plus 
plus 
plus 
and 
Poor girl. I'd kill myself too if I had to work on "Forrest Gump." (I apologize to any fans out there.) Apparently, the Oscar-nominated make-up artist for the movie just shot her husband and then herself. Apparently, they were having marital problems. I wonder if she applied any gory special effects make-up before the bullet fest...
gh
Kevin Craswell, a company director from Epsom England, decided that riding the rails during afternoon rush-hour was a good idea. Problem was, he was drunk on a lethal amount of vodka, unconscious, and using the rail as a pillow. Oncoming trains were rerouted at the last minute so luckily - or unluckily (I sniff a Darwin Award Nominee?) - he was removed before he got flattened.
So Kudos to Craswell for putting his life on the (railway) line.
By the way, he pleaded guilty to "obstructing the railway by neglect." He neglected to send a gift, flowers or even say goodbye after spending the night with said rail.
PLUS 
EQUALS Ridin' the Rails - Unconscious
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Why is it so hard to make friends in L.A? Or is it just me? In
New York, I never seemed to have a problem. Perhaps, it was my destructive, late-night lifestyle. But whatever the reason, I have to believe there are ways to get to know people without making 'hiking dates' in
Griffith
Park.
I was going to start a book club but even the one I participated in in New York ended up to be a failure. It's not that I don't read. I read voraciously. But I'm also a little judgmental about the picks sometimes and, apparently, a little more laid-back about 'book club formalities' than some.
The first book club meeting I went to in New York was through my friend Nancy, who I think is the coolest on the planet, but the women there were all Yalies (I can make criticisms here since I too went to Yale) but these were the kind of Yalies I would never hang out with in college. They wore pashminas, drank mineral water, ate fat-free snacks and had made notes in the margins. I showed up with ripped jeans, a six-pack of Bud and no book - hadn't had a chance to read it let alone buy it. I mean, if I had been a homeless person pressing the buzzer I think they would have treated me better. Even when I had something of import to say (it wasn't that difficult to get involved in the conversation - interracial relations puh-leeze?) , they looked at me as if it must be the fleeting yet mundane clarity of a schizophrenic.
I love books. But I'm scared of book clubs. I really want to start one but I'm gun-shy. Maybe I should organize weekly bar crawls where no one is allowed to wear a pashmina and where
ripped jeans are mandatory.
versus
Take a vote...
Thursday, November 09, 2006
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There is this guy in our neighborhood of Silver Lake who spends most afternoons speedwalking in blue, athletic shorts, with no shirt, holding a neatly-folded newspaper and reading it AVIDLY WHILE he walks --- I still haven't determined what paper he's reading. Joe and I have wondered for months just what is up with this guy. We figured he was definitely crazy. Obsessive or compulsive in some way. Jobless (obviously because who would hire a shirtless speed-walking freak no matter how tanned his torso is and no matter how up to date on current events he is). So then, last week, I see him walking with two friends - sans newspaper. And they seem to be having a CONVERSATION. Like a normal social interaction. Then Joe comes home the other day and says his friend, Tami, lives next door to him and he's totally 'normal' - or whatever - and is an opthalmologist (did I spell that right?) So now I'm thinking I'm crazy. Is he just healthy and trying to committ to his workout at the same time he's keeping his eyes healthy? I feel like an asshole. And like I don't walk enough and my vision sucks.
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Unshallow Fat-Haters but Fat-Costume Lovers
I am up way too late watching"Shallow Hal" because my Ambien hasn't kicked in. And I'm laughing and totally enjoying it but there's this huge part of me that feels overwhelmed by guilt because shouldn't I find it offensive? Is it the sick 'ha - you can be ugly too!' I feel when I see Gwyneth Paltrow fat? But that's stupid because we all know she's not the fat one, she's the gorgeous, skinny one. Oooh damn you Gwyneth! Messing with our minds and hearts and expectations again! Is it because of Jack Black and he just makes everything okay. (sidebar: just thinking about voting stuff and that stupid Robin Williams movie - wouldn't it be great if Jack Black were president - seriously, I think he could do it)
FAKE REAL
Anyway, I feel really bad. Like I'm laughing at fatties and glorifying anorexics while watching this stupid movie. It's all so wrong... but so enjoyable. Oh, please God, let me meet a fat guy who is really Brad Pitt in a fat costume... I love fat people. But only if they can take it off at the end of the night.
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Okay, obviously my blog has turned into a "who could possibly be more depressed than me in the world" rant. But I think there's humor in that. There's something interesting there. I'm not looking for sympathy. Just for friends. Seriously. I need friends. I have like one. And she lives a few thousand miles away - in Santa Monica. The truth is, I refuse to believe there aren't others of me in L.A. And I'm looking to start a network. A network of friends who are depressed but not really because they can laugh and have a good time at parties and can be entertaining and seem really, really happy when they have to and accept every social invitation they get - which for me is none. And in the friends category... well, that's why I want to start a friends network. But seriously. There must be others out there. Others who are adrift but appear to be so brilliantly anchored and focused and fun that people just love to be around them. Let's all get together and love being around one another. It's sunny here. There are beaches. Griffith Park is cool. We could have fun! C'mon guys - let's DO IT! Although, the sun thing presents problems for me. I wake up in the morning and it's gorgeous and blue skies and blue fucking jays and people loving their convertibles and I feel as if it's all to spite me. Because I'm not having fun and the blue jays don't like me and I don't own a convertible. And I'm not famous. But I think there are lots of those here - meaning people who aren't famous. So let's take that out of the equation. But even the famous fuckers are depressed and lonely and really don't have any friends. I'm convinced of this. I don't know if it's because of the highways here. The distance between Santa Monica and Echo Park or the fact that people watch too much TV because that's their industry. But a few months ago, my boyfriend and I were at a party at Carrie Fisher's house. No, we weren't there because we're star-fuckers -- well maybe but without going through with the fuck part (although, I do have a story but since I'm in a serious relationship now, I'll save it). No, of course, we're not going to refuse the invitation because we only get like two a year. But the point is, it was like one of those birthday parties you plan last minute and just hope people will show up -- people you don't even really know but who will make you look cool and popular. Nobody seemed to really know eachother or know why they were there. There was, of course, Laverne and Shirley and a smattering of SNL alums (Kevin Nealon, Tim Meadows etc.) and some dude from "Desperate Housewives" but nobody seemed to really know one another or be enjoying themselves so I wondered why they were there. Could it be their lives were as empty and soulless as mine? Were they that desperate to accept any invitation (albeit it was Carrie Fisher's rad party house replete with two extra bungalows - one for 'Bachelors' and one for 'Bachelorettes'). I'm at the bar and Jason Lee is trying to avoid Courtney Love and mouthing to me, "Do you know anyone here?" "Um... no." I mouth back. Like I would. He didn't seem to understand I was a nobody, a non-celebrity, a depressed unfocused person who loves her latest anti-depressant because it simultaneously suppresses her appetite. For real, I don't eat anymore. Unless, it's Jack Daniels or chocolate. Or maybe he recognized me from my last stint as a Scientologist usher/janitor - that's the first level, you know. It gets much better they tell me. So I felt just as sorry for everyone there just as much as I felt bad for myself. Except for Beverly D'Angelo. Everybody loves her. I left feeling a lot better about myself. We're all lonely here. Mulholland Drive is as eerie as it seems in a David Lynch film. The "Hollywood" sign seems fake and smacking of "Fuck you - you won't make it or at least you won't be happy" to everyone. So let's all embrace it. And become friends with me. Because I need them. And I'm not working this week, have nothing to do and no one to call. And Howie Mandel can only hold my attention on "Deal or No Deal" for so long. No matter how much his head shines with the possibility of an awesome offer from the 'banker.' |
I'm staying at home today because no one wants to see my face. I had a bad day Monday -- well, bad, makes it sound much better than it actually was -- and I cried so hard that I burst a blood vessel in my eye. There is no longer any white in my right eye. The outside is no better. It looks like some cutting-edge Urban Decay make-up artist smeared blood-violet eyeliner and eyeshadow all over my eyelid. I tried to make the other eye match but I don't have any purple makeup.
The best part of it is it looks a little like someone punched me. I've always wanted to have a black eye. "Yes, I live a radical and violent life. I never know from one day to the next where I'll be sleeping or who will try to rape me." So I told the Chinese guy at my corner store that my boyfriend sometimes beats me. He didn't say anything. Just asked if I wanted three packs of Camels for the price of two. Still, I think, deep down, he cares.
So the crying jag was set off because I lost a briefcase containing all of my boss's financial information: bank accounts, credit card numbers, passwords, social security number -- everything anyone would ever need to know to royally screw up your life. Now, for the rest of my years on this decaying planet, I have to walk around knowing that I am responsible for any identity theft that might ever occur in this man's future. I have to quit my job. I'm not stable enough to be carrying around anyone's social security number.
Then I kept crying because of my life. I always thought that, by this point, I'd be a success. But for all intents and purposes, I'm kind of a nothing. Everyone tells me, "Oh, you should go to grad school." "Oh, you should write." But I want to act. And that's not happening but I refuse to cave. I'm holding out for the first quality reality show.
I looked for my copy of "Lost in Translation" but I guess I lent it to someone - someone who doesn't understand the depth of my dependence on that movie. I feel like Scarlett Johansson's character. Really what do you do with an English degree from Yale except make fun of people who don't know that Evelyn Waugh was a man? I just wish I had her ass and those sheer pink panties.
So, here I sit, watching "United 93" to cheer me up. Somehow, I feel it's my duty to absorb as many miserable details about September 11th as possible since it's my birthday. I even watched the HBO documentary that actually has extensive footage of those poor people hurling themselves out of flaming windows. I don't cut myself or anything. I just inflict inner pain.
I'm proud of myself, however, that I'm not reading "The Bell Jar" again. Instead, I'm flipping through Didion's "On Dying." It's really good. You know, if you like reading about death.
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A very unnerving thing happened yesterday - well two - but I'll go consecutively. I don't know if it's right to advertise the fact, but I'm going through a bit of a "thing" right now. "Thing" meaning breakdown. If you can't handle fear, self-loathing and an elephant-size sense of self-entitlement, read no further. Actually, no that's not true. That will, I'm sure, emerge in further postings but not this one. So read on. Unless I intimidate you because I'm so talented and humble. So I'm not working or doing anything really yesterday. And it's like 10 in the morning and, no, I feel absolutely no need to start rising and shining just yet. All of a sudden, I hear someone knocking on our apartment door. We have a doorbell but that does not fit into this equation since it doesn't work. I respond in my typical way by laying there and just listening. Then I hear a man's voice, "Hello! Hello!" I think he says something about a package but I'm sticking with my initial response. Finally, I hear him say something like "This is stupid" or "Whatever" - along those lines. And I hear him open my front door. Apparently, my boyfriend left it unlocked when he went to work. Yes, he works. Now, I have no idea why, but I'm not scared at all. I'm just... listening. Creak. I hear the screen door open. And then shut. And then silence. He's gone. So, being the sane and apparently adrenalin-less person I am - I just go back to sleep. I finally get out of bed about an hour later and sitting on my living room floor, beside the front door, is a manila package. It's from SAG - some screeening thing - that doesn't matter because it's a crappy TV movie with Thomas Hayden Church and Robert Duvall but anyway the point is, this guy just came in my apartment and left the package. I'm sure that's not in his job description. "If the tenant is not home, enter the premises and leave the mail." At first, I was stunned. I mean he could have done anything inside my apartment. Raped me. Microwaved a lean cuisine. Read my journal. I should have been pissed. But I wasn't. I was absolutely flattered. This dude went the extra step to ensure that I got my package. Because I'm sure he knew I was a lazy ass who wouldn't get out of bed to open my front door. |
