September 27, 2008
Losing My Virginity (Again)
Okay, so I felt like a 27-year-old virgin in the whole joining the Facebook thing. I mean, almost everyone I know did it first and talked about it, and they all made it sound great. (But it's not the whole "40-year-old virgin" thing because, hello, at least I've known about Facebook forever and have chosen to stay away from it much in the same way I stayed away from the MySpace forever because, dammit, I was already on the Friendster and now I was already on the Twitter and for the love of GAWD, how many connections does a Bonnie need?)
Anyway, it had reached critical mass. I was hearing pretty much every day that I should be on the Facebook. That I should get on that, tap into my audience (because having 50K hits per week on my column apparently isn't enough communing with the masses), and then we had our Bluelines Proofer Patrol Party for the third edition of Self-Management for Actors and I was told about the FAN PAGE thingy and decided that would be cool. (Thank you, Rose.)
So fine. I did it. I finally did it. I held out for ever and ever for the man of my dreams and then realized I probably wasn't going to meet him before I was too old to enjoy the ride and I finally gave in to the Facebook and it was fine. Fine, fine, fine. Good first time. Nothing too wildly beyond expectations. Nothing Earth-shattering. Now I get it. Okay. Good. Check that one off. Okay.
NO ONE TOLD ME THAT THE FACEBOOK WAS CRACK.
I'm sorry, but I think it's only the responsible thing to do to follow, "Oh! You're not on the Facebook? You really should be," with a, "And it's totally crack, so be ready to be addicted on your first hit. You will not be able to turn away. You will search out everyone you've ever known. The 'friend suggester' will be uncannily accurate. You will mind your own business and be sought out by people you've forgotten existed. You will play Scrabble (only it isn't really Scrabble. It's more like Boggle and therefore it's called Scramble, and either way, you won't be able to stop). You will be offered plants and toys and karma. You will be given flair and little green things and invitations to bite and be bitten. You will also be offered advice from the Facebook regulars about how much of the above you should accept." But no one will tell you whether deleting a poke is a good or bad idea. No one will explain what happens if you deny a friend request. And no one can make sense of the whole "upload photos to a gallery at a fan page and suddenly it all shows up in your profile page" thingy... especially when the whole reason you created both was to keep the both separate. (Damn tags.)
No one will tell you why it is that you NEED to update your status several times a day and why it is that you wear like a badge of honor the fact that you went 20 whole hours without visiting the site--not even from your mobile device! THAT'S HUGE!!
So, as much as I enjoyed "getting it over with" and losing my virginity and getting what it was all about and finally being in on the whole thing and thinking I've absolutely done the right thing by having held out for as long as I did (Yay, me!) and then finally caving in before I was so damn old that I couldn't appreciate the dang thing (Bigger yay, me!), I just wish any one of the five HUNDRED people who said, "You need to be on the Facebook" could've told me that it would completely and totally change my life in terms of swooping up loads of hours I already didn't have to donate... just to beat my damn top Scramble score.
Facebook, I hate you more than I've ever loved the MySpace. And I'm not just saying that because the MySpace version of this blog post will strip out the Facebook links and call them "suspicious for phishing." Egad, how that "banned at the other place" vibe makes me want you that much more!
You've not just taken my virginity, Facebook, you've made me need you several times every day. You greedy, greedy HOT bastard. Oh, how I love being seen with you!
September 23, 2008
Riddle Me This
Okay, so here's the chronology. There will be an opinion poll at the close of this entry. I look forward to your feedback. I'm stumped.
Our downstairs neighbor Bob gets carted off in an ambulance. (This happens more and more frequently lately. He's a really cool guy that still owns every newspaper he's ever touched--all stacked in his apartment catty-corner below ours--and he's been getting less and less stable with his health over the years. At first, he'd go in about twice a year on a gurney. Now, it's up to about once every six weeks and his grandson has been living with him for the past two years or so. He's on Meals on Wheels and he hangs out in his wheelchair with his mobile oxygen tank when he wants to visit with neighbors outside. Very cool guy. But his health is going.)
So, it's no big shock when fire/rescue comes and does the usual. Except that within 20 minutes of his departure, there's an overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke entering our apartment. I smell it (I have a VERY sensitive sense of smell, unfortunately) and even Keith smells it (he does NOT). "Hmm," I say. And I begin to wonder if it's Bob's grandson lighting up now that Bob and his oxygen tank are out of the apartment or if it's our new neighbor (also catty-corner below us, but farther into the center of the building) with her weekend guests over, sitting out on the patio enjoying smokes with cocktails (something we witnessed the past two weekends since she's moved in, although the smell never wafted into our digs before).
No biggie. It'll go away soon, I figure. Keep on workin'.
So then Keith and I go to the gym for a late swim. We come home and Bob's grandson is being brought home to drop off Bob's bag of belongings from when he was carted away and is going in to pick up an overnight bag while his friend waits in the driveway. They arrive right as we return from the gym. So, there's very low likelihood that the smoke was Bob's grandson's, since he has probably been with Bob all evening, not just during the window during which we worked out at the gym. Hmm. Okay. So it's probably the new neighbor girl. No biggie. It's not smelling now. Probably over with.
Keith is at gaming. I've gotten showcase work and my columns done and am now spending a little time on my new addiction (the Facebook), learning that Scramble is more like Boggle than Scrabble, but either way it's awesome and really fun.
The cigarette smoke smell starts up again. I light a candle to try and cut the smell. I do my Wii Fit and Dance Dance Revolution, but there's difficulty because of this tickle at the back of my throat when I breathe harder. I play Scramble on Facebook 'til all hours of the night. The smell never goes away. Even when I come to bed (after 4:30am), I can smell it. It's in our walls, I'm afraid. I am choking as I try to sleep. It's bad. Bleh.
Keith gets out of bed and I ask if he can smell it. "No." Of course not. He can't smell anything (even though he could the very first time it happened). It's actually distracting me from sleep. This is not good.
But when I get out of bed a couple of hours after Keith does and get to work on showcase stuff, I realize the smell is gone and think, "Okay, so it is Bob's grandson or it is the new neighbor girl or maybe it's even a new habit taken up by our super-healthy marathon next-door neighbor, although I highly doubt that. Maybe it's an across-the-way neighbor and it's just time to close the windows on the north side of the apartment," but since the smell is gone I'm not too worried about it. Maybe it's all over.
Keith says to let him know as soon as I smell it again and he'll check outside to see if he can tell where it's coming from. Not that we'll ask anyone to stop smoking in their own home, of course! But we'll be able to close a window or ask them to close theirs or something, if it's going to be obnoxious.
We're home from the showcase meeting and the smell is still gone. I am very happy. I begin to check email and eat a little dinner when... yup. It starts up again.
Note: I am always sitting at my desk when the smell starts up. But once I smell it, seated there, it's something I can smell in the bedroom too (also against the same neighbor's wall of the building, if that makes a difference). But it ALWAYS starts when I'm at my desk. (Of course, I'm at my desk nearly 20 hours a day, so that's a safe bet, statistically, anyway.)
Keith heads outside to sniff it out. He returns moments later, "Honey, I'm not smelling it."
At this point, I'm sure I've had a stroke or something, because the smell is just overwhelming to me.
Keith lights a candle and I try to focus on Facebook for a minute. Finally, the smell is just so all over me that I decide to go to bed early and without my Wii Fit (FIRST TIME IN 70 DAYS I'VE MISSED A WII FIT WORKOUT!!!!!!!!). I'm pissed.
The smell of cigarette smoke remains. Keith gets out of bed. "Do you smell it?" I ask him. "No, honey, I don't. I'm sorry."
DAMMIT! Now I'm convinced I have a ghost following me around and smoking over my right shoulder, since it's always on my right that I smell it (seated at the desk or in bed--both would put that side of me at the same wall of the apartment, if that matters).
I am seriously OVER this.
So, now, as I type this and I am the only one who smells this, its source cannot be identified, and it's seriously driving me batty, I want to survey the masses. Please register your votes in the comments and if you have any suggestions (other than, "Leave the house more often,"--DUH!), I'd love to hear 'em.
Bonnie's cigarette smoke experience is most likely due to:
A. Bob's grandson.
B. new neighbor girl.
C. across-the-way neighbor with an open window.
D. marathon next-door neighbor.
E. a mild stroke.
F. a ghost visiting.
G. other: __________ (please explain).
Thank you. My ghost, my stroke, and my neighbors all thank you.
September 19, 2008
Casting in 2008
So last week I was asked to cast a spec ad for the Obama campaign. Very exciting. The producer is one I've been working with for a few years on one of my top two favorite screenplays ever (will be casting soon, I promise) and the writer/director writes things like Bourne movies and the DP shoots Soderbergh's stuff, yada yada yada. Yes. This was a big YES project for me.
Yesterday was the first day of shooting and Keith was on set both as a casting liaison and an actor (they wrote in a role for him after meeting him at auditions last week). I was home working on scene assignments for the November showcase. Started the day with 57 top scenes to choose from and ended up having (loosely) cast everything by midday, then charged in to do formatting and punch-up with my producing partner. (Yes, even the most brilliant scenes need work, as they're rarely "balanced" for two characters equally, and once we know who's playing what role, we can work in things that really showcase the actors' strengths.)
I got a call from Keith mid-morning telling me that the guys had written in another scene to shoot today. They needed a _____ (insert type, age, gender of the actor, here) and wanted to know if I could find someone right then. Keith and I brainstormed for about 90 seconds on the phone and came up with a couple of ideas, but realized they were all just "off" in some way (not the right age, too white-collar-looking, not Midwest-looking enough, etc.), so I suggested that Keith use his iPhone to show the guys some showcasers we had cast in the past two years. Let them shop for what they want at our gallery!
So, Keith hung up and showed the guys various actors from the HISTORY links at the showcase website (their headshots are all there, even after the showcase term is over). He then called me with a short list and we discussed whether it was worth even reaching out to one of the actors because he was a huge pain in the ass to work with and did we want to subject these most awesome spec ad people we adore to someone who WE wouldn't want to work with again, etc., and the decision was made to go after this one guy and then this other guy if the first guy couldn't do it. That would be our list.
Instead of having me call and try and book the guy, I had Keith call him from the set, since he'd have much more detailed information about this new scene than I would, seeing as it materialized right there on the set during the shoot (God, I love creative people!) and I'd just have to relay and say, "I don't know. I can find out," a lot. So, I sent Keith the guys' numbers and he called me back a few moments later to let me know that this guy accepted and would be emailing me at an address Keith gave to him (an address you don't have for me unless I've cast you in something), so I could send him the contract, call sheet (pre-his-character version, of course), and get his info over to wardrobe so the process could flow through quickly.
In under an hour, we went from this scene not even existing to this guy cast and on the phone with wardrobe--contract and call sheet in hand--and it's all because of the iPhone and teamwork and creativity.
I love it!
Now, I don't cast commercials. (I cast a series of print ads for SAG Indie's 10th Anniversary campaign a couple of years ago and one promo for On Air with Ryan Seacrest about five years ago, but that's it!) So, maybe this sort of thing happens all the time with creative people making up new stuff on the set and having casting get actors locked in FAST. So maybe this isn't all that impressive. But I work on indie films, pilots, and the occasional 99-seat play (sometimes for MONTHS and MONTHS), so this all moved very fast for me and felt pretty dang bad-ass, when it was all said and done.
So, there's some casting in 2008 for ya.
In other news, none of my clothes fit anymore (Yippee!); we have our biggest showcase cast ever (Yippee!); we had the Self-Management for Actors 3rd edition bluelines proofer party this week and found only two changes to make before greenlighting the print-run, which began yesterday and soon thousands of copies of this most awesome book will be hurtling toward Los Angeles and our international distributor's warehouse (Yippee!); and I will probably be joining the Facebook this weekend (NO YIPPEE. I've caved in to peer pressure. NO YIPPEE. I am WEAK! So there. NYAH).
September 14, 2008
I don't care about your politics.
Stop subjecting me to it.
Let me clarify.
Stop subjecting me to it in places I don't expect to find it, places I don't visit to find it. If you're politically passionate and I know that about you, I'm probably not visiting your blog (or MySpace page or Twitter stream or whatever) right now because I really just don't give a shit how you feel about anything political and since that's all you can seem to talk about right now, I'll just avoid places where that's gonna happen. No prob.
We can live in peace while you go on and on and on about the importance of whatever issue and I ignore your incessant ramblings. We'll reconnect when you've gotten it out of your system. Great.
But when you come in to my email world and blast me with "sign this petition" and "forward this email" and "raise money for this cause" and "boycott this product" and on and on and on, I am seriously ready to warn you: I've reached a breaking point and am considering doing bodily harm to you. Or at least making a voodoo doll of you and poking it. A lot.
BONUS: When you blast these emails to everyone in your address book and don't bother to BCC the list. This means that every flippin' one of the sometimes 1000+ people you've emailed all at once now has 1000+ new email addresses in front of 'em, and while I'm sure your friends are all very nice people, I get enough fucking email every day as it is. I do NOT want some fuckwit in Wisconsin hitting "reply to all" on your gawtdam email about your political passion, continuing the debate "in public."
Look, I don't mind debates.
I don't mind passionate people.
And if I see you in person and we want to talk politics, you bet, I'll have at it.
But I never provided my email address to anyone (not a family member, not a friend, not a co-worker, not an actor, not ANYONE) in order to receive BLASTS about how YOU FEEL about politics. Nope. Didn't sign up for it. I'm opting out of all your bullshit emails. All of them. Yep. You send me bullcrap about your political agenda--even if I agree with it 100%--and you're done sending me email. Period. New mail rule: Straight to trash, unread.
I can avoid blogs and MySpace pages and Twitter streams when I don't want to be subjected to political whatnot. But when you come into MY SPACE and blast your agenda, uninvited, it's the same thing as if you called me on the phone and read from a script about the damn issue. I'd hang up on you and block your number. So, I'm doing that online now.
I remember thinking others should absolutely care about my political opinions. The very first election in which I was old enough to vote, I got so involved that I wrote up a 14-page bullet-point list of why I was voting the way I was voting and actually sent it to my "other party" best friend and to my "other party" cousin. I thought it was awesome that I was so passionate and informed and involved at such a young age. And shouldn't they want to see that?
Nope. I'm surprised they bothered to speak with me after that.
Look, wear your campaign button. Put your campaign bumper sticker on your car. Put your campaign sign up in your front yard. Go to rallies where you can gather with others who want to yell and stand together and debate and cheer and whatever else. And when I want to do those things, I will do them too.
YES, I am very, very, very passionate about issues I feel strongly about and YES, I am very, very, very opinionated about how I'm gonna vote and why.
Here's the difference between me and all of these simps who keep blasting the emails: I don't give a CRAP how you vote or how you feel about the issues that are important to you. Now, let me qualify that.
I absolutely, sometimes, give a very big crap about how you feel and will engage you in conversation about that when so inspired. I may even visit your blog or MySpace page or Twitter stream now and then--when I'm in the mood to consume such stuff--to see how you're feeling about any one particular political issue.
But I'm not likely to engage in debate with you unless we're out together in person, sipping cocktails and having an intelligent, inspired, passionate conversation about our positions.
I do not log in to my email accounts to read a BLAST of your opinions. I don't fucking care. I didn't sign up for your "opinion emails." And I'm certainly not going to change my political views just because you're obsessed with blasting me about yours.
Just like none of the 50,000 weekly readers of my column visit to find out what I think about the upcoming elections (and duh, could you possibly know me and have read anything I've ever written ever and not figure my political leanings out? Duh), I didn't share my email address with you so that you could cram your political opinions down my throat.
I don't care about your politics.
One person actually asked me what extreme thing (from a list of things) she should do in the name of raising funds for her favorite issue.
"I'll donate money to your cause if you promise to shut the fuck up about it forever and ever."
That's more extreme than any tattoo-getting, head-shaving, or Peace Corps-joining any day.
(And I know it's futile to rant about how forward people want to be about sharing their political opinions. They're gonna keep doing it. They can't help it. And it's their right to do so. But dammit, now I have a link to send the assholes who think I invited their bullshit into my inbox, the next time it happens. Which I anticipate to be any minute now. The stream is endless, it seems. *sigh* So, you got an email from me in reply to an issue-laden email blast I never signed up for in which there was a link to this blog post? Great. Now you know. I'll never see any of your emails again. The "straight to trash" rule has been applied to your email address. Congrats!)
September 12, 2008
12 of 12 for Sept08
I think I've found a great way to continue doing 12 of 12s (because I was thinking about being done). TwitPic + iPhone = cutting out about three of the most inefficient steps in the 12 of 12 process. (That'd be taking too many photos and weeding down to the right 12, cropping and thumbnailing the 12, and remembering the clever captions for those 12 long after I've taken way too many dang photos anyway.)
So, awesome! Lemmeknow if this works for y'all. ;) I'm feelin' pretty brilliant and definitely more eager to continue the 12 of 12 now that I've saved myself a bunch o' hours! New to 12 of 12? Visit Chad Darnell for all the info.
1:11pm: I am the girl of a hundred lists! Confirming tomorrow's Obama spec ad auditions first. Then on to showcase business and sending gifts to proofers.
3:13pm: Taking my daily dose of Perfect Food Super Green Formula. I love this stuff. It's especially great with cold leftovers. Yum!
4:27pm: Countersigning a Cricket Feet Showcase writer's release. Submission deadline in a half-hour! :)
6:01pm: On our walk. Our next door neighbor's succulents always make me think of Courtney and Renee, two friends from totally different times in my life who always remind me of one another.
6:13pm: Headed north of Montana to look at houses again. Our ritual! Real estate shopping! :)
6:24pm: Pretty house on 11th and Alta. Hummingbirds divebombing all over the place. I so love where we live!
6:34pm: Still on Alta. LOVE the glasswork in this door! Stunning! And their front yard is made for sipping cocktails and reading scripts! It's like a back yard with a patio and loads of grassy goodness.
6:46pm: Fresh cement and a recent walk-thru by a puppy dog outside 601 15th St. (which is a stunning compound with a gorgeous water garden in front). Hee! So cute, those puppy prints!
7:02pm: 616 19th St. It's not for sale, but maybe if we asked nicely. ;) Just met a real estate agent walking her dog. This area is pricey! But sooo pretty! She was on caravan through one of the houses we were looking at and recalled it to be $3.9M or $4.2M. Signs up EVERYWHERE for open houses Sunday. EVERYWHERE.
7:17pm: Keith's next car. Ittybitty!! My next car, however, will be a big 'un. ;) Hoping the FX-45 goes hybrid soon. :)
8:05pm: Home after an incredible two-hour walk ready to dive into a scrumptious Subway salad and then the longest shower of my life. Ahhhh... (And yes, it was a long shower and I actually "ahhhhhhh"ed several times during it. Now for a bit more work and then it's bedtime. Long day tomorrow. Very exciting!)
Thanks, Chad, for another wonderful 12 of 12 experience. :) Kiss, kiss!
September 10, 2008
The Bliss of Flow (AKA: Growing Up Gillespie)
For all of the not-so-goods that came with growing up me, there were a lot of goods too. A lot of really goods.
But one of the not-so-goods involved living in a house in which the dominant mood set the tone for all other occupants of that house.
While Mom had a temper, she wasn't often angry. When she was, it was ugly, but luckily it was one of those experiences no one had to encounter too often. The fear of encountering it was quite enough.
What Mom was, though, was very much influenced by what others did or thought or said or felt about her. And for a good part of my adult life (and certainly throughout all of my childhood and teen years), that was my way of living too.
If Kenneth was drinking, Mom was in despair. If Bill was ignoring us, Mom was indignant. If Daddy was a no-show, Mom was furious. If Heddy was micromanaging us, Mom was stubborn. If WL was leaching, Mom was depressed. If I was being bullied at school, Mom was in crisis.
And whatever Mom felt, we all felt. The very walls of the house took on the tint of Mom's moods. She was that powerful a force. Still is, sometimes.
What I only got to see as Mom lived the last decade of her life was a beautiful new world in which Mom's emotional tone was not (as much) dictated by those in her life and what those folks were doing, saying, thinking, or feeling. For the first time, Mom was feeling how SHE was feeling. And it was beautiful to see that, because it was so very different than how most of our days together had been.
And so much more pleasant.
Somehow, in her last few years on the planet, Mom was less consumed by what others thought. (Not entirely disinterested, but absolutely LESS consumed, and that was an important distinction to experience.) She was less emotionally attached to what others were doing or saying or thinking or feeling. And suddenly, she cared less about whether everyone in her sphere of influence went on her emotional journeys with her.
She became an old woman who wore purple, basically.
This is on my mind today because I realize that I, in my 30s, have gone from being the kind of person who felt extreme highs and lows because of what others did or said or thought or acted like they MIGHT have thought or how they glanced at me in a way that would make me THINK they MIGHT have thought something about me or anything I cared about (God forbid, anyONE I cared about) to being the kind of person who gives less than a flying fruit loop what anyone else is thinking, doing, saying, feeling about ANYTHING...
especially what they're thinking about me, doing to me, saying about/to me, feeling about me.
I remember hearing the quote, "What others think about you is none of your business," back when I was in my late teens or early 20s. I thought it was brilliant. I wrote it down. I tried to make it a mantra. I really tried to believe it. I really tried to live it.
But that's the big difference between me 10 or 20 years ago and me now.
I don't try so hard anymore. I just BE.
And I do it without apology and certainly (more and more, lately) without giving a second thought to what others might think or feel or say or believe about what it is I'm doing or how I'm living.
Because I'm now acutely aware of what my mom waited until she was in her 60s to finally understand even a little bit.
How we feel about what others are doing, saying, feeling, or thinking has nothing to do with THEM and everything to do with us. And since that means that I get to CHOOSE how I feel, EVERY time, I'm just going to choose to feel great. And that means I do what feels good RIGHT NOW, every time.
Selfish? You betcha.
It's about damn time.
And I am amazed how bliss-filled living in my home feels. Keith is the perfect partner to this flow because he RARELY feels any attachment to what others think or do or say or feel. Sure, he cares about me. Sure, he wants me to be happy. But if he comes home feeling great and I'm in a shitty mood, he does NOT let that change his mood.
Basically, the walls here do NOT take on the tint of the dominant mood.
Oh, shit. Or maybe they DO.
Hold up! Yes they DO because the dominant mood is always "WHATEVER" here.
We're just so happy to be who we are, when we are, where we are, how we are that there is nothing but "blissed out" going on around here, and when the pissy mood or the crabby mood or the stubborn mood or the bullied mood or the low-tolerance mood comes through, it's as fleeting as we choose to let it be.
If we wallow in it, that's a choice.
And with choice being such a powerful tool, we use it wisely.
Feeling like shit is a choice. Even if you're feeling like shit because of something someone else "did to you."
I grew up in a home where we gave away a lot of power. We let others dictate how we felt an awful lot of the time.
What a waste!
Why let anyone else drive your emotional, psychic/spiritual, or mental car one moment more than it takes to realize you've handed over those keys?
Dear GAWD, I'm thrilled to get this NOW rather than 30 years from now.
Feeling like shit? Choose a better feeling. Right now.
That's all there is to it.
Certain you can't choose a better feeling? That's a bad place to be. It's also not true. You can ALWAYS choose a better feeling. I'm not saying "drastically better," here. "One note up the scale better" is enough to get going in the right direction.
Or not. ;) Maybe you're super happy exactly where you are. Awesome. If being miserable makes you happy somehow, that's so dang cool. Keep choosing that.
I no longer feel responsible for keeping anyone else happy. I TRUST that you're going to take care of your choices and live your fullest life.
That's what I'm doing.
And while people rarely like hearing that others are happy (Weird, isn't that? Such a sad trait humans have, not liking seeing others happy in public.), I'm unapologetic about it. I logged plenty of years being less-happy because I thought it would serve some purpose. Nope. It only served to make me "less than." And that doesn't help anyone.
September 9, 2008
November 2008 Cricket Feet Showcase Cast Announced!
Congratulations to our November 2008 Cricket Feet Casting Actors Showcase CAST!
Note: This will be our last showcase of the three-showcases-per-year schedule. Starting in 2009, the Cricket Feet Showcase will take place only ONCE per year!! So, help us celebrate the end of YEAR TWO by welcoming the new cast!
Let's meet 'em, shall we?
Links to actors' official actor profiles (with resumés, demo reels, and all that good stuff) will be coming soon at the CAST page of the Cricket Feet Showcase website. Congratulations, everyone! And THANK YOU to all of the amazing actors who auditioned for our November 2008 showcase.
September 7, 2008
Twitter has ruined me for blogging.
That's really all it comes down to.
I no longer go to the trouble of logging into Movable Type, choosing the appropriate blog in which to compose, composing a blog entry, finding appropriate image files, editing image files to the right size for my blog's configuration, uploading the images, linking the images, editing the entry and linking back to anything I reference, and then copying the whole thing and logging in at MySpace to paste it into a blog entry there. And while there, having to deal with any number of friend requests and photo tags and blah blah blah.
Instead, I post a big 140-character thought whenever I have it over at the Twitter. I see what my favorite Twitterers post right on my iPhone. It's a new day. If I can say it in 140 characters, I'm gonna. And if it needs more characters than that, it's probably gonna be a column. Or it'll wait. And then it'll be over. And oh, well, nevermind.
So, sorry blog readers who feel abandoned. I'm still around. And Twittering all the damn time.
But if I bothered to blog lately, I'd talk about the pain of coming down from 4.5 weeks of "book mode" and how happy I am that--as hellish as "coming down" is--this time I don't celebrate this accomplishment with a migraine that sends me to bed for five days. Ah! Keith was right! That's why I don't recall coming down from book mode being such a pain in the ass, previous times. I've been unconscious for those. This time... I'm getting to FEEL it. And it's almost all emotional and OCD-related and way majorly about using my personality defects to drive my accomplishments for short periods of time and then having to downshift out of those defects in order to ever be able to interact with real-life humans on a day-to-day basis.
I'd talk about being totally obsessed with "the house hunt" lately. It's ridiculous how off I get on calculating mortgage rates and square footage and whether a pool could fit in that yard and on and on and on. And our timing couldn't be better. Since we got together over seven years ago, Keith and I have been talking about the timeline for cleaning up his divorce-abused credit and saving up enough to buy a house in LA (preferably in Santa Monica, which is INSANELY expensive). And holy cow if the economy hasn't done exactly what my brilliant husband predicted it would do... and we are so right in line for pouncing on Our Perfect Home within the next 16 months. ROCKSTAR!
I'd talk about our lovely walks at night, in total appreciation of our neighborhood and its inhabitants. Last night, our walk was one of the best ever and we basked in the afterglow of having met really great people and animals and properties and plants and on and on and on for hours after returning home for a datenight of COPS, America's Most Wanted, and champagne. Ah, we're so white trash. I love it!
I'd talk about my ridiculously low tolerance for people who can't read. Seriously. The level of reading comprehension among those who've been emailing me lately is a slap in the face of every teacher that ever sat a kid down and tried to instruct anything ever. Whenever I want to feel like we, as a nation, are "smarter than that," I only have to open my inbox to be reminded that there's a whole mess of people out there walking around like they have a clue who absolutely cannot read, will not read, will read and decide that what they read couldn't possibly have anything to do with them, and CAUSE ME MORE WORK because of that. New approach? Just fucking ignore it all. I'm not answering the emails. I'm not replying. I'm not even returning the phone calls. If you do not meet a baseline of reading comprehension and the ability to READ what I've already fucking written about the subject, I'm sorry, you don't get a reply. Ever. I'm sure you'll blame it on the Internets for sucking your message away.
I'd talk about the bliss that is letting something you thought you cared a lot about GO and then--seriously, at that exact instant--receiving an email explaining that you've been tapped to be a part of something in which you believe so completely by someone whose fan you've been forever.
I'd talk about all of the gearing-up going on. It's ridiculous. (And yes, I know that's the official word of this post. I know.) It's invigorating. It's exciting. It's exactly right on.
I'd talk about my obsession with Wii Fit and the fact that my waist is now 5.5" smaller than it was when 2008 started (read that again, people... 5.5" smaller)!!!
I'd talk about how Self-Management for Actors is pretty much the best book for actors ever written (and how I have no apologies for holding that opinion. Seriously, if you could spend 4.5 straight weeks with barely any sleep working on something you loved and NOT say you thought it was a work of brilliance then you don't understand inspired creation at all... and WHY would you waste that much time on something you didn't love in a huge way anyway) and how I couldn't have done it without my amazing proofer patrol, the brilliant contributors, and my awesome husband. We'll know tomorrow when the bluelines are scheduled to hit LA and that'll be when we'll celebrate with proofers. And when the books arrive (sometime in late October, most likely), there will be parties and parties and parties galore. And then the book tour. And the roadshow. And, and, and...
I'd talk about my column and whether I have anything to say anymore.
I'd talk about my cats and how much joy they bring me by being so dang silly and slothy and precious.
I'd talk about several (4) films I've cast all playing at festivals this and next month.
I'd talk about amazing filmmakers who have made it clear we're "work married" and will have even MORE fun working on our next projects together.
I'd talk about the value in letting GO of fucknuts who owe me tens of thousands of dollars because my life is a shitload bigger than needing to hold onto their wannabe worlds. I guess it's a good sign when you go from having had A $200 Lesson (future post) to having had one with a ton more zeroes on it than that.
I'd talk about a change we're making with the showcase that we'll announce next week and which will rock this town even more than it already has.
I'd talk about JUST BEING HAPPY, since that's the majority of what my Twitters have been about. Negativity is not fun and I'm choosing every day to put myself farther and farther away from that nonsense. It's just not conducive to creating brilliant stuff. Y'know what is? Being HAPPY.
So, there ya have it. That's why I'm not blogging anymore. I'm Twittering and most of my Twitters are bursts of whatever is on my mind at the moment and that's been enough to keep me feeling "in touch." Thank you, CoCo, for nudging me over there.
I suspect I'll do a 12 of 12 on Friday, but I'm feeling kind of DONE with 12 of 12 too, these days. And rather than forcing myself to stay involved with anything out of a sense of responsibility, I'm living my life "involved in areas that inspire me." Does that make me flaky? Maybe for the first time in my life, yes.