2Do's

I am to be abandoned in 12 hours. My two roommates, delightful people, are going out of town visiting which means I will be here alone to feed the kitties and to eat leftovers from Thanksgiving. We had a 22 pound turkey at our house for four people. 22 pounds because it only cost $7, how could you go wrong? We didn't. The cooking roommate did a great job all by herself and the cleaning roommates cleaned. But they are leaving tomorrow and I'll be here with a 'fridge full of food and two bags of rolls.

I can tell you what is going to happen tomorrow. I am going to eat two bags of rolls. I have rarely met a carbohydrate that I didn't like. I will also eat a lot of cranberry sauce and turkey and probably finish off the unopened bottle of Muscat in the 'fridge too. That will be my breakfast on Saturday.

I have no where to go this weekend and no one to see so it's going to be me all alone this weekend and a high-speed internet connection looking at old Avengers clips on YouTube! Oh, I might go out and see a movie, or take advantage of some sales, but besides the run I want to do tomorrow I am in the house.

I'll shower but I won't shave. I'll eat, but I won't clean. I'll do laundry but I won't fold.

This is my kind of Thanksgiving. I've got football on Sunday, and nothing of consequence to do.

Actually there is a ton of stuff I should do and I hope to get it all done. Kind of like getting a jump start on that term paper rather than waiting until the last minute.

So actually, I'll get up at 6:30am and get that run in, start some laundry, finish my workout, and get on with "my stuff to do".

Oh yeah, and eat some rolls.

Kurt

Hey, Hi, Yeah

Yes, I'm doing my Wednesday post on Thursday, and yes, it's Thanksgiving. That means that either a) I'm totally lame, or 2) I am the only one in this house in New York who is on west coast time. Truth to tell, traveling exhausts me, and so does a large family gathering, so really, 2 is bogus. I should be asleep. I just couldn't think of a second thing. The house is dark but for my lights here in the breezeway, and a wee kitteh is attacking my hands and feet, at intervals. She is unbelievably cute, perhaps two pounds of gray tabby gorgeous, and there's nothing she doesn't think is a game set down here on earth for her. My luggage, these many charger cords, a shoe, a lego, a bottle cap, you name it.

So, if you can't think of anything to be thankful for, just say "kittens." I'm telling you, this kind of cute could cure the worlds ills. And the world has so many ills. I'm not saying, "hey, Mumbai, sorry for the recent troubles, have a cat." This advice is for the regular person...the one who has so much of everything, it's obscene. The ones who have never really suffered from anything but bad personal decisions, and yet won't think of bringing home a stray dog, and can't find a thing good to say about their mother on Thanksgiving. But just you wait till that first Thanksgiving they have after their mother dies. Then it's all going to be about how abandoned they feel and how the stuffing will never be the same.

I guess we can blame this on the triptaphan - but in a world that's going to hell in a handbasket, I'm thankful. I'm thankful for my dear good friends, for the fact that the world is still here, for kittens. I'm even thankful for a holiday that makes you think about what you're thankful for. Which is where I end up on the whole question of whether or not we should celebrate on a day that, let's face it, did not bode well for the Indians. I get all that, believe me, but I don't think we're clinking our glasses to the Pilgrims anymore. It's about gathering around a table with people who matter and making sure they know it. It's about the harvest, People, and really appreciating what's what.

So if you're, say, still on the plane, once it's parked at the gate, and you call your ride, and after a short conversation with said chauffeur, have to complain non-stop to your boyfriend for 10 minutes (and maybe more) till they open the g.d. hatch - about that person and their attitude toward you on the phone, and how they should know by now to check a g.d. flight before they leave for the airport, then maybe, just maybe, you should be making other plans for next year. And maybe, if you can promise to do it right, maybe you should get a kitteh.

With thanks,
Jenny

To the Stars of Twilight

Kristen and Robert,

I’m…sorry, are we…bothering you? These millions of screaming fans are so annoying, huh? The instant wealth and popularity and job security (at least for the next couple years) must totally be the lamest. Is this interview too taxing? Because the way you’re slouching with one leg slung over the arm of the comfy chair we provided, massaging your temples and squinting I can’t help but think you must have a horrible migraine or perhaps you’re hungover from a night of underage binge drinking. I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that you’re really suffering from a misplaced and overactive superiority complex that, when combined with your run of the mill teenage angst, makes for a nasty and omnipresent scowl. Right? That’s it, am I right? In the immortal words of Jonathan Schmock as the Chez Quis Maitre D’ in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, “I weep for the future.”

My mother wouldn’t let me so much as shuffle in my flip-flops, let alone allow me leave the house with legwarmers on my arms, not having showered in days. Perhaps you were left at the steps of the Stella Adler Actors Conservatory when you were babies so you don’t have parents telling you to adjust your attitude. But you have publicists and they have to know that you look like a couple of jerks. And I mean that in the nicest way possible as I thought you more than held your own in Panic Room, little Kristen, and Robert, what’s not to like about you in Harry Potter?

Am I jealous? Sure, no doubt about it. Do I wish I had been a rich, gorgeous teen actor? Uh, it was only my life’s dream up until a couple years ago when I realized, to my disbelief, that I was 30 and twice the size of any starlet in the LA area. Am I a “hater” in general? Yep, you got me, and you probably don’t want to get me started on Tropic Thunder. But I’m not wildly off-base, am I? You kids should be a little more polite and animated. I don’t care if you’re “shy,” you’re an actor so act like you’re interested and interesting. Take a page out of Steve Carell’s handbook and show up to interviews humble and giggling and wide-eyed and appreciative and the world will love you for it. Plus, it’s your job, so just do it. At least you don’t have to work at movie theater or Spencer’s Gifts or McDonalds like the rest of us had to as teenagers.

If there is any justice in the universe, when you are in your mid-30s you are going to look back on this time of your life and be horrified by your behavior. You’ll dry heave at random intervals throughout the day due to the embarrassment you’ll feel when you remember how you’d throw your “sexy look” at any camera within range. You’ll consider taking out ads in Variety and The Report to apologize for coming off like you were God’s gift to acting. You’ll agree to appear in a mockumentary about sexy teen actors all grown up and you will be charming and funny because you will realize how ridiculous you once were.

In the meantime, comb your fucking hair, sit up straight and smile, goddamn it!

with love,

Gretchen

Oh, and I really do look forward to seeing your movie, I'll just have to wait until I can get it from netflix. I can’t bring myself to see it in the theaters because the whole idea makes me feel uncomfortable and old.

Confession

This came out more creepy than I intended.--Kurt

Abandoning my post...

Again.

So tie-tie. And I have a cold. Plus there are dishes to do, and knitting orders to complete, and well....yes, TV to watch. I have to round up the cats, and give Louise her insulin, and make coffee for the morning, and brush and floss, and put the laundry away. And it's past midnight. I have to make my list for tomorrow, which includes grocery shopping and the post office, and the pet store. And lets face it, the dishes I didn't do last night and the laundry I didn't fold. Because I'd not doing either of those tonight.

Oh, and a blog post. I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to be talking about what I'm doing. But there you have it. Next week is Thanksgiving, so I'm hoping that engenders more thoughtful post-prose, for both our sakes.

xoxo

Jenny

I just need five more minutes...

I have a problem with the snooze button, you guys. I snoozed for an hour and twenty minutes this morning. Okay, it was only an hour but when the alarm went off I reset it for a half hour later and then proceeded to snooze for nearly an hour when it went off again. I learned the hard way that the snooze function turns off at an hour after the initial alarm sounds because who in their right mind would snooze for over an hour? That’s easy, I would. And this is pretty much the way I’ve been operating for…well, I can’t even remember how long.

And how do I manage this incredible feat morning after morning after morning after morning without disturbing a slumbering Eric next to me? Because I’m sneaky, that’s how. I use the alarm on my cell phone. When it goes off at 6:40am, I reach down and retrieve it (it’s always in the same place so I don’t even have to open my eyes) and silence it with a quick double click of the volume meter. I then stick it under my pillow, my thumb placed on the snooze so that when it goes off at five minute increments I can press the button within a split second of the Jack-Dance theme music starting. And so it goes for an hour, the entire time completely harmless cell phone microwaves travel through my pillow and into my brain making me stronger and smarter and ready to start the day.

One would think that having a sleep interrupted every five minutes would leave a person tired, listless and frustrated. Nah, I’m not usually tired, listless and frustrated until after I get to work but that’s just because I love my job so much.

So what to do? Do I try and break the pattern or do I stick with what makes me happy because it doesn’t seem to have a negative impact? Why mess with it, right? I’ve always been a good sleeper, its one of my strengths and I take an odd sense of pride in being able to fall asleep anywhere at anytime. The snooze is part of me and I don’t want to give it up. It’s my “thing.” I totally have a “thing.” Sweet.

Snooze,

Gretch

Kind of Mother F*@(#$!@% Beer!

In the Burbank Non-International Airport, or "Bob Hope" there's a number of seating areas in between gates. They have no specific gate affiliation, and they're seldom crowded, but the luxury comes at the price of some worries - will I be able to hear them call my flight? How long before departure do they really start boarding? If I pick up all my crap and walk down there to the gate to check, will I lose my awesome, outlet-adjacent seat here in no-man's land? It is so prime!

And no-man's land is sponsored! It's hard to choose between a Las Vegas endorsement and the Budweiser scholarship - today I went with Anheuser Busch, and I think they were pleased that I elected them the King of Beers.

Peter

In the Spirit

I'm really into Christmas this year. I've already seen the decorations in the mall and just today I was at the fancy outdoor mall which is in preparation for their big holiday celebration on Saturday night. If I drank coffee I would go to Starbucks and get a drink in a holiday cup and watch the tree lighting ceremony.

Just the other day I was driving through Griffith Park and they are putting up their holiday lights which are fun to see too. I have even bought some presents already too.

But I don't want to talk about that right now. Right now I'd like to talk to you about something a little more serious: Erectile Dysfunction. I want to book one of those commercials, be it Viagra or Cialis. I want to be in an erectile dysfunction commercial where I run a heavy crane and I can't get the crane to pick up a car or something huge like an aircraft carrier and I go home and my wife is in bed and I put my hand on her shoulder and she turns away from me and turns out the light. The next morning I take 'the little blue pill' and suddenly the sun is shining brightly and my crane is picking up really heavy stuff like volcanos. I go home with my flannel shirt on and my wife, standing there gets immediately turned on and we go upstairs to the bedroom, and you know, do it.

We could do a whole series of commercials where I'm like Johnny Viagra Seed, prancing around the country planting pills in the hands of men instead of apple seeds in the ground. I'd go to strip clubs, coffee houses, anywhere men are that would need my "help". Everywhere I went (I'd be flying in a giant rocket at least the size of a Saturn V) there would be tweeting birds, happy squirrels, and a jester playing a lute heralding my arrival.

That. That is my Christmas wish for myself.

Kurt

Stymied

Seriously, until this week I've been telling myself what a wonderful lesson I'm learning with this weekly blog assignment. "See?" I would say to myself. "Blogs aren't evil after all. Here you are, doing your assignment, and learning how easy it is to come up with something to write about."

Well, my hubris birds are coming back to roost, waxy wings adroop. I got nuthin.'

Sure, technically, I've posted. And I'm not above clinging to that.

Humbly,

Jenny

IT'S GONE!

It’s gone, it’s GONE you guys!

Calm down, Gretchen. Take a deep breath and tell us what happened.

The abandoned car in the parking garage – the maroon two-door sedan with Missouri plates, covered in a half inch of dust – it’s gone!

Okay, it’s going to be okay. Just sit down. Can we get you a cup of coffee?

I don’t want your goddamned coffee! I want to find out what happened to the abandoned car!

Why don’t you just take a moment to calm down and tell us what happened.

What happened is that I pulled into the same parking spot I’ve parked in for over three years and my neighbor, the abandoned car, was GONE. Vanished. Just like its owner. Poof, into thin air. Why today? Why now? What made November 11, 2008 different than any other day in the years since that car has been parked there? Is this the change that Barack promised? Chances are, chances are, it was simply towed away…but what if it wasn’t? What if the owner returned from the past to retrieve the car and I wasn’t there to see it? What if he appeared just outside the elevator bay, four and a half years to the day since he accidentally tripped into that worm hole and was transported back to 1953? Four and a half years later the owner reappeared and reached into his pocket to find the key he’d carried with him every day in case today was the day he was going to be sent back. He shielded his eyes from the cloud of dust that erupted as he opened the door to the maroon sedan with Missouri plates. He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and was surprised when the car purred to life without so much as a hiccup. Smiling, he pulled out of the spot and up the two levels to present day Santa Monica. And I wasn’t there to see it!

But, Gretchen, you said yourself that chances are it was simply towed away, finally.

Sure. Sure, it was probably towed away. Fine. It’s just that, it was…

What?

It’s just that that car was one of my favorite things. And now it’s gone. It’s gone.

You really are a drama queen, Gretch.

Wow.

Can I interest you in that coffee now?

Yeah, I guess. (sigh)

I Got A Rock

Anyone who knows me knows that I love Halloween. And for those of you who don’t know me, I LOVE HALLOWEEN! I love it so much in fact, that for a great many years I’ve been purporting to be an “actor” just so that I would consistently have excuses to dress up. And thank god I’m not really pursuing an acting career, as my wardrobe of costumes would be the only evidence of such! That is, as opposed to actual stuff on a resumé. Ha. Haha.

Anyway, back to Halloween. I didn’t literally get a rock, which is unfortunate because that would imply that I got as far as throwing a sheet over myself and actually leaving the house. I didn’t leave the house. And that’s unfortunate because the costume I was working on was way better than Guy Wearing Sheet. And the thing about that is, I was struggling this year to come up with the perfect costume, which for me, is familiar enough that everyone will recognize it, but obscure enough that no one else will have thought of it. I was flirting with the idea of being Joe The Plumber, but dressing as Super Mario with a “J” on my hat instead of an “M.” The “J” being for “Joe,” you see... I know, I wasn’t crazy about that one either. But then, while shopping at a Spirit Halloween Store, I was haunted by the ghost of inspiration. With less than a week to go, I decided to put together a costume that I’d been wanting to do for a while. (Yes, I know I’ve been withholding the specifics of said costume, but with a whole year to go, I can’t be expected to tell you now. Granted, it’s questionable whether I will hold up my end of this blog until next Halloween given that I already haven’t posted in over a month, but sorry folks, that’s how I roll.)

Cut to Halloween night. I had successfully assembled all of the necessary accessories, and was well over the hump of completion. I was putting the finishing touches on my ambiguously awesome costume when disaster struck. As I was hot-glueing a patch of faux fur to the crotch of my pantyhose, my left index finger made contact with the glue. No harm done there, but I flinched and attempted to toss away the fur patch, like you do when your finger touches the hot glue on the back of it, and somehow the scalding swatch somersaulted onto the back of my hand, landing glue-side down across my fingertips. Again I flinched, like you do, and attempted to remove the hot fuzz from my left hand with my right. The following three seconds played out like a torturous gag as each time I attempted to flick it off, it would stick to the digits with which I was attempting to flick it. I hastily bound to my feet, wasting no time in spewing out shits, fucks, and every combination thereof like Exorcist puke. In the midst of my pained rampage of punching and kicking piles of clothes, bags of stuff, etcetera, I reactively tore a chunk of glue off of my middle finger which took with it a generous portion of skin. That was it. I collapsed on my couch, and overcome with painic (pain + panic), proceeded to blackout. It couldn’t have been for long though, as my unfortunate friend, Ged, who had to bear witness to this spectacle, didn’t even notice. I came to, feeling “weird,” and laid down on my bedroom floor with my hands wrapped around a bag of frozen vegetables, where I ached myself to sleep. By the by, I know that frozen peas are the recommended remedy, but mixed veggies were all I had on hand. Pun very much intended.

I awoke later that night feeling the way Linus must have felt after being stiffed by The Great Pumpkin. Halloween was over and I missed it. But considering that Linus didn’t burn the shit out of his hand, I would’ve gladly taken his experience over my own. In fact, I would’ve taken the experience of any of those Peanuts over my own. Even kissing a dog. But I’ll be back next year...with a fur-y. No pun intended.

- Mitchell

Never in a MILLION YEARS!!

This is going to be a short post this week.

I went to the cinema the other day and I saw Zack and Miri Make a Porno. There is NO WAY that a girl that hot would have anything to do with a guy that looks and acts like that!! Sure there are lots of instances of an ugly guy with a hot girl, but that is because the guy has a lot of money and can get good looking girls that balances out his looks. But in this movie and in a lot of the old CBS sitcoms where the frumpy guy has a hot wife is NOT REALITY.

I don't know what women want, but I do know they don't want a frumpy guy that can make them laugh.

Hot women don't like frumpy guys that are losers. Are you listening Hollywood!? Stop making fantasy movies about a crazy alternative universe where hot women sleep with, let alone even talk to loser guy.

Just stop it.

Kurt

The Land of Hope and Dreams

Well. I guess I should say something profound, but honestly, I'm not up to it. I, like Gretchen, am worn out. I am happy, yes. In fact, her words do reflect the feelings of this Big Hollywood member, but I don't cry as much. I think I should cry more, but that's a post for a much more serious blog.

But, it is serious, isn't it? It's rather a new feeling for us Democrats, this hopeful something, this giddy whatever. It's unfamiliar, and I'm nervous but excited about it. This is what the conservatives were trying so hard to hold on to. I can see where it would be hard to give up. But you have to share. You do.

My happiness is tempered, however. I am just so saddened by the apparent approval of Prop Hate, the constitutional amendment to define marriage in California as between a man and a woman. This way, if you ask the Mormons (who donated millions,) the world won't collapse. Our moral center (whatever that is) will remain strong. I, personally, have a marshmallow center. I don't believe in any organized religious anything, frankly, and yet I think about things like right and wrong, and good and bad. I daresay I think about these things more than a lot of the people who were giving so much money to the Yes on 8 cause. I'm trying to figure out who it hurts to treat everyone equally. I guess I bought the whole Constitution thing. Call me a cock-eyed optimist. Call me a citizen of these United States of America.

Maybe I'm the wrong person to ask. My husband and I were deeply honored in July to be asked to witness the wedding of two women we love very much, and who love each other very much. We were there. Our signatures are on the marriage certificate which is now framed and hanging on the wall in their house. You can't tell me that didn't happen, or that we didn't sign it, or that they aren't married. They got married when they did, for my husband Mark's sake. They wanted him to be a witness, and he was very ill and in the hospital. So they came to the ICU, after work on the 3rd of July, with a good friend who would officiate. And there amidst the whirring machines on the busy floor, they pledged their troth. It was just eight days before Mark died. Their ceremony was perhaps not ideal, given the hospital situation. But it was lovely. It was meaningful. And it was legally binding. I don't think this proposition undoes that, and it pisses me off that others think it does. It just makes frightened people feel better.

Maybe, given the cancer and the aforementioned death of my husband, I have a different perspective. One that goes like this: we have more important work to do. Now, yes, it's a free country, and you can run and hide, and pretend the world isn't the way the world is. You can imagine that the existence of gay people in serious relationships with one another can somehow diminish your life. But try turning your energies toward more positive pursuits. Use your time and money for good.

How about feeding the hungry? I bet you'd feel pretty good about that. Start a community garden. Involve yourself in your kid's education. Donate clothes to a shelter. Rescue a pound puppy or kitten. Teach people to read. There's just so much to be done. Look around, and fucking get something done. Something positive. Something that Jesus would do.

OK, hopefully happier, funnier things next time. I do have hope, all evidence to the contrary.

Jenny

The Election Trail of Tears

This election has worn me out. I’m so tired of crying. Seriously. More often than not they are tears of hope, love and excitement. I cried behind my huge sunglasses while waiting in line at my West Hollywood polling place this morning, moved by the turnout of my neighbors both young and old. I couldn’t help but feel so incredibly lucky to be participating in such a historic election. And the tears they did flow. I cry with pride when I hear updates from my dear friend Padma who’s been in Camp Obama these last few weeks, knocking on doors in Nevada, blogging for the Huffington Post and overall fighting the good fight. I couldn’t stop crying the day I found out my 51 year-old uncle registered to vote in Colorado. My mom called me from inside Mile High stadium in Denver back in June while Barack delivered his speech accepting the Democratic nomination. I couldn’t hear a thing, but I cried. My dad volunteered as a driver for the DNC and I cried quietly as he told me stories of the overwhelmingly positive energy and sheer numbers of those at the convention. I cried after hanging up with my mom yesterday, she’d called to let me know that my brother had voted for Barack. She was crying lots of happy tears as she told me – guess I know where I get it from.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say some tears of fear snuck their way in there. Fear and frustration and anger. There was a kid waving a “Yes on 8” sign on my way in to work this morning and I yelled “BOOOO” at him. My voice was full of such anger and derision, that I almost didn’t recognize it. Then I cried in embarrassment, because you can't fight hate with hate (even though yelling at that little homophobic a-hole felt awesome). Watching Sarah Palin at the Republican National Convention confused me so much that I couldn’t find words much less tears. But once the crazies started coming out of the woodwork to support her, I cried in sadness that there is half of this country that I don’t understand at all and with whom I’m sure I will never agree on anything. And then the tears of sadness turned to those of horror, knowing that the vote of a narrow-minded, homophobic, racist out there counts just as much as mine. And that just makes me want to drive to a trucker bar on the California/ Nevada border and pick a fist-fight with the biggest guy I can find. I’d probably cry in pain if I managed to survive that.

I cried when I saw the documentary Young @ Heart a couple weeks ago. It had nothing to do with the election but it made me cry so hard that my eyes were swollen for two days. But still, my tear ducts weren’t done.

I cry when I think about the future. The near future of a few hours from now - I imagine the networks calling the election for Barack and I crumple into a ball of relief. And the far off future when my kids will ask me what it was really like during the Bush Administration and what it felt like to have Barack come on the scene. And I will tell them of the time way back in 2004 while driving home from work I listened to the Democratic National Convention on NPR and there was this guy whose name I didn’t get but who delivered a speech full of such hope and beauty that I found myself moved to tears. And that man was Barack Obama and how I felt like I discovered a band before anybody else had heard of them. So I cry thinking about a future in which I’m telling a story about a time I cried in my past. Do you see how crazy this is becoming?

I cried the entire time I wrote this post and I think my assistant is scared.

I’m going to try and keep myself hydrated,

Gretch

*my views do not necessarily reflect those of the other Big Hollywood Big Time Big Shots. We don't talk about politics which is probably why we've remained friends all these years.

Moving Day(s)

I moved this past week, and let me tell you, it's not anything new to me. In the past four years, I have moved all or partially 4 or 5 times. Sure that first one was the worst. Emotionally unready to leave my 7+ year cloister on the second floor of a most perfect apartment, I bought a house that was not much bigger and no where near any place I knew. That one was rough. I had barely packed - without friends, I'd be living out of U-Haul truck now.

Then I moved North. In stages, and in varying degrees of readiness. I've been spread over 400 miles of I-5 for the past 20 months, as well as over the 49 square miles of SF, and the 280 to San Jose. You get used to it: the boxes, the missing glasses, the giving away of the ONE thing you need two weeks later. 5 days prior to taking my new apartment, I had unpacked boxes that had been packed some 4 years earlier. Perfect.
I have always relied on the kindness of strangers friends for my moves - and I had caused them all a lot of grief for that kindness. Unpacked kitchens, Thanksgiving traffic jams, cold pizza - the list goes on. This one would be different, organized and smooth. And for the most part it was. Materials largely ready, enough boxes, plans made - and it went according to them.

But in the middle of the smoothest move of my life, surrounded by laughing and smiling faces, I heard a snap: it was the camel's back, and that was it. I'm done. No more of this. Maybe it was because I wasn't stressed enough about the move to avoid thinking about how ridiculous it was that I'm having my friends help me move. I think I probably spent more money doing it that way than renting two dudes and a truck. I'd be much happier buying friends beers for fun than for lifting heavy things. I mean, they're my friends - why would I make them lift stuff??

Anyway. In a year or two or three, will see if my newly held conviction holds up, but for now…I'm done.

Peter