NEWLOVE

Normally, at The Casting Studios, I’m known as The Lobby Nazi. I’m all business all the time. And I certainly don’t have time to hear your life story. I am definitely 100% uninterested in why you’re late or where you left your headshot or how your agent gave you info yesterday conflicting with what I’m telling you right now.

Likewise, it doesn’t make me feel special to be included in whether or not you should change your shirt or wear your hair up or whatever. What most dumb actors don’t understand is that every audition is a freaking job interview. Come prepared. Come on time. Do not bring your screaming children with you and ask me to babysit them while you’re being put on tape inside the interview room. And for God’s sake, don’t plop your shit down ON MY DESK as if you own every horizontal space on the planet.

For those of you not living in L.A. and not involved in any aspect of the Entertainment Business, let me explain some of the annoyances of my daily existence. I’m sure you’ve all had your picture taken once or twice in your lives, right?! Well, as much as I know how difficult it is for some people to walk and chew gum at the same time, how hard can it be to pose for a picture with something in your hands?

Most actors can hold their own freaking headshot while they’re getting their picture taken. But there are some who insist on plopping it on MY DESK WITHOUT ASKING along with their purse, sunglasses, keys, folders, and what have you. Now some of you sympathetic souls might think, “Yeah, well, maybe they think the stuff in their hands will show up in the photo. Maybe that’s why they put it down.” Now to that, my response is a.) there is tons of floorspace around them that they can put their shit on; and b.) when someone has a polaroid camera literally 5 inches from your face, what makes you think the shit in your hands is actually going to make it into the photo??!

I could go on and on in detail ad nauseum but I’ll spare you - today. But only because I’m in such a good mood. I reserve the right to come back and post another blog (or 100) about my annoyance with actors/model/pedestrians… I mean, after all, that’s what this whole blog is about, right?! Right.

Moving on…

So Jacob and I are working on a really funny commercial campaign right now. It’s all about what an extraordinary amount of minutes a certain cell phone provider offers right now. So in order to illustrate the point, the spot focuses on people who talk and talk and talk and talk… One spot stars a motor-mouthed real estate agent, another a slimy Hollywood talent agent, and my favorite - a valley girl cheerleading teenager type à la “Clueless.” Alicia Silverstone, watch out.

So we spend our entire afternoons watching 13-20 year olds playing 16 year old snobby spoiled-brat valley girl cheerleaders and just sit there laughing so hard I cry. Everyone is looking at me like I’m crazy. Not because I’m laughing so hard tears are spilling but because I’m actually being nice to the actors. “Excuse me?! Hello?! Are you like here to audition and stuff because that skirt is like totally Paris Hilton and I really think you look the part. Do you like have your headshot and stuff and are you ready to audition. Ohmigod like okay, let’s go!” Jacob is a little freaked out by me right now.

And then, we walk around like talking like them and like it is totally so much fun! So I’m all, “Jacob, like I’m totally having a fabulous day! I’m wearing this new necklace. Isn’t it like, totally fetch?!” And Jacob is all, “Whatever. I’m like totally not into that right now. I wanna know where that guy in like the green pants jetted off to and stuff.”

And I’m like What-ever! And he’s all WHAT-ever! And I’m like what-EVER! And he’s all what-ever! And I’m like…

Brad was at the Magic Castle yesterday. He and his friend, who is called Easy (EZ?), were chatting and Brad remembered a drunk story from his past. Here’s how he tells it…
“So I was at the Magic Castle about a year ago with my girlfriend and I got really drunk right at this very bar. It was the end of the night and we’d just seen this stupid magic show and I was ready to go home. Kathleen decided as we were walking out that she had to show off this one downstairs part of the castle to her friends and I was like, “Whatever. I’m going to smoke a cigarette and wait for you outside.’ So they went downstairs and I smoked like what felt like 3 cigarettes and talked on the phone. After what felt like 20 minutes I went back into the castle to look for them. I was pissed. Here they weren’t paying attention to the fact that they were taking forever and that someone was WAITING for them and I had to say the stupid password to the owl and go inside and look around for them. Then I went back outside, thinking I’d missed them, and looked for them out there. Nothing. So I went back inside and said the damn password to the stupid owl again and looked around. Still nothing. So I went back outside. Nothing and no one. So I went back inside and said the password to the fucking owl and still couldn’t find them and went back outside and they weren’t there either. I started thinking I was going to have to walk home and was planning my route. When they finally came outside, I was belligerently drunk and pissed off and let them hear it. Now I will never live it down. Apparently that owl is my best friend. Kathleen’s friends even call up and ask me how the owl is doing. Let this be a lesson to you Easy. Never get belligerently drunk.”
Now here’s what really happened…
Normally when I tell this story, I do it mimicking Brad with a funny, pretty retarded-sounding voice. Now by no means is Brad even remotely retarded (especially when he’s sober) but it just makes the story sound funnier. My girls Tina & Yunmi absolutely DIE when they hear the story. And the very first time I told it, I’ll have to admit, it was pretty damn funny. But now I’m like a bar trick or something and whenever we’re out, Tina & Yunmi want me to tell the story and Brad gets pissed because I make him sound like a retarded ass. But ya gotta give the people what they want, right?!
So…
My friend, Ixel, was moving to New York and it was one of her last nights in L.A.. She’d never been to the Magic Castle and was curious.
The Magic Castle is a “country club” of sorts to magicians. You have to be extremely cheesy, with weird hair and lame conversational topics to be a member. Oh yeah, and you have to know a few magic tricks AND you have to pay some ridiculous amount of membership fees. And it’s not exactly a country club either in the respect that Chaz and Geoffrey meet up on the golf course for a quick 9 before their 8am conference call. Instead, Alex the Amazing and Fantastic Fred meet at an alcove by the bar and show off their latest card tricks and slights of hand. Thrilling… I know.
So since Ixel wanted to go, I called up some of my “men on the inside” including Magic Dan and Jakies. They know I hate magic. “Magic’s lame,” being one of my most well-known quotations. Despite that, they always get me on the list whenever I need. But not only does a member have to get you on the list, but they also have to accompany you there in order for you to be admitted for the evening. AND you will not be allowed in unless you’re in a suit & tie (men) and cocktail dresses (women.) So Jakies decided he’d meet us there. (I love Dan and Jakes. Thanks for letting me be a magic hater and still being my friends.)
Grant, Ixel and I had a few drinks with Jakies before watching some lame magic show. Brad had one too many martinis. We’d shown Ixel and Grant around the castle. They’d seen the owl in the bookcase to whom you have to give the secret password to get into the first bar. “Open Sesame!” They’d seen the old piano played by a ghost who takes requests (Clara I think her name is.) They’d seen various different salons upstairs and down. But as we were walking out, I remember they hadn’t yet seen the hall of mirrors downstairs. So I mentioned that fact and Brad said he wasn’t interested but that he’d wait for us outside and smoke a cigarette. And off he went.
Grant and Ixel checked out the hall of mirrors and a downstairs salon where some show was going on. We then went upstairs and exited to the valet. This took all of 3-5 minutes. We found Brad out there fuming and he immediately came up to me and with fire in his eyes yelled, “Where in the hell have you been?!”
“What are you talking about? I told you we were going to check out the hall of mirrors and be right up. So here we are.”
“I have been standing here for a half an hour. I thought you guys had left! I thought I was going to have to walk home. I was already planning my route. I was going to go down Highland and then make a left on…”
“Brad. We’ve been gone for like FIVE MINUTES. What are you talking about?!”
At this time, Grant and Ixel decided to stand as far away from us as possible to give them as much distance from falling debris in the event that Brad’s head exploded. Unfortunately no one felt compelled to get ME out of the line of fire.
Brad continued, “WHAT?! I smoked like 3 cigarettes, made a half a dozen phone calls and then looked for you inside a few times. I kept thinking maybe we’d missed each other coming in and out of here. I went up the stairs, down the stairs, up the stairs, down the stairs… me and that owl are like BEST FRIENDS!”
********************
Obviously it’s not as funny written as it is in person. Maybe it’s a “Ya hadta be there” type thing. I don’t know. Brad hates it when I tell this story. So this is the last time I’m going to tell it. (You’re welcome Brad. I love you.) From now on, if anyone is curious in hearing it, I’ll either direct them to Tina, Yunmi or Ixel or I’ll send them a link to this blog.
Here’s a photo of the Magic Castle. I tried to find a photo of THE owl but no such luck.

Last night was our last Tango lesson so Brad and I met up at Breadsticks for a bite and a sip before t.a.n.g.o.ing the night away. When the class was over, our instructor, Vladi, informed us we could move up to the next level and our classes would now be on Mondays. We went back down to Breadsticks to celebrate.

Breadsticks is owned and run by an Italian Persian Jew named Hess. Hess is the best. Brad and I drank a bottle (or three) of wine and talked with Hess and three other patrons in their 20s. A couple of hours later, Brad and I were at my house and had a drunk fight. Well, not really. It can be summed up as the shortest non-fight in history. Basically, Brad had a hard-on for a drunk fight and I refused to engage him and he was pissed that I ignored him so he left. When I realized he’d left I called and left a sweet message saying, “Please don’t drive home drunk. Come back. I love you.”

Then I checked The Magic 8 Ball and asked if he would call back. It said, “My sources say no.” So I asked it if he’d call back if I left him another message. It said, “Signs point to yes.” So I called him and left another sweet message probably saying the exact same thing as the last one.

Now you may be wondering, “What’s up with checking The Magic 8 Ball? What is this? Fifth grade?!”

I’d love to weave some fascinating story about how I let The Magic 8 Ball rule all of my life’s decisions big and small because it would make me seem like someone really eccentric and interesting. Alas, it’s just a cool widget I downloaded for my iMac G5. So whenever I’m at the Dashboard, The Magic 8 Ball pops up and sometimes I indulge. Last night was one of those nights.

So shortly after I left Brad the second message, my phone rang! The Magic 8 Ball never lies.

He was argumentative and still flashing his hard-on for a drunk fight. I was having none of it and hung up. I turned off my phone and went to bed.

Apparently, Brad hadn’t gotten my messages. He had just called anyway. After I hung up, he left me nasty message #1 and then got my sweet messages. So he called me again and left nasty messages #2, #3, and #4.

I woke up this morning at 7am when some neighbor’s car alarm was honk-honk-honking for about 10 minutes. Normally I’d be irate that the one day I can sleep in, my slumber is interrupted by something so annoying. But not this morning. I was too tired. I just put the pillow over my head and went back to sleep.

A couple of hours later, I awoke to Brad crossing my bedroom with flowers in a vase that he was going to leave on my bedside table with a sweet note. He told me about nasty messages #1-#4 and I told him I still hadn’t turned my phone on. So I got him to erase the messages without my listening to them.

See? Shortest non-fight in history (at least on my side.) I count about 5 minutes from first loud word to the turning off of the phone and my passing out.

The flowers were not necessary but super sweet none the less.

I love Brad. He is amazing and I am so grateful that we’ve found each other.

Because of my recent semi-contagious foul mood, I decided to spare you all my rants which were spewing forth at 30 second regular intervals. So I would normally apologize for the lapse in posts but trust me, you’re thankful.

A friend of mine, Blossom, just came back from Italy and we met up last night at the Grove for our Peach Bellini ritual to hear details of her trip and see the photographic evidence. I got stuck on the Highland exit from the 101 South for OVER 30 MINUTES! I don’t know what possessed me to take that exit. I am normally of sound enough mind to stay away, very far away from Hollywood & Highland. I think I’m suffering from selective dyslexic anxiety. (Bart or Nate, if you’re reading, feel free to post a comment explaining this very medically correct term for a very real disease that I am actually suffering from, I swear.) My symptoms range from taking inefficient exits to serious spelling mistakes to DCO (disorder compulsive-obsessive.)

ANYWAYS, when Blossom and I finally arrived at the Grove, it was packed! I thought maybe they were giving away free Wetzel’s Pretzels or something and got mobbed by homeless people and background players (also known as extras.) But no. Lucky for me, we were catching the tail-end of the Grove Concert Series and Lisa Loeb was playing her last few songs. I LOVE Lisa Loeb. She is just SO CUTE!

Lisa Loeb has a new album out and was signing it at Barnes & Noble but by the time I got there, the cd was sold out. Bummer. Does anyone have it yet?

Me and my foul mood were cured watching Lisa Loeb bopping around the stage with her guitar and her cute pink dress.

I want to be her. She is so damn cute.

So I became totally L.A. today and flaked on plans. Well… not totally. It’s not like I didn’t just show up. I gave advance warning hours prior to the events. But I just didn’t feel like going. Who am I?!

I was supposed to go to a magazine party at the W at 7pm but when my friend, Hiko, IM’d me with a reminder, I broke the bad news. Afterwards, I was supposed to go with Michelle to drinks at the Sky Bar but emailed her at some point today telling her I’d be a no show.

So when I was almost ready to leave work and I got a voicemail from my friend, Kirsten, saying she’d be near the Beverly Center this evening to buy ski boots and would I like to meet up with her, you’d think I’d turn her down too. At least that’s what I would think. But for some strange reason, I said, “Sure. I’ll meet up with you.”

So just after 7pm, I find myself at a very strange place - something called “The Sport Chalet” at the Beverly Connection - hearing a whistle that I know is directed at me. You know the whistle. The, “Hey hot stuff” catcall whistle you’d expect from construction workers as you pass by their construction site in a mini skirt and heals.

I’m standing in the hall of the Beverly Connection “mall” just past the entrance and notice there is a Sport Chalet to either side of me. Oh what shall I do?! But being the smart and resourceful person I am, I notice that the store on my right has surf boards and ski stuff so I venture over yonder.

Walking down the main aisle of the ski chalet, I hear the whistling and know it’s Kirsten but can’t see her nor can I determine from where the whistling originates. So I just keep walking back. And there she is.

We chat. The salesclerk feels up her foot a little under the auspice of showing her how the boot should hug her heal. As she pays for two pairs of boots, I find a pair of non-ugly sunglasses I want to buy for my boyfriend since he’s forgetten his least offensive pair of sunglasses someplace. Kirsten decides she wants to buy the sunglasses for Brad as his birthday gift. And off we go.

Next we walk into P.F. Chang’s restaurant at the Beverly Center for dinner and drinks. Just before approaching the hostess stand to get a table, I notice my old neighbor and ex-client, Steve, at the bar. Now this is not entirely earth-shattering since Steve’s worked at Chang’s since the beginning of time. However, last I knew he was in Vietnam (turns out it was Korea) filming a movie. I’d tried sending Steve an email on his birthday last May and it was returned. I’d tried all the phone numbers I’d had for him and everything was out of order. So I wondered if I’d ever see the lovely Steve again. Imagine my surprise and utmost glee!!

We sit down at the bar and enjoy being waited on - I mean REALLY waited on where you don’t have to order anything and your plate/glass is always full of whatever. It’s my number one dining experience in L.A. I love Steve. No one else can take care of you like he can. And he just makes me light up all over. I hope you all know people like Steve. People who never truly seem to be in a bad mood and who always make you smile. Have I told you that I love Steve?!

Speaking of people I love… Kirsten went to high school with a guy named Nate. I met Nate in 1999 or 2000 under random circumstances through some random chick he was dating that I was working with. One day we were hanging out and figured out that we both knew Kirsten who was out of town at the time. She happened to be flying in that same night and we decided we would go to pick her up at the airport together. Boy was she confused. Have you ever been in a situation where you know and love two people and they show up together somewhere but you had no idea previously that they knew each other? See… this is what Friendster is all about!

Anyways, Nate’s a doctor now and living in San Francisco. He’s about to propose to his girlfriend (who I don’t know and who I hope does not read this blog.) She has a funny name that starts with a V - vieviurki? No, that’s squirrel in Polish. Viveca? Vivianne? Vienna? I know it’s none of those, but nevermind. Anyways, Nate, if you’re reading, I love you. Congratulations. I hope you feel like the luckiest man in the world when she’s by your side. I hope you feel you could never be happier. And if you need any help shopping for a ring - I’m excellent with shopping and know my way around the four C’s!

Here’s a picture of me and Kirsten after I had 3 stiff Steve drinks and she had 3 sips of a stiff Steve drink and is toasted. Love you, Nate.

Brad and I were driving East on Santa Monica Boulevard today (yes, I know it’s Tuesday and I should be working, so fuck off) and right around Formosa, Brad exclaimed, “Check out this guy. Whoah! Look at his walk!”

“Sashay, sashay,” I replied.

“Oh my God he looks ridiculous!”

This was quite obviously a gay white man in his late 20s/early 30s. He had on an old man style tweed golf cap perched on his head with his clean shaven face, a navy blue wifebeater and jeans. He was gliding down the Boulevard as if it was a catwalk and as if he were Naomi Campbell on sedatives. Good posture though, I must say.

As we drove past him, we noticed the massive amounts of chest hair crawling out from under the wifebeater like rusty colored millipedes in a frat boy’s shower when the lights are turned on. Disgusting! We then stopped at a light and got to watch him sashay past us once more.

After a few minutes, Brad all of a sudden innocently asked, “If I were to get my chest waxed, how long do you think it’d take before the hair would grow back?”

“Six weeks, give or take.”

“That’s it?! Forget about it. Not worth it. Not that I was thinking about doing it anyway. I just want to make that clear.”

Ay ay, captain.

What is up with parking in L.A.?  I mean, I know it could be far worse if we lived in San Francisco or New York City.  But in L.A., everyone drives Hummers, Suburbans and other large SUVs and trucks.  So why is it that all parking lots have miniature spots where only in a perfect world and if everyone drove Mini Coopers would we fit into those spaces. 

I was just at a Starbucks in the Valley and when I came back to my car with my latte, there was a Hummer parked in the spot next to me.  I couldn’t even get my door open more than an inch and a half.  I had to crawl over the passenger seat to get in!

At the Ralph’s at Hollywood and Western, the parking spaces are even narrower.  You can have two Honda Accords next to each other and still have to suck in your belly in order to squeeze out of the driver’s seat.

Why don’t they make the spaces bigger?  I know you can fit more parking spaces into the lot when the spaces are smaller, but they are unusable.  So what’s the point I ask you?

So for the last three days, I haven’t been at my apartment leasing job. Today was my first day back and I was supposed to sign a lease or two and had a couple of appointments. No one showed.

Also, last week when I got my haircut at Privé, I also called Richard Williams Salon to schedule an appointment for highlights. I go to the owner, William, who I swear is the very best colorist in the world. He does amazing stuff. Apparently he’s only working weekends now, which sucks for me since I work weekends too. So I scheduled an appointment for a week later which was supposed to be today at 4pm.

I left work early to get my hair done AND I’d passed up working this evening to make a couple hundred bucks at a special event because of this appointment. So it was already a constly endeavor. Figure $200 for full highlights including tip + $200-$400 I’d be potentially missing out on work-wise = $400-$600. Sheesh. But he’s worth it.

When I got in my car, I turned on my piece-of-shit cell phone and saw that I had five messages. What do they want from me now???!! I hate cell phones. I hate being reachable. Hence, my phone is always off and I am unreachable. HA! Take that. Suckers.

Anyways, three of the messages were from the salon asking me if I could reschedule from 4pm today to 12:15pm tomorrow. Damnit. So I get out of the 405 South lane and get back onto the 101 South. Great. Damnit. I really wanted to have my hair done today.

I call the salon back to figure out WTF is up?! They tell me William’s father had a stroke and that he’s been out of town taking care of him and that today is his first day back. So of course I’m thinking, "Aw, poor thing. Daddy’s sick." I mean, I’m not a complete heartless bitch. Come on! But still I’m now out a couple hundred dollars for the day at least and I’m thinking I now have to take tomorrow off of work too AND spend $200 for highlights. F%#k me running. Annoyed.

So I wanted to be a brat and be like, "No. You made an appointment and it’s costing me a lot of inconvenience and money so you’d better keep it!" But I didn’t. I rescheduled the appointment for tomorrow.

Then I went shopping and spent even more money. Ugh.

What’s with the x chromosome and retail therapy?!

Besides, tonight is Mike De Luca’s 40th birthday party at the Roosevelt and I was planning to show up with a hot new do and instead I had to come home and do my own hair and still be in desperate need of a new color which is weeks and weeks overdue.

It’s not like the Mike De Luca thing is such a big deal. Obviously I’m not trying to snag him or anything and I for the most part could care less what he thinks. But I was trying to get a job with him when he was still the President of Production at New Line Cinema. (Or was it when he was at Dreamworks? I don’t know. Whatever.) And since he’s a known womanizer… When you can’t beat them, join them - right?! I mean, at least look the part. I don’t know.

So I should actually go right now since I have to figure out how to style this hair of mine. Argh.

This week many people I know have been taking and creating quizes on www.quizyourfriends.com where an automated service directs you through creating questions and answers about whatever you choose. Why is this so fun?

Those of us overachievers like the challenge and feel great about doing well. Then we’ll get a quiz from someone and we’ll get so few answers right that if this was graded and actually counted in a classroom-like setting, we’d fail. I’m sure no one is really thrilled about failing.

My friend Liz sent me a quiz with one question about her bra size. The choices were 36D, 36DD, 36DDD and 36X or something. Since her boobs are bigger than mine and I’m bigger than a 36DD, I figured I’d have a pretty good shot at answering correctly. I took into account that she’d most likely say she’s smaller than she is or that she’s convinced she’s smaller than she is and buying the wrong sized bras. So I clicked on 36DDD - INCORRECT! (*insert sound of buzzer*)

I ended up getting a 70 on her quiz. She got an 80 on mine. Bummer.

What is it about these quizes? Is it the thrill of competition? Do we have a desperate need for strange throw-backs to our primary education with popquizes and the feeling of acceptance for doing well? I mean, look at game shows and trivia board-games! What’s that about? Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Family Feud and I ADORE Cranium. But what is the attraction I wonder?

Can someone please give me some feedback on this issue?

I check my email semi-obsessively when I’m online. Each time I’ve sent a message, a screen pops up telling me my mail was sent to such-and-such address and there’s an advert on the side that comes up fairly regularly that I can’t help but look at since I’m on dial-up at home and have to wait for the image to load until it’ll forward on to my next command. See below…

Now, come on. Seriously. Do advertisers really expect us to be so dumb as to believe that the three hot asses in this photo are as shapely as they are due to some miracle cream?! Give us some freaking credit! You can even see in that miniscule photo how they are airbrushed!

I’d like to write a letter of protest that we the consumers are not that naive.

And besides, who are those models? With an ass like that, I could definitely take over the world. Why are they posing for photos when they could accomplish so much more?!

If I had an ass like that, I’d be flashing it to anyone with any sort of power to get whatever I wanted.

“Hi. I know you’re closed but my computer mouse is out of batteries and I have a huge proposal that I have to finish by tomorrow so I just have to jet in there really quick and pick up a AAA lithium battery. Have pity. Please?”

“Sorry Ma’am. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“But you don’t understand. I walked here and I have only 35 minutes left to do this so could you please just let me in?”

“Sorry.”

Then I’d flash them my hot ass. Open Sesame!!