Saturday, September 24, 2022
Sunday, September 4, 2022
The Opposite of Good
If you were to ask Worst concert I've ever personally witnessed?
Easy. Backstreet Boys "Back in Black" Tour Staples Center, Los Angeles, 2001
However, it turned out to be one of my "Best Night Ever!"s, due in no small part to the members of the band themselves, so I have to give them props for being nice guys. Anyway, here's my worst concert/best concert experience ever.
My best friend and I were given tickets to see the Backstreet Boys for their second (and final) show in L.A. during their "Back in Black" Tour. These tickets were given to us by a close friend (who was engaged to a member of BSB at the time) and were not only gratis, but, quite arguably among the best seats "in the house." Plus, we had *full, unrestricted access* passes (the ticket "package" given to us at Will Call included these lanyards with clear plastic pockets to put our tickets into; we were instructed to wear them like badges) which allowed us to go ANYWHERE in Staples Center we wanted--in other words, unrestricted, all-access passes. In other words, we were *ballin' like ballers in the most ballin'est ballparks in balldom* (the Staples Center).
All ballin' aside, I was, in fact, not at all interested in seeing the Backstreet Boys perform. I'd met my friend's boyfriend (who shall remain nameless, so as to protect the innocent--and myself, who is not so innocent, plus, it's totally immaterial to the story) before, and he was a nice guy, but I was a 30 year old KCRW subscriber (and employee) and former hip hop and gangster rap club dancer. I was many many miles outside of the range of the BSB target demographic. What songs I had heard, I hated. I did not know one word of their lyrics or the title of a single song from (any of) their album(s), (with the possible exception being "Bye Bye Bye." But I'm not 100% sure if I know that now, after having seen them perform). Still, my BFF, whom I'd gone to the concert with was totally into them; our good friend was engaged to a member of the band and the tickets were free so, we went. We got there about an hour early (we'd been invited to hang with the band before the show, which we planned to take full advantage of, especially the free booze and sushi platters and sliced meats and cheeses and other delicious snacks).
The sidewalks around the Staples Center will call window were already packed with kids half our age, but the line for the Will Call was surprisingly short and very fast moving. At the will call window we found out that we had been given four tickets instead of just two. My BFF turned to me and said, "Let's sell these tickets. We'll make hundreds, for sure!" I was fairly non-plussed by this suggestion due to the fact that a.) it was illegal and b.) we hadn't paid for the tickets ourselves. "I think we should find someone cool to give them too. It feels weird to sell something that we got for free..." She was annoyed, mainly because XXXX was really more her friend than mine, and therefore the tickets more hers than mine but, to her credit, she compromised, saying: "I'll see if i can sell the tickets. If I don't find anyone in the next ten minutes, we'll give them away. But let me see if i can sell them first." I knew that she was going to have zero problem selling full access passes to one of the giddy, moon-eyed middle-schoolers, circling in packs nearby, but I merely nodded in agreement. She walked off, evaporating like mist while I stood there, uncomfortably adultish.
I noticed a 15 or 16 year old girl and her mother, who looked to be my age (just turned 30), both wearing BSB memorabilia, clutching matching BSB cds (presumably) ready for autographs from the band. Sitting awkwardly on a cement planter, the mother had this sad look on her face, while the daughter stood next to her, valiantly attempting to cheer her up. As I walked by, I heard her saying, "Mom, it's totally fine right here, we'll hear them! It's great! Don't be upset! We're here! It's okay!" I walked over and sat down on the planter next to theirs, pretending to fix the strap on my stilleto. After a few seconds, I caught the girl's attention just as I'd finished fixing my strap. "Hi." I said, "You two going to the concert? Are you big BSB fans?"
"Big, big fans. The biggest!" The girl said, smiling happily. While the mom shook her head responding with a strangled croak, "No...no tickets." To which her daughter chirped happily and unfazed, "Oh, mom, stop!" Leaning over towards me, she whispered, "She's just upset because we won't get to actually SEE them. She's an even bigger fan than I am. Not at first, she wasn't, but she bought me tickets last time they were in LA and came to see them with me and just got blown AWAY. She became obsessed after that, that's how good they were. Now we both love them. Love. Love. Love."
Her mother continued to brood silently, and she went on, talking to me just out of her earshot. "My mom is amazing. She saved up for weeks to buy those tickets for me. Yeah, they were in the nosebleed section, yeah, you could barely even see them, they were so far away, but she did it because she knew it would mean the world to me. That was before she even liked them, she did that." She looked over at her mom. "That's very sweet." I said, nearly rendered mute from my own rushing emotions. "But, she couldn't afford it this time, the cheap ones sold out too fast. We were hoping we could find someone who's selling their ticket for a good price but they're all scalping. I mean, they're charging like, 100 for the cheapest ones. Mom! Don't be sad! It's no big deal!"
I reached over and touched her mother's shoulder. She looked at me, clearly uncomfortable with the invasion of her personal space. I looked straight at her and said, as calmly as I possibly could, "Please stay here. DO NOT MOVE." But inside I was panicking. What if the tickets are already gone!? It's already been at least 10 minutes! I found my friend, literally in the process of selling the tickets. "Stop! Stop. You cannot sell those tickets!" To the potential buyers, "Sorry, so sorry! The tickets are not available. They are not for sale." The two Persian mega-fans who'd already fished out their wallets started thrusting the cash at her, trying to finalize the transaction in spite of my protestations. I wedged myself in between them, while my friend contemplated the wads of cash just beyond her reach. I grabbed her by the arm and marched her away, saying, "Look, I'll buy them from you. I'll get money out of the next ATM we come to. Please, you cannot sell those tickets." Kelly looked at me, then down at the tickets, then over at the two Persian dudes and then back at me...and handed me the tickets. The two Persian dudes started saying some aggressive shit to Kelly in Persian, who immediately matched their anger and then some screaming, "Fuck you, assholes! You think because I speak Farsi that I'm your bitch? That's my best fucking friend in the whole world, so she gets the tickets, arright? You don't like it? Well fuuuuuuuck you!" The last part said while giving them the middle finger on both hands as she followed me, but walked backwards away from them so she could continue giving them "double birds."
So, we walked back to the mom and her daughter (Let's call them "Donna and Crystal" because (I think) the mom's name was Donna and the daughter's name was Crystal or Kristen or Christa (but I'm almost positive it was Crystal) I handed them each their own lanyard and invited them to hang out with us in the band's dressing room and meet them and take pictures with them and then to see the show.
The daughter immediately started screaming and jumping up and down. She pogoed around and screamed incoherently, while her mother went strangely ashen. I thought she was going to throw up or faint. She whispered, suspiciously, "Are you serious? You're not messing with me? You really have extra tickets? All access passes?" She looked confused. "And you're just giving them to us?" My friend and I nodded. Finally, her paranoia ebbed and a dazzling smile stretched across her lips. Then she turned towards her daughter and they grabbed each others arms and trampolined together on the sidewalk for a solid minute, screaming, "Oh my God!" repeatedly, hugging each other and laughing hysterically. Then, the mother broke down, sobbing, saying "I can't believe this. I can't believe this! I'm in shock. I can't believe you're doing this!" Her daughter, shocked by her mom's emotional breakdown, finally revealed her age, "Mom! You're crying! Stop! This is so embarrassing!" Which snapped her mother from her apparent hysteria and she composed herself and we made our way inside the massive arena.
The four of us got to the Backstreet Boys' dressing room, where we were met by XXXX (*I'm going to not reveal her name for privacy purposes) as well as the members of the band and their respective girlfriends and/or wives and members of their entourages. We introduced Donna and Crystal, who both screamed and laughed uncontrollably when each band member walked over to introduce themselves. All of the band members graciously smiled and took pictures with them, signed their t-shirts and the inside of their cds and seemed genuinely touched by their adoration and devotion. AJ McLean even took the time to talk to them and ask "how many times they'd been to one of their concerts?" (Donna 5 times and Crystal 2 times, counting the performance that night). Kevin Richardson (Donna's favorite, she was utterly smitten) barely even smiled at her, and he had the worst case of "dead-eyed celebrity" I've ever encountered, and I've met Courtney Love, Paris Hilton AND Matthew McConnahey, and KR eyes were hands down the absolute DEADEST.
The concert was a blur. At first, I watched the band perform, our seats were less than a yard or so from the stage, we could, if we wanted to, reached out and touched them when they walked by us on stage, I could see the sweat beading on the upper lip of one of the performers during the opening song, and I remember worrying that his makeup would smear. But, I quickly grew depressed and agitated, disappointed with their cheesy, unsophisticated choreography and how stiffly and awkwardly they executed it. Wooden and uninspired, they danced like beta-mode robots but without the clean precision of a robotic. I don't like their music and therefore cannot comment on whether or not they performed it well, but I am fairly certain they were lip-synching, and that is, to me, the hallmark of a bullshit live performance. It didn't seem to faze Donna or Crystal, who lip-synched right along with BSB, except with more enthusiasm and intensity, and infinitely more charm. I would have preferred watching Donna and Crystal all night, but that would have been creepy/awkward, so I put on my big girl panties and endured the concert like the adult woman that I am.
After the concert, I drove Donna and Crystal home to their apartment in Culver City. Donna told me about Crystal, how she was so smart and such a good daughter, and Crystal started to cry and tell me how amazing her mom was. It was really emotional. I have not seen or heard from either of them and wish them nothing but the best, because that night would have been excruciatingly unbearable without them to remind me of how lucky I am and how much I take for granted...
However, nothing, and I mean nothing will ever get me to go to another Backstreet Boys concert again. There is no amount of money, no trip or fancy prize that could ever compensate for the awfulness that is their live performance. BARF.
Friday, December 27, 2019
Edwin Gregson Foundation video
Since they took this video down from the website it was originally posted on, I thought I'd upload it and keep it alive on my blog.
Here it is!
Friday, June 15, 2018
Rollerskates
So, I got new rollerskates recently. In this video, I demonstrate my utter and obvious lack of any skill (or leg strength) on skates. I do manage a sweet spin at the very end though...
Monday, March 26, 2018
Rosie O’Donnell article in The Los Angeles Times Magazine = Triggered Much?
(Written at least 10 years ago!)
There’s this semi-glossy, lightweight little magazine inside every Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times called “The Los Angeles Times Magazine” (the name alone should give you an idea of the kind of tepid mediocrity which pervades every limp page of this truly awful periodical), which usually features a long, nauseating puff-piece on some dim-witted celebrity (always one who’s such a media whore that you feel as though they were somehow stalking you, so incapable you are of eluding their face, their voice, their products ad infinitum, ad nauseum). And this week is no different—so who is on the cover of this week‘s muted-pastel cover?
Perhaps the most insipid, common, vulgar and talent-free human being ever to wear a pair of relaxed-fit jeans: Rosie O’Donnell.
I was reading this article yesterday, and as I read it, I suddenly came across a line that made me so fucking angry that it was all I could do to keep myself from spitting on the Persian prayer rug lying demurely beneath my feet at the edge of the sofa. Let me insert the passage here for you:
“Rosie: It’s always weird to me when people say, “You go food shopping?” How do you think I get my food? But if you grew up having a normal life, I don’t know how you could switch in your 30’s to a spoiled, rich mentality.
LA Times: Is that why you moved back to New York, to get away from the Hollywood mentality?
Rosie: I couldn’t live here, because it’s a distorted reality. There aren’t that many real people out here. Even the valet who parks your car has a script he’s written. And on Christmas morning it doesn’t matter if you have an Academy Award, it matters that you have a family to love and share your life with.”
There is so much to be horrified by within just these few sentences, so much ammunition provided me to launch back at everyone involved in this small, small-minded piece, that it’s hard to know which grenade to pick up and lob in its general direction. I guess I will just begin at the beginning. First of all, when Ms. O’Donnell describes her shock and puzzlement in the face of being asked whether or not she goes “food shopping,” (!!) she thinks that we, the dumfounded readers are collectively going to say to ourselves, “Gee, what a trooper! What an incredibly stoic and bravely self-sufficient gal! What a real-person!! She not only eats regular people food but even goes to the regular supermarket to buy her groceries and stuff! You know, if you think about it, it’s almost as if she weren’t a multi-million dollar-salary talk-show host who also makes millions more endorsing Kmart and Scope—or maybe it’s Listerine... But anyway, wow! She’s not jaded and Hollywood like some of those other celebrities, who make their housekeeper or assistant do it for them, or even worse, has the store deliver it—not that Rosie, she’s like me!! Only without the food stamps and double-coupons, of course!”
Actually, what I suspect is that what’s really going on in the mind of your average, self-respecting and cogent reader is more like; “What? She does what? Goes food shopping!? No kidding! Big deal! So she goes to Whole Foods when she’s hungry and the kids need diapers! That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have someone chauffeuring her to and from the store, it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have someone putting those groceries away once she gets home and pulling them out and throwing them into a pot when she decides she hungry. It has never occurred to me to tell people that I “do the food shopping” for my family, whenever I want to convince people of my unspoiled, not-that-rich lifestyle. I’ll be sure to remember it the next time I feel the need to remind all my friends of how I’m a real person, because, it’s such an ironclad argument! Actually, what I really want to know is Rosie, where on earth did you dig up these freaks who are impressed by the UNimpressive feat that is “food shopping”? A task performed weekly (or even daily by a few mind-bogglingly dedicated foodies) by your common/garden-variety-American-adult consumer? And who is this alleged “journalist” to conduct such a cloying, smarmy and above all superficial interview? I’ve not seen toadying like this since the Seinfeld interview in Vanity Fair—and that journalist got fired for that piece! I wonder how “The Los Angeles Times Magazine’s” editors will chastise this “reporter?” (And I use that term very lightly.) Probably with a nice little raise and the key to the corporate washroom.
But, actually, it’s the next paragraph which was really, for me, the most offensive and disgusting display of self-absorption, conceit, narcissism and of Rosie O’Donnell’s grossly “distorted reality”—to use her own words. Here, she bemoans the alleged deficit of “real people” in Hollywood, using an example of what is, evidently, in her mind a make-believe person, “the valet who parks your car [who] has a script he’s written.” Now I wonder, is it the ill-fitting polyester suit, the lowly status of the young man’s occupation, or the fact that he has written a script which somehow relegates him to the realm of the “unreal?” And what the hell does that mean? Is the guy a freakin’ hologram? And really, it should seem, according to her standards of being “real” and ‘down-to-earth,’ that guy, having not only shopped for his groceries his very own self, but also having parked his car when he arrived should be high on her short list of people to admire and applaud for being so un-”Hollywood” and unspoiled. It seems rather obvious that what is really bothering her about that “valet guy” and his barefaced ambition is the fact that she is very much threatened by anyone who aspires to rise above the lowly menial labor-type-job they find themselves in, someone who would also like to be paid millions of dollars to sit on a couch in front of a camera who can chat perfunctorily and flatteringly without seeming too much the sycophant (or the lesbian) to Barbara Streisand, the Taco Bell Chihuahua and even Whoopi Goldberg.
(Rosie—You know what I think? I think that perhaps you do see yourself in them, and you worry that they see themselves in you and that they realize that you aren’t all that special. You fear that they will actually figure out that all you are is merely absurdly, unbelievably lucky—and they might be gamblers themselves. But most of all, Rosie, you hate them for being there, because you know that’s all it will take for them to eclipse you one day—the will and the warm body, and perhaps not even the will. Because you are no great talent, you do not possess a keen insight or rapier wit; you do not even possess a point of view which is particularly unique and which could not easily be reproduced or even replaced. You are not one in a million—you are that million and they are you—and indeed, that is your gift, but I would not be distancing myself from the lowly valet guy with the script because he might be the next Kevin Smith or PT Anderson.)
Of course, the irony of the fact that she exposes her tenuous (at best) grasp on reality while accusing some poor peon parking her car to be removed from it might be hilarious if it weren’t so repulsive and so morally offensive. What it really is, however, is typical. It’s just so goddamn typical for the current media-flavor-of-the-month to whine pitifully about all of these “fringe-dwellers” who seem hell-bent on insinuating their make-believe, mundane lives into these celebrities' “real lives.” Of course, they rarely acknowledge the fact that they, too, once dwelled there, without self-reproach or any real clue as to what was in store for them. Indeed, and now that they have arrived into the realm of their fantasies—they are not troubled by their lapses in memory—too busy they are, basking in their 15 minutes of fame that feels, for them, like an eternity. But I know better; and so should the LA Times Magazine.
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Joe Frank RIP January 16, 2018
I loved Joe like a father. In fact, when my father died (self-inflicted gunshot wound), Joe was angry.
"I'm sorry your father did that to you. would never hurt you like that." He patted my shoulder as I wept, silently.
You are forever my second dad, Joe. thank you for the many years of friendship and inspiration.
Here are my favorite shows by Joe:
OJ Chronicles by Joe Frank with guest David Cross
Minister by Joe Frank with guest David Cross
At The Dark End of the Bar by Joe Frank
It from Hotline by Joe Frank
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Saturday, April 1, 2017
Bitches be cray cray!
This is Paula. She is really, really pretty--if you like skinny, short, hispanic-looking bitches. Now, while it's true that she's above-average looking, she's also an exceptionally unstable, particularly paranoid and abnormally vindictive individual who enjoys making up lies about people (in this case that people is me) she suspects of flirting (and possibly more) with her boyfriend, Gaston. (Despite the fact that no flirting--or anything else--has taken place).
I have a message for Paula, which is this:
Paula,
I never wanted your boyfriend. Never. He's about two inches too short and his head is 5 times the size I consider reasonable and appropriate for a human adult male. Seriously, his head is OFF THE CHARTS big, which, frankly, repulses me. I'm not in the least bit attracted to narcissistic, arrogant attention whores. Apparently, you like it when he--apropos of nothing--refers to himself as, "The Legend." I saw the custom T-shirts you two had made that said "The Legend" for him, and "Mrs. Legend" for you and, frankly, had to stifle the urge to vomit. But what was the biggest deal breaker for me, in terms of Gaston as a possible romantic partner, was the fact that he failed to mention to me that he was already IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU when he first asked for my deets and then called me and asked me out a few days after I met him. So, despite your suspicions that there was something going on between us, or that I was secretly trying to "steal" him away from you, that is simply not the case. If Gaston told you something different about the nature of our utterly and entirely platonic relationship, it was merely an attempt to make you jealous, and I'm sorry that you were so easily manipulated by him, needlessly.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Actual email string between myself and a guy on Match.com last month.
Okay, so here's the backstory. As anyone who knows me is aware, I play a lot of paddle tennis. Usually I play on tuesday and thursday evenings from 7:30pm - 10:00pm at a park in culver city with a fun group of people . Sometimes, when i get there early, a guy named Paul is there with a bucket of balls, giving one or both of his two sons a tennis lesson. He's in his 50s, he's african american, he's a decent paddle tennis player--but I have never been in the least bit interested in him. Well, I logged into match.com the other day to check my messages, only to find one from Paul, who's name on the site is "Vitamin P." Mine is "Hotttpocket" (it was my beloved dog (Maurice)'s, nickname, and after he died, I adopted his nickname, out of sentimentality.)
he said
he said
Jun 14
I think I know you and I know you know me!
you said
Jun 14
Yes, Paul. I know you. But how is it you are so sure that I know you but not that you know me? That's a touch arrogant, doncha think? ;)
he said
Jun 15
Not arrogant at all just another crystal clear example of how some things (like my sarcasm and sense of humor ) get lost in this medium. Good luck in your search. Best.
you said
Jun 16
Paul, If you think that people don't tend to "get" your humor or sarcasm. that's because they don't know you! It's best to wait until you've gotten to know someone a bit before you use sarcasm in a message because it's confusing. I am not really sure though, what is funny about the statement "I know you know me, and I think I know you?" You think it's funny to suggest that you are memorable but I am not? Because that's not very nice! If you are going to use humor/sarcasm, I would suggest you make yourself the butt of the joke and not the person you are hoping to get to know better. It's just a suggestion, take it for what you will. esme
he said
Jun 20
First and foremost, when I want your suggestion, I'll give it to you. It's obvious that you are taking this matter and yourself way too serious [sic]. To spend time and energy on something so trivial is a waste. Aside from paddle tennis, we don't know or mean enough to each other to go that deep in this conversation, matter or topic. I think this site has a much better purpose for you than to evaluate, summarize and analyze my humor, sarcasm and method there of. That being said, on my end, I'm done with this and will only deal with you on the courts going forward. I'm sure you can understand, relate and appreciate my position and thus my decision. Take it for what YOU will.
Thank you, VitaminP, for revealing what a deranged, insecure and aggressively passive aggressive person you are. I'm so sorry but I have no interest in dating you since you a.) are unfamiliar with both my name (even though we have played paddle no less than 15 times together in the past two years and also with the part of speech called an "adverb"...oh yeah, and because you're a fucking super mega douche bag!
Friday, April 29, 2016
Please, please disagree with me. I love ignoring you people.
Spike channel is airing a new show called "Waco," about the Branch Davidian cult headed by a high school dropout named David Koresh, who convinced his followers that he was a divine prophet of god. Now, I find Koresh to be a despicable, repulsive con man--but really, is he all that much different from the Jesus of the New Testament? In fact, Jesus is, essentially, a primitive, cartoonish version of David Koresh, or, as I've come to think of him, "Jesus 5.0." (because I'm sure there were others which predate D.K.), but without the 12 member dream team of publicists/apostles.
IMO: JC and DK are near-perfect dopplegangers. Not just physically--although the resemblance is uncanny--but in terms of their objective, their message and their method. True, Koresh was a faint (and hollow) echo of Jesus's legendary charisma and influence, yet to some, he was a convincing facsimile nonetheless.
And, even if you don't agree with me and think Jesus was NOTHING like David Koresh, because DK was a perverse, delusional, egomaniacal sociopath with a messiah complex, and a penchant for pre-pubescent home-schooled snatch (velvety smooth!), utterly devoid of any and all originality or sincerity. And I would 100% agree with you; Koresh was a monstrous douche bag. But, in all fairness, wasn't Jesus equally so?
I met "Jesus" one evening while he was on a low-profile, terra-firma vacay from his stressful job up in heaven. Apparently he likes to hang out at the spa of the Bellagio hotel. I immediately recognized him, since he was wearing the same filthy, mangy-looking shroud, cheap-ass sandals and, (believe it or not!) a thorny head band. An outfit he's apparently so fond of that he he refuses to torch--or launder. He was sitting in the sauna, talking to no one in particular (there were just two of us in there at the time, and neither of us seemed in the mood for a discussion about ourselves or interested in his personal details, but this did worry him in the least), "My dad is GOD! I mean, my mother, bless her, was a VIRGIN! I was born from an IMMACULATE conception! And you know what's even MORE crazy? For like, a few weeks after she had me she was STILL a virgin...even though she was officially married and didn't have to be one anymore. She held out for a way super-long time (Joseph will back me up on this, it's a shame you can't ask him, since he's dead) compared to other homeless, unmarried and pregnant/shotgun bride drifter chicks from her town. Don't misunderstand me, she wasn't a perma-virgin, I mean, I have brothers and sisters and all that...but they came later. They weren't special like me, they had a REGULAR dad (regular, as in not immortal, not omnipotent, not omniscient). I mean come on, dude, admit it! MY dad, he blows doors on that mustachioed merkin-muncher you call Daddy!" He pauses, looking hard at a fit, handsome Puerto Rican guy who's sitting just a few feet away from him. The guy stares at him for a second, and then gets up to leave. It's just me and Jesus in here now. He goes on. "My dad is special. He's God. You know GOD? He created everything and everyone! He knows all and sees all and has infinite wisdom and and he is the origin of all things--even of the very thoughts at this moment forming in YOUR very own head--every single solitary quark contained within each proton around which every electron revolves within all the atoms of the universe..." I start to drift off. He notices and leans closer towards me, shouting "When I was born three KINGS schlepped their mangy asses hella far to drop off these rare, precious, uh...things--one of which was GOLD. As in, shiny yellow duckets, bitch!" Finally, I've had enough too, I leave.
Okay. So that's the kind of guy Jesus is. I'm sorry but he just BUGS! That's what I think. I'm 100% certain that there are people who will disagree with me. Not just disagree with me, but think that I am, merely by articulating this opinion and sharing it publicly, guilty of a violent, unprovoked attack on them, personally. An attack that's tant amount to karate chop to the bridge of their noses. But I don't give a shit. They're wrong. I do not care one whit if they and think the sun rises and sets in Jesus's 'taint and that his sermons were divinely inspired soliloquies which will serve to define humanity and all of its wisdom and beauty unto eternity, that's perfectly fine with me, I simply (admittedly NOT respectfully) disagree. He's no better than David Koresh--he just didn't stockpile a bunch of weapons and fuck a bunch of underaged girls (that we know of) and get himself immolated and a bunch of innocent people killed on national television. That's the only difference.
IMO: JC and DK are near-perfect dopplegangers. Not just physically--although the resemblance is uncanny--but in terms of their objective, their message and their method. True, Koresh was a faint (and hollow) echo of Jesus's legendary charisma and influence, yet to some, he was a convincing facsimile nonetheless.
And, even if you don't agree with me and think Jesus was NOTHING like David Koresh, because DK was a perverse, delusional, egomaniacal sociopath with a messiah complex, and a penchant for pre-pubescent home-schooled snatch (velvety smooth!), utterly devoid of any and all originality or sincerity. And I would 100% agree with you; Koresh was a monstrous douche bag. But, in all fairness, wasn't Jesus equally so?
I met "Jesus" one evening while he was on a low-profile, terra-firma vacay from his stressful job up in heaven. Apparently he likes to hang out at the spa of the Bellagio hotel. I immediately recognized him, since he was wearing the same filthy, mangy-looking shroud, cheap-ass sandals and, (believe it or not!) a thorny head band. An outfit he's apparently so fond of that he he refuses to torch--or launder. He was sitting in the sauna, talking to no one in particular (there were just two of us in there at the time, and neither of us seemed in the mood for a discussion about ourselves or interested in his personal details, but this did worry him in the least), "My dad is GOD! I mean, my mother, bless her, was a VIRGIN! I was born from an IMMACULATE conception! And you know what's even MORE crazy? For like, a few weeks after she had me she was STILL a virgin...even though she was officially married and didn't have to be one anymore. She held out for a way super-long time (Joseph will back me up on this, it's a shame you can't ask him, since he's dead) compared to other homeless, unmarried and pregnant/shotgun bride drifter chicks from her town. Don't misunderstand me, she wasn't a perma-virgin, I mean, I have brothers and sisters and all that...but they came later. They weren't special like me, they had a REGULAR dad (regular, as in not immortal, not omnipotent, not omniscient). I mean come on, dude, admit it! MY dad, he blows doors on that mustachioed merkin-muncher you call Daddy!" He pauses, looking hard at a fit, handsome Puerto Rican guy who's sitting just a few feet away from him. The guy stares at him for a second, and then gets up to leave. It's just me and Jesus in here now. He goes on. "My dad is special. He's God. You know GOD? He created everything and everyone! He knows all and sees all and has infinite wisdom and and he is the origin of all things--even of the very thoughts at this moment forming in YOUR very own head--every single solitary quark contained within each proton around which every electron revolves within all the atoms of the universe..." I start to drift off. He notices and leans closer towards me, shouting "When I was born three KINGS schlepped their mangy asses hella far to drop off these rare, precious, uh...things--one of which was GOLD. As in, shiny yellow duckets, bitch!" Finally, I've had enough too, I leave.
Okay. So that's the kind of guy Jesus is. I'm sorry but he just BUGS! That's what I think. I'm 100% certain that there are people who will disagree with me. Not just disagree with me, but think that I am, merely by articulating this opinion and sharing it publicly, guilty of a violent, unprovoked attack on them, personally. An attack that's tant amount to karate chop to the bridge of their noses. But I don't give a shit. They're wrong. I do not care one whit if they and think the sun rises and sets in Jesus's 'taint and that his sermons were divinely inspired soliloquies which will serve to define humanity and all of its wisdom and beauty unto eternity, that's perfectly fine with me, I simply (admittedly NOT respectfully) disagree. He's no better than David Koresh--he just didn't stockpile a bunch of weapons and fuck a bunch of underaged girls (that we know of) and get himself immolated and a bunch of innocent people killed on national television. That's the only difference.
Letter to FIlm Director
I worked as wardrobe assistant on an independent film project titled, "Crazy Bitches." It was a horror film of the "slasher" variety, with a fairly large cast and non-existent budget. The script was not aggressively awful, but the director was inexperienced and untested. She was also bat-shit cray cray.
Like all film productions, the first week on this project was dedicated to doing all of the necessary "prep" work. For wardrobe department, this is an incredibly busy week, spent buying and renting clothing for each character, "breaking down the script" so that you can track all character changes scene by scene, get personal fittings done with all principal actors at their home/apartment. This mean going anywhere from Laguna Nigel to Chatsworth to Burbank to Malibu at any hour of the day or night, (as early as 7 am to as late as midnight) to take their measurements, have them try on whatever wardrobe pieces which have already been purchased for their character(s) and to make sure everything fits and that whatever doesn't fit, can be tailored to do so within our tight schedule) Mikel, the Costume Designer (who hired me to work for him on the project) called me late one evening after having received an email from the director telling him that one of the actors had complained to her about his fitting that day. Now, this actor was one of the minor characters in the movie and not in a position (we thought) to cause waves of any kind, because he could be replaced without any difficulty at all, he had only a few lines of dialogue, and he was only averagely good looking. Apparently, he didn't recognize this fact and immediately started causing problems for the costume designer, by being late for his fitting (at his home! He showed up late for an appointment that he didn't even need to leave home to be on time for!) Anyway, apparently he had called the director to complain about Mikel's treatment of him during his fitting and she sent Mikel a rather rude and sanctimonious email which accused him of being unprofessional to this actor, Blake, and listing a bunch of new demands that she had for him to do for her for the duration of the project. Mikel called me, hysterical, immediately after reading it, begging me to write a response for him since he's "not much of a writer" (his own words, not mine). I dragged myself out of bed and wrote the email below. (I signed it as Mikel, because that who was going to send it to her. I think knowing that it wouldn't be coming from me made it easier to say what I might not normally say in a way i might not normally say it.)
Please respond in the comments section if you think I was inappropriate, unprofessional or if you thought I was right on. I would love to hear any feedback at all about it!
Like all film productions, the first week on this project was dedicated to doing all of the necessary "prep" work. For wardrobe department, this is an incredibly busy week, spent buying and renting clothing for each character, "breaking down the script" so that you can track all character changes scene by scene, get personal fittings done with all principal actors at their home/apartment. This mean going anywhere from Laguna Nigel to Chatsworth to Burbank to Malibu at any hour of the day or night, (as early as 7 am to as late as midnight) to take their measurements, have them try on whatever wardrobe pieces which have already been purchased for their character(s) and to make sure everything fits and that whatever doesn't fit, can be tailored to do so within our tight schedule) Mikel, the Costume Designer (who hired me to work for him on the project) called me late one evening after having received an email from the director telling him that one of the actors had complained to her about his fitting that day. Now, this actor was one of the minor characters in the movie and not in a position (we thought) to cause waves of any kind, because he could be replaced without any difficulty at all, he had only a few lines of dialogue, and he was only averagely good looking. Apparently, he didn't recognize this fact and immediately started causing problems for the costume designer, by being late for his fitting (at his home! He showed up late for an appointment that he didn't even need to leave home to be on time for!) Anyway, apparently he had called the director to complain about Mikel's treatment of him during his fitting and she sent Mikel a rather rude and sanctimonious email which accused him of being unprofessional to this actor, Blake, and listing a bunch of new demands that she had for him to do for her for the duration of the project. Mikel called me, hysterical, immediately after reading it, begging me to write a response for him since he's "not much of a writer" (his own words, not mine). I dragged myself out of bed and wrote the email below. (I signed it as Mikel, because that who was going to send it to her. I think knowing that it wouldn't be coming from me made it easier to say what I might not normally say in a way i might not normally say it.)
Please respond in the comments section if you think I was inappropriate, unprofessional or if you thought I was right on. I would love to hear any feedback at all about it!
Jane,
Of course, it is my goal to have every actor in any project I work on feel comfortable with what they're wearing and Blake is no exception. However, I believe that the primary issue he had with his wardrobe was that he did not look like a "security guard." I reminded him that his character wasn't supposed to look like a security guard, since he was a groundskeeper. Unfortunately, I did not know that he had not been told (by you, the director) that you'd opted to make him and Derek's characters "groundskeepers" instead of security guards to save $150 on uniforms. I would have preferred not to have had to be the one to notify him of his character's career demotion (as that is not my job), since, obviously, that has tainted Blake's opinion of me and my choice of wardrobe for him. The fact that he was also late for our meeting did not help, since I had another appointment scheduled immediately after and could not spend the time explaining things to him more delicately. The fact is--the budget for this project is shockingly small, considering the size of the cast (30, plus extras), half of which have 5 changes, and many of which require matching doubles. May I remind you, we had a discussion about this two days ago, in which you specifically requested his look be "groundskeeperish" and that you wanted his shirts to be altered by cutting off his sleeves. I am unaware of any security guard uniform which would satisfy both of these caveats. Please just tell me what you want him in. If you want him to be wearing a security guard uniform, then you need to come up with more money for the wardrobe budget and I'll make it happen.
If you expect me to send you photos of each character's changes so that you can personally okay them in advance, then I'm afraid I'm not the right person for this project. Because I simply do not have the time, nor the inclination, to be spending my time clearing individual looks with you. May I remind you, there are dozens of cast members with multiple changes that I have to shop for and prep in the next 48 hours? If you don't trust my styling expertise and wardrobe decisions, then why did you hire me?
I'm
concerned about the fact that there are numerous other plot points
which involve wardrobe (2009 Prada stilletto's, Pucci blouse, for
example) which are unrealistic, given the budget. Am I going to be
thrown under the bus by you every time a cast member is unhappy about
the downgrading of their wardrobe expectations? Because that won't work
for me.
Respectfully,
Mikel (Last Name Withheld)
Shockingly enough, we didn't get fired. But I wish we had because the job was a fucking nightmare. Truly, one of the worst productions I have ever been a part of. And I have worked on a low-budget Christian film in an non-air conditioned wardrobe trailer in the valley in August. It was literally 180 degrees in that trailer at 2 in the afternoon. I was so dehydrated every night when I went home that my pee looked like lemon-lime gatorade.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
My husband's sister is possibly feral, most definitely evil (Journal Entry dated 12/28/00)
So, Mike and I got to the "Red Setter" at precisely 9 o'clock last night, right on time, thanks to my husband's (very real) threat that he would "leave without me!" if I wasn't in the car by 8:45. Nonetheless, I was pissed when I realized that we were the first ones there out of the entire group. Mike's cool, pretty, funny sister, Karen, arrived a few minutes after we did, alone, without her husband--which no one mentioned.
"Hey! Have you two been here long?" she asked as she sat down. I shook my head, deliberately vague.
"Nah. We've been here like 20 seconds." Mike answered, much to my annoyance.
I realize that I should not have been aggravated by that answer. But I didn't like the fact that he'd given a specific amount of time we'd been waiting--and it wasn't even accurate. I mean, I thought we'd been there for at least a minute, maybe even two. If you're going to give such a detailed and specific answer to a question that warrants merely a yes or no answer, then do it in our favor, so it comes off like we've been sitting here drumming our fingers on the bar for a while, killing time, waiting for everyone else to show up. That way people start off feeling a wee bit guilty towards us, and more likely to pick up a round or two.
My annoyance at losing potential "guilt points" was totally unnecessary as it turns out. The real reason that Karen had asked the question was not to satisfy some needling concern that we might have been kept waiting, but rather because she had been sitting in her car, waiting to come inside and had not noticed us entering the bar. She was not asking out of concern, but merely curious as to how she'd missed us.
Eventually the rest of the group arrives and I quickly remembered why I never go to bars in a group...because it fucking sucks. It sucks because you're obligated to "hang" with your "crew," But these are not people you necessarily find interesting or would be seen in public with otherwise.
Anywho, Lisa, Mike's oldest sister, was there with her boyfriend, Joe, and Joe's brother (who's name I forget). Lisa is really, really ugly. In fact, one cannot adequately describe her without turning to the animal kingdom. She looks like a ferret, only pointier and less housebroken. She is possibly feral. I am frightened of/by her and have already determined that she is dangerous. So, I try extra hard to get her to like me, I buy her drinks and feign interest in her self-absorbed, tedious monologues and nod and smile and look her in the eye when she talks to me even if it is to ask rude and condescending questions like, "Is that what you wear to a bar?" Obviously, since we were in a bar, and I was fully dressed, this was a rhetorical question, and I just nodded and smiled and bit my tongue. Why did I bite my tongue? Because as my new husband's older sister, she gets a great deal more leeway than I might normally afford someone who insults me publicly...especially someone who's ensemble consists of the following:
Okay that's where my journal entry ends...but I want to insert here an update to this journal entry, defending my less-than-kind attitude towards my sister-in-law. The woman is a straight-up bitch. Not only did she insult me the very first time I met her:
Mike introduced us. She looked me up and down and said,
"So you're the girl who "got" Mike." she snorted, "Never thought he'd settle down so quick." (translation: "FYI: I'm on to you bitch. You may have fooled my little brother, but I can see right through your facade and I ain't buying what you're selling. Not by a longshot.")
My eyes glaze over as I desperately grasp for the appropriate response.
"Uh, yeah? I guess."
"Hey! Have you two been here long?" she asked as she sat down. I shook my head, deliberately vague.
"Nah. We've been here like 20 seconds." Mike answered, much to my annoyance.
I realize that I should not have been aggravated by that answer. But I didn't like the fact that he'd given a specific amount of time we'd been waiting--and it wasn't even accurate. I mean, I thought we'd been there for at least a minute, maybe even two. If you're going to give such a detailed and specific answer to a question that warrants merely a yes or no answer, then do it in our favor, so it comes off like we've been sitting here drumming our fingers on the bar for a while, killing time, waiting for everyone else to show up. That way people start off feeling a wee bit guilty towards us, and more likely to pick up a round or two.
My annoyance at losing potential "guilt points" was totally unnecessary as it turns out. The real reason that Karen had asked the question was not to satisfy some needling concern that we might have been kept waiting, but rather because she had been sitting in her car, waiting to come inside and had not noticed us entering the bar. She was not asking out of concern, but merely curious as to how she'd missed us.
Eventually the rest of the group arrives and I quickly remembered why I never go to bars in a group...because it fucking sucks. It sucks because you're obligated to "hang" with your "crew," But these are not people you necessarily find interesting or would be seen in public with otherwise.
Anywho, Lisa, Mike's oldest sister, was there with her boyfriend, Joe, and Joe's brother (who's name I forget). Lisa is really, really ugly. In fact, one cannot adequately describe her without turning to the animal kingdom. She looks like a ferret, only pointier and less housebroken. She is possibly feral. I am frightened of/by her and have already determined that she is dangerous. So, I try extra hard to get her to like me, I buy her drinks and feign interest in her self-absorbed, tedious monologues and nod and smile and look her in the eye when she talks to me even if it is to ask rude and condescending questions like, "Is that what you wear to a bar?" Obviously, since we were in a bar, and I was fully dressed, this was a rhetorical question, and I just nodded and smiled and bit my tongue. Why did I bite my tongue? Because as my new husband's older sister, she gets a great deal more leeway than I might normally afford someone who insults me publicly...especially someone who's ensemble consists of the following:
- a pair sloppy, homemade cutoff jean shorts (Wranglers) cut just above the knee, folded instead of hemmed, with straggling threads dangling out from the folds past her knee,
- a pair of dusty, dirty, ancient cowboy boots that instantly explain why boots are sometimes called "shit kickers,"; because that's exactly what it looks like they have been doing all their long life.
- a stained "wife-beater" (a thin, white tank-top undershirt) the cheapest kind imaginable, so thin, threadbare and shapeless it reminded me of the wet newspaper strips we used to make paper mache animals in grade school) which wouldn't be a problem, only, she hasn't bothered to put on a bra...and she doesn't have the kind of breasts which make that advisable. Her breasts look like two pastry bags which were going to squirt ganache piping onto the folds of her jean shorts at any moment. Also, did I mention that she had a copious amount of underarm hair? So much so that, even when she had her arms down at her sides, there were these tiny little afros trying to escape from the crack of her underarms. Totally distracting.
Okay that's where my journal entry ends...but I want to insert here an update to this journal entry, defending my less-than-kind attitude towards my sister-in-law. The woman is a straight-up bitch. Not only did she insult me the very first time I met her:
Mike introduced us. She looked me up and down and said,
"So you're the girl who "got" Mike." she snorted, "Never thought he'd settle down so quick." (translation: "FYI: I'm on to you bitch. You may have fooled my little brother, but I can see right through your facade and I ain't buying what you're selling. Not by a longshot.")
My eyes glaze over as I desperately grasp for the appropriate response.
"Uh, yeah? I guess."
Friday, September 4, 2015
Frenemies
And I wrote her back:
Brooke,
That is the hardest lesson. I mean, I thought she was my friend and that she cared about me, But it's clear to me that she doesn't feel anything for me but saw me as a stepping stone, as someone to be used as much as possible and when there was no more use for me, she discarded me.
It wouldn't hurt so much if she hadn't achieved what I cannot; a career in writing, making money for doing something she (presumably, as I do) loves. Especially knowing that she's a mediocre writer (at best) and that she feels so superior to me that she condescends to me whenever I see her even though she knows for a fact that I am talented--and that, without me, she wouldn't have gotten the jobs she got in the beginning when she used the scripts that I wrote as her work alone. She feels no guilt about her behavior, but acted so wounded when I used her credit card once, when I was on drugs and gambling; which I admit, was a terrible, despicable thing to do, and I am very ashamed of it, and make no excuses for it, but the things that she has done to me (and you, as well) are so much more diabolical, so much more hurtful. She called her bank and got the money back in her account the next day. Whereas she pursued the only girl I was ever really attracted to (and the only girl I had sex with besides herself) and then accused me of hitting on her when I remained friends with the both of them; she tried to break up my marriage, she got me fired from the best job I ever had, even though I told her if she called me one more time at work that I was going to get fired, she used to try and stomp on my feet when I was a gogo dancer and she was jealous that she hadn't gotten to be a gogo dancer herself, she lied to me and said that we didn't get paid for the work we did on that show "The Complex," when she got $30,000 and I got not one penny! She knows that I re-wrote the script for Katherine Brooks' "Loving Annabel" and that it got made into a film which won awards and she didn't even have the courtesy to tell me or to make sure that Katherine Brooks gave me credit or paid me a single dollar for months and months of work when I was starting out as a writer. She accepted the lifestyle that my income afforded her and never reciprocated a dollar when she became financially successful. She told people I don't know and who had reasons to be jealous of me personal things about me and then didn't defend me when they attacked me publically, online.
But what hurts the most, what cuts the deepest is her utter indifference towards me. He lack of any allegience or solidarity, after a friendship which spanned a couple dozen years and which she always said was immutable. I cannot believe we don't even talk anymore. I cannot believe that. I accepted so many of her flaws and mistakes and always forgave her and moved on and she doesn't seem to care about knowing me or being in my life. That's what hurts the most. That she can just forget everything that we went thru together and just pretend I never existed. I don't know why but it makes me feel worthless. Just this incredible, hopeless depression comes over me whenever I think about her--it's physically painful even.
So i guess I just have to not think about her. She's evil. That's just the bottom line.
I remember right after I got married, we were talking in her car and she broke down and said that she was so scared that no one would ever love her and she would never love anyone the way that she loved me. And i told her, of course you will love someone as much as you love me, because it shows that you are capable of love and if you're capable of love then you'll be loved back! But now i know why she was so scared. She was not, and is not capable of love. Not in the way that i thought she was.
She is a no more capable of love than a robot is capable of empathy. She is a monster.
To which my sister responded:
I guess you are not alone . And sorry you hurt so much from her narcissism . But i think the best revenge is to try to forget about her. Although I know how hard it is !' I am the worst example of not wasting time on someone who doesn't deserve it! Love You.
I ended with:
Brooke!
I love you so much. without you, I don't know where I'd be in the world. You are the bestest, most awesom, most supportive sister anyone could ever hope for. I'm lucky to have you as a friend, let alone my sister!
Haha Kelly doesn't have you as her sister, she doesn't have any sisters. In your face, Kelly!
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Only in California
I went to this failing "beauty boutique" on Melrose the other day that sells high-priced beauty products. You know, the kind of place where you'll pay $48 for a tiny, one ounce jar of under-eye firming gel made from seaweed (er, sorry, pacific kelp) and "exotic argan oil"
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
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