE U.S.???

I heard Michael Monroe on Sirius the other day talking about singer/guitarist Dregen of Sweden's Backyard Babies, which got me thinking "I've loved Hanoi Rocks and Michael Monroe for decades, and I've heard the name Backyard Babies forever, but I've never listened to them. Maybe I should?" 

Well, guess again, girlie—because you CAN'T! 

Not on iTunes. Not on Spotify (save for a few throwaway songs from compilation/tribute albums). And here's what you get when you look up most of their stuff on Amazon:

So, while I hunt this elusive Swedish band like the dirty dogs they are, here are some videos. And also the S.T. song from which this post gets its frustrated title. 

Turning Japanese I Really Think So

And now that I've gotten The Vapors song firmly stuck in your head, click the pic and watch the trailer for Keanu's latest action extravaganza.

As some of you know, Keanu and I met once back in 1989 when he was here in Orlando filming Parenthood. I had a friend of a friend who was a Production Assistant on the film, and she'd heard I had a classic schoolgirl crush. I'd just seen River's Edge and Permanent Record and had my sixth sense that he was going to be big. I also somehow knew that he was a gentle, intelligent, very guarded soul. 

The P.A. invited me to the set where I waited outside for hours in the sun, nervously reapplying Maybelline lip gloss (I was only 19; I didn't know yet about high-end cosmetics), running lines in my head to ensure I wouldn't say anything childish or cliche. 

Of course when the moment arrived, I did both. I never got a photo. My sixth sense dropped the ball on that one. Doesn't matter. I can see it just fine in my head. The way he smiled down at me, holding onto my hand while he asked about my life with a quiet intensity.

When people ask me what he was like, I say this: not only was he the nicest celebrity I've ever met, he was one of the nicest human beings I've ever met, period.

Over the years, I've felt a little protectively towards him. Wishing I could shield him from snarky publicity and snotty reviews. He's a good person. Lay off. 

Maybe I'll bump into him again someday. We'll both be 25 years older. He'll have 25 years of stardom, travel and scars. I'll have the perfect shade of Clinique lipstick and patience.

And this time I won't take a picture on purpose. Because 25 years later, I'd rather have the words.

P.S. If you're a cinephile like me, check out Keanu's documentary Side By Side, a fascinating look at the evolution of digital filmmaking.

My Favorite Bob

When I was eight my heroes were Ace Frehley, Luke Skywalker and Kelly Leak (anyone who doesn't cry at the end of The Bad News Bears In Breaking Training has no soul). 

When I was twelve, a new name got added to the list: Robert Redford. 

That's because I saw Ordinary People for the first time. Kind of an odd movie choice for a twelve-year-old, but I was always melodramatic. And a little melancholy. 

That film completely changed my life. When I found out it had been adapted from a novel I had to read the novel. Once I read the novel I had to study the screenplay. And when I studied the movie, over and over, it hit me—people made up stories that sometimes got turned into movies. And when a truly beautiful and human director got a hold of it, it became a masterpiece. 

It spoke to me on painfully personal levels at the time, and in a lot of ways, was a friend. It led me to writing, and it probably saved my life more than once. Because it taught me how to ask for help. 

Is it rational to love Robert Redford for those reasons? Why not? Even if he hadn't also starred in and/or directed some of the greatest movies in film history AND fought viciously for the environment way, way before it was granola-hip-trendy, I'd still love him. Even if his singular achievement in life had been directing Ordinary People, and after that, he'd gone on to host a game show or open a hair salon in Canoga Park.

So, when I leafed through my new Entertainment Weekly tonight and found out he has a new movie coming out in October that's causing whispers he might finally win a Best Actor Oscar, I ran to YouTube to watch the trailer. 

When I saw him in An Unfinished Life, I thought "How can he possibly top that?" His performance left me in one of my favorite states of being: emotionally emptied, like a giant box of Legos strewn across an Oriental rug.

Watch this trailer. I think he's about to top that.

True North

Where have I been? Sleeping, eating too many ranch-flavored rice cakes, obsessing over the stray kittens, and feeling way too exhausted from the heat to come up with an original thought worth sharing. 

Mostly wishing I lived somewhere cooler. 

Somewhere like Scandinavia.

I've often thought I'd thrive in the region. I love fish. I enjoy wearing sweaters. And in the past decade, my man taste has morphed from witty big-haired Londoners (who I still want to be friends with), to mysterious artist types like Viggo Mortensen and Mads Mikkelsen. 

Mads first set my radar on red alert back in 2004 as Tristan in Antoine Fuqua's King Arthur. Who was that long-haired man with the bird? (Seriously...No woman should be expected to look at this picture and not start walking funny.)

I began to investigate. When he popped up as Le Chiffre in Casino Royale I was excited to see his star ascending, but prayed it wouldn't lead to schlocky Hollywood Spaghetti-Os. There was 2010's Clash of the Titans (which I've yet to see so I can't comment), and a possibly awful Three Musketeers movie, but aside from those two—he's mainly flourished outside of the limelight. Outside of America.

Until Hannibal, which I can't watch because of my weakness for nightmares, but which I've heard from close friends and every critic on the planet is a prime time masterpiece.

Being the journalist at heart that I am, I've been on a Mads mission of late, watching some of his Danish films via Netflix streaming and Amazon Prime. To say they've been a revelation would be like saying Havarti is better than Kraft Singles. 

I was right, back in 2004, that he had a je ne sais quoi that made him riveting to watch. But it's not just his range of emotions—it's the way he controls his emotions that makes him one of the most fascinating actors working these days. 


Let's all say a collective prayer that no matter how successful Hannibal gets, he never ends up on Jane Lynch's Hollywood Game Night (I apologize to any friends who love this show, but it's horrible), although it would be great to watch Mads use charades to get Kristen Chenoweth to scream "I know this! Hans Holbein The Younger!"

Here are two of my favorite films of his so far: 

A ROYAL AFFAIR

 

AFTER THE WEDDING

 And here's another I'm dying to see when it's released on DVD: 

THE HUNT

I've also discovered a series of Swedish movies based on popular crime novels (all of which I plan to read) by writer Liza Marklund. They're called Annika Bengtzon: Crime Reporter, but I can assure you–there's nothing Nancy Drew about them. 

They're produced by the same people who made the Millennium Triology (the REAL "Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" movies) in Sweden, and they're available via Netflix streaming. 
 
Be warned: they're Pringles. You'll be in all weekend. Like the female characters in the Danish films, I love that Annika's character is strong, flawed and unapologetically real. And that she wears Converse sneakers instead of stilettos. 


Will I ever get there? Perhaps. My mom and I have played with the idea of a vacation to Scandinavia for years. I haven't taken a vacation in five years. I think I'm due.

Will I ever get there? To the ideological social oasis that I see progressive countries such as Denmark, Norway and Sweden embodying? I hope so, someday.

Although, right about now, I'd settle for meeting a nice Nordic guy who believes in sustainable farming and doesn't ever ask me to wear tube tops.