On a Permanent Flight

Overheard On Flight #6773

Seat 17B: "Did you want these? These nuts?"
Seat 17A: "No thanks."
Seat 17B: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Seat 17A: "No thanks. I said, no."
Seat 17B: "I heard that, but I thought I heard you say something about my hair."
Seat 17A: "Your hair? No, I just said, no thanks."
Seat 17B: "I mention my hair 'cause I just had it done. Today."
Seat 17A: "It looks nice."
(I miss about 7-8 minutes because I avail myself of the plane's ghastly facilities)
Seat 17B: "So I just wash and go. Just easy peasy."
Seat 17A: "Oh. That sounds nice."
Seat 17B: "Nice? Nice and easy is more like it. And it looks so natural, doesn't it?"
Seat 17A: "Really natural."
Seat 17B: "Really, really natural. Just like nature, that's how natural it looks."
(a lengthy pause)
Seat 17A: "Yes."
Seat 17B: "That's the thing about perms. You can just wash and go."
(a horrifyingly long pause)
Seat 17A: "No. That's great."
Seat 17B: "And you know sometimes I don't really trust those people. The hairdressers. Oh, they say, let's just give you some bangs, or some layers, or a shag, or something crazy and you wind up looking just like dirt. Dirty as sin. But with a perm, you just wash and go. Easy peasy."
Seat 17A: (quietly) "Oh."
(Seat 17A clicks off her overhead light. I imagine she's hoping that if she can't be seen, perhaps she won't be spoken to.  I follow her lead and don my headphones. Easy peasy.)

It Blows

This week a windstorm swept through this tinsely town. The city went completely dark for a couple of days causing much hoo-haw. But here's what you can't do when the power's out: laundry, return email, answer the phone, or cook. All in all, a stunning couple of days, kitten toes.

Moon Me!

I'd like to introduce you to the newest and coolest sensation to hit this town and hit it hard -
Mr. Willy Moon.

You won't be disappointed, America. Just hop on board the Willy Moon Train! 

(Will he moon? We hope so!)  

Dig this, pigeon lips!

Many Thanks, My Tootsie Pops

Crafts Can Hurt

My dog Ed is really good at crocheting.  He’s just got a talent for it. A flair. And to be perfectly honest, I’m a little bit jealous.  First of all, it was my idea to start a crocheting circle, not Ed’s.  Second of all, he’s never shown any interest in the Arts.  But now that everyone is all, “Ooooh, Ed, you’re so good at crocheting, could you make me something?  You’re just so great at it”, it’s all I ever hear about.  There’s no more, “Can I have a treat?” or “How ‘bout a catch?”.  No, Ed’s all business.  “Paula, I’ve got to get to the Yarn Barn before they close, I’m almost out of teal and I promised Cheryl I’d finish her plant hanger tonight.”  Well, who do you think has to drive Ed to the Yarn Barn?  Me.  For fuck’s sake, dogs don’t drive.  So I’m stuck chauffeuring this douchebag around town, so he can find the perfect width, or whatever, of yarn.  It just makes me sick.  

Plus, he’s gained weight.  Big as a blimp.  Does he honestly think he’ll burn calories sitting on the fucking couch? The only thing he moves are his wrists.  And he wasn’t thin to begin with.  He’s a pit-bull, so he’s pretty barrel-chested, but now he’s just plain old fat.  And I plan on saying that to his face tonight.  And I’m also going to mention that he’s just a little on the slow side.  His vet said so himself, “Ed’s slow.”  That’s a professional opinion, not just me saying it because he’s getting so much attention lately.  

Then this morning Ed asked me if I wanted any help with my crocheting technique.  Oh really?  Do I want help?  Uh, no.  Crocheting is stupid.  It’s what old ladies do.  I hate Ed.  He’s adopted.  He wasn’t even housetrained when I got him.  He peed on my brand new mattress, but did I yell at him?  Did I embarrass him?  No I did not.  I just took him outside and praised him when he did his business in the great outdoors.  I didn’t fucking ask him if he needed “help” with his tech-fucking-nique.  

And he keeps pronouncing it, CROTCH-HAY.  I said, it’s CROW-SHAY, and he says to me, “I’m using the European pronunciation.”  Oh really, Ed?  ‘Cause you eat your own barf.  And eating your own barf, if I’m correct in my assumption and I believe that I am, is gross.  Even in Europe.

Zen Shmen

You should meditate. Find a quiet place, put on some tranquil music, fold your legs up and go. It's gonna make you, I don't know, nicer.

Or you could just take stealth sips from a dented tin flask throughout the day and save yourself the fucking hassle.

Happy Birthday Sugar Britches!

Happy Birthday to the coolest guy in the world who I do my very best to live up to.

(He's the hot stuff 4 year old on the left, ladies...that's right, it's a red cardigan.)

Trick!

Not many know the true legend behind Halloween so I'd like to share it with you. The holiday was founded about three years ago to celebrate my racist neighbor.

This hothead would stand there, scowling on her porch in her too tight Lee jeans, menthol Salem burning softly in the twilight, unhappy with every single thing she'd every known, and scaring the crap out of all the children on the block.

So, to fete this dynamite lady, we knock on some doors and chew fun-sized Dots for a few days.

Feel free to spread this fable far and wide because, as Steven Seagal so beautifully stated last week, knowledge is power.

(This year I'm going as a stay-at-home writer.  I wear it everyday, people.)

That about covers it. Trick or Treat, my sweet candy corns.

Lo-Cal Fightin'

I'm just gonna throw this out on front street - I watch the Real Housewives. Every city. What I'd like to do right now, in case your tivo lamed out on you and didn't get a chance to see it, is recap this gem. Here goes:

A blond lady threw a party and invited all the other blond ladies, plus one brunette, to come.  They played charades and drank a lot of booze. The house they were in was enormous. After a while some of the ladies started drunkenly accusing each other of being drunks. The ladies who weren't yelling sipped their hooch and watched with red bloodshot eyes.

Nobody ate a bite.

Boy, this thing is really heavy...

And the Emmy goes to...me!

For the riveting portrayal of a girl who is hard at work while secretly not working at all but watching several episodes of the Rockford Files.

Job well done! Brava!

Finer Than Frog Hair

For many Yuletide seasons now, my family and I greedily await a Christmas letter from an unnamed (Aunt Shirley) family member.  This letter is something of a goldmine, talked about for days and marveled about the rest of the year. Curiously, Shirley mails it out in early October, so we're already buckled up for this year's gem.

The contents of Shirley's letter swings the pendulum from snooze-fest to shock-a-roonie although Shirley is in no way dynamic in real life. Squat in both body and mind, her letters belie her demeanor. But as the saying goes, "Holy shit, she belongs behind bars."

Last year's Christmas letter told of her struggle to get rid of rust stains and that she was an escort for a short while in the 60's. She shared her recipe for plum pudding and for what appears to be a roofie-laced cocktail. We heard about her check kiting and month long stay in a little known Alaskan penal colony, as well as handy tips on scuff mark removal and easy ways to hide a corpse.

So she'll swing by for a bit on Christmas day, sit in her favorite recliner, not saying much. But we all know what lies beneath that cat fur covered cardigan - a criminal mind finer than frog hair.

Art I Choke

I'm thinking about getting into art. In a big way. I'm also thinking that I'm going to capitalize the "a" in art to give it more cachet. Art. Or how about this - aRt.

I'm going to adopt a slightly Englishy accent and say things like, "As it currently stands, Koons is winning the war on banal." Or, "It's a cross between expressionism and hideous." Maybe even, "I shut my eyes in order to see." I may start smoking again.

Or I may just fashion another crochet tea cozy and call it a night.

Exactamundo!

I haven't posted something in several days and for those of you who may be worried that the reason for this is because I was attacked by a mountain lion - you're almost right.

Yes, I came face to face (or face to three-feet-away face) with a wildcat of sorts. Here's how the whole thing went down: I was hiking with our dog Ed (cool under pressure, I must say) and we decided to cut through the woods to a different trail when all of the sudden Ed stopped in his tracks and refused to budge. Now, this can happen from time to time with Ed because, as I've mentioned before, he's a little on the husky side, but this time I sensed he meant bidness. He lifted his nose to the sky and was breathing really heavily. Again, due to his plus size, I immediately thought he may be suffering a heart attack. As I knelt down next to him, out of the woods walked a mountain lion and here's what happens when you see a mountain lion in realsies - it blows your mind. Plus, you kind of want to pet it.

We stayed stock still and Ed pressed against me until I thought I would tip over.  All I could think of was Arthur Fonzerelli - just keep it cool, fool.  I did my best.  Ed and I spoke not a word.

As luck would have it, two Screaming Mimi's came around the bend and that caught the mountain lion's attention. They got an eyeful and started shrieking, I kid you not, "Run! Run! It's a cat! Run!"

I shouted at them, doing my best to keep my Fonzi-style cool, "Don't move! Stop screaming! Don't look it in the eye! Stay close together and shut up! It won't hurt you!" The mountain lion crept their way. I realized that this was the moment to make our getaway, but at the same time, I realized that if the Ranting Rita's were killed, I would lose a lot of beauty sleep that I simply can't afford to, so we were forced to stay.

Soon after the poor cat crept back into the woods and we all made our way safely down the trails, the two chicks yelling at me when I admitted I was just spouting nonsense and had no idea what to do when a mountain lion approached.

At the bottom of the trail, they met up with their fellas, describing at length (in their shockingly shrill voices) what had happened.

Ed and I continued to keep our cool, walked to the car, hopped in, cried a little, then went home.

Presented Without Comment

Just click below.

I can't avert my eyes!

Faithfully

There are certain people I can't help but adore and right now I am 100% adoring Mr. Tareq Salahi.

You see, his wife went missing (or skanking around with an 86 year old guitar player from Journey) for around 12 hours and my man Tareq immediately did what any concerned spouse would do: He held a press conference. He announced that his terrifyingly thin wife, Michaele, (are they just randomly throwing letters together and claiming it as their name?) had been kidnapped by ne'er do wells.  He offered no proof, just a gut feeling that she was being held against her will.  (And maybe she was, if you get what I'm sayin'.)

So I imagine she'll be pulled off the upper bunk of Journey's ancient tour bus, tearfully bid the fellas goodbye, then extend her bony thumb looking to hitch a ride back to D.C. or wherever those two dingbats reside.

I for one am eagerly awaiting the next dramatic move in this headline grabbing chess game. Stay tuned.

Submission

I'd like to share with you a rejection letter I received last week from a small literary magazine.

It read thusly: "Not quite."

They'd also included a generous offer to subscribe to their publication so I could spend some time reading works that were not mine and perhaps somehow more, "quite".

With us always.

Spoiler Alert!

I have just spent a luxurious evening watching one of tinsel town's greatest cinematic feats and I am truly shaken to my core. Rarely are you are so emotionally swept away by a film that it takes quite some time to come back to earth.

I'm speaking, of course, about 1979's, Roller Boogie. If you haven't seen it, (first of all, why not?!) the story revolves around two young outcasts from very different sides of the track. The poor little rich girl, (Linda "Awesome" Blair) and her misunderstood mop-top of a boyfriend, (portrayed winningly by Mr. James Bray) learn about the demise of their beloved disco roller rink.

Of course their emotional hair is set on fire by this disaster and they decide to join roller boogie forces and put an end to such nonsense. In doing so, they fall in (slow motion) love and showcase their bad ass romantic disco skating. I don't want to give away the ending (they win!) but it's a real thrill ride.

I guess the chin scratcher here is, why no Roller Boogie 2, Hollywood? Let's make some magic happen. And to wet your whistle, feel free to dig in to the clip below. Just prepare to have your mind blown.

Holy Roller Boogie

Cat Nap Fever

Now, I'm not going to name any names (me), but when someone (again, I'm referring to me) emotionally flips out because a black fly has entered their home, they may have to rethink their "sleep isn't all that important" stance. 

Forty winks, doesn't stink, cha cha pants.

Queen's Rule

After much soul searching, I've decided to run for Queen of America.

My platform is this: Sno-Cones for all! Televised roller derby! Eradication of whisker burn!

You're welcome.

Life at 5

When I was little, say around 5, I carried a house key in my purse. I would fake use it when I opened my bedroom door, pretending that I was walking into my Manhattan apartment.

Then I would sit on my blue toy box and smoke crayons for a while. Just minding my own business and drinking in the New York skyline.

Tea Party Smarty!

Sexy? Sure. Feisty? Check! Unbalanced? You be the judge, America.

I'm speaking of course about this country's double barreled asset, Mrs. Michele Bachmann: Hothead Extraordinaire.

(Full disclosure - My uncle dated her husband in the late 80's. Super full disclosure - they're both not gay.)

I've got a lot to say about this pint-sized presidential candidate, but for now I'll just lay out some facts, Bachmann-Style:  (I'd like to impress upon you that she actually said these things. Out loud. Into a microphone. In front of people.):
-If you get rid of the minimum wage, you eradicate unemployment.
-Gay marriage is the biggest issue that will impact our nation.
-All cultures are not equal.
-If you take a child to see "Lion King" and tell him that the person who wrote the music is gay, the message your sending is, "I'm better at what I do because I'm gay."

That's right, she's got her head screwed on straighter than her husband.

Buckle up, voters, there's a lot more where this came from.

Told You So...

Right? She's really, really popular.

Lucille Is Perfection

My dog, Miss Louisiana "Lucille" Sorge Moynihan, is 15 and absolute perfection. You honestly could not ask for more.

I found her wandering the streets 14 years ago, when I'd first moved to L.A. She was malnourished, filthy, and covered in cigarette burns, and the sweetest angel I'd ever laid eyes on. She recovered beautifully and has been by my side ever since. And I know you've heard this before, but she is truly the kindest and most popular dog in the world.

I keep telling myself that she's the exception to the rule and will live forever, but I understand I may be mistaken. That said, the world, and certainly my life, will never shine as bright.

The moral here is this - if you ever see a dog wandering around in search of a home, why not take a chance? You may just find yourself the best friend you've been looking for.

She Shoots, She Hoards!

I've been kicking around the idea of becoming a hoarder for quite some time now. There are several solid reasons why and I wouldn't mind sharing them with you:
-You can probably get a guest spot on a TV show. (Yes, you'll be lumped in with the kooks who stockpile sticky Orange Julius cups and cat litter, but hey, that's showbiz.)
-You'll bring your neighborhood closer together by giving them something sensational to talk about.
-You'll have reference material/current events at your fingertips (if twined newspapers happens to be your thing).
-I'm thinking that people may tread more lightly around you due to your mildly unsound mind.
-Kiss cleaning good-bye.
-You'll be a little bit more like Delta Burke, which is always a great thing.
Some real positives and certainly food for thought.

Shut Your Pie Hole

Here are some things you're not allowed to say:

- Nice facelift.
- Your ass looks smaller than usual.
- Did he give you another shiner?
- I'm bored of you.
- Nobody really likes your boyfriend.
- You're a liar.
- No, I don't want to hear about your children.

Just a heads up, my angel doves.

Sure As Shootin'

Have you ever been so over the top furious with someone and you're not allowed to say a peep? I sure as shootin' have and I'm telling you right now, sugar pops, it can eat you alive.

I'm just counting to 10 and looking forward to a far more subdued tomorrow.

Stay cool, fools.

L.A. Blues

Today I feel like a little glum and here's why: I'm kind of lonely. The thing about Los Angeles (and probably every city in the entire world) is that you can have a million friends and still feel all by yourself. People (and I'm certain I'm guilty of this too) think nothing of canceling at the last minute or forgetting to call you back. So you end up feeling like a leftover. Like you don't really matter. And you also feel stupid for being excited about the plans you made because, to your friends, they didn't seem all that important. Sad news.

So here it is, 93 degree at 1:19, and I'm hanging out on the porch with my freshly washed dogs, feeling blue. Actually, that only sounds half bad.

Here's to cooler days and better friends.

A Star Has Barfed

This fine morning I awoke to a pile of dog barf sitting neatly by the side of my bed. And I think he did it on purpose. That's what my dog Ed's been like lately and I place the blame of this behavior squarely on the performing arts. Dramatics, to be more precise.

Ed started taking acting classes 3 months ago and he's been an absolute douche bag ever since. He even wears an ascot. He's over-enunciating everything and asking me to do "trust exercises".  Screw that, man. He was too theatrical before he signed himself up for these classes anyway which, by the way, are held at The Los Angeles Institute of Emotions. (Way to undersell it.)

And he's been bringing all of his theatre people over. They're as embarrassing as Ed. They all gossip like girls and say things like, "That was really brave of you to admit that" and "You have to be resilient throughout your journey". Um, when did we all move to a commune in the 70's, I'd like to know. Plus they don't even say a word to me. Not a peep. They just hang around smoking herb cigarettes and eating vegan cookies.

So this morning (while I was cleaning up Ed's barf, if you must know) he asked me if I thought he was, "too husky for film." Well, husky is something Ed should shoot for. He's a Dom DeLuisian-style of actor.  The problem is, he thwarts any plan to exercise. He tells me his family suffers from "weak knees".  A few months ago he started posting sticky notes on the fridge that read, "Ed regrets to inform you that he is not up for any form of exercise today. This includes all forms of cardio and weights." Except he spelled it "waits". And I didn't even point it out, but maybe I should. Maybe I should tell him that he can't pretend to be a man of letters if he can't fucking spell. I mean, come on. "Waits". Really, Ed?  I wonder what his fake-english-accented friends would have to say about that. Is bad spelling part of Ed's journey?

I guess I'll just see how this plays out. I imagine it'll wind up in the same file as his scrapbooking, beauty school, and storm chasing endeavors. The thing about Ed though is this - his heart's as husky as his acting style. I'll keep you posted.

Fools Rush In

Whenever I can't get any shut eye or if I'm feeling a little blue, I pick up the phone and call my best friend of all time, Rush Limbaugh (I know!).

He just gets it, you know what I mean? His insight is laser sharp and he's a (super soft!) shoulder to cry on. I can never stay glum for too long, he's got pills for that. And he doesn't pepper these conversations with "facts" or "critical thinking". Honestly, that just drags the fun times down.

"The Japanese should stop recycling!" he'll shout, or "Obama's a...he's a...a...cookie..." and then he'll trail off. I honestly don't know what he means half the time, but I don't have to. The passion that he speaks with, the fiendish cigar-puffing is pretty overwhelming, really.

I usually don't get a chance to talk about my woes much, but I don't need to. I just punch the speaker button and paint my nails and next thing you know, I'm feeling right as rain and my eyelids are closing faster than Rush's fist on a fifty.

Oh, he'll ramble on and sure, sometimes I gently hang up (I'll be honest he can get a little slurry), but he remains close to my heart.

Just this evening he was saying something about the Haitians deserving it...or was it...unions are ruining...I truly can't recall. Oh, it doesn't really matter, just listening to him gets me drowsy and soon I'm lying in the arms of Morpheus.

She's A Real Handful

Write On!

So, here's my thinking about starting a blog - so much of writing a script is not writing at all. For instance, I have to spend time learning to do things like "structure" and "plot points".  I wander around the house brainstorming with my dogs (who are lame as far as contributing ideas), I may lay on the floor and think about stuff and then wrap up my day by chatting on the phone with friends (please see "brainstorming"). So in order to feel like a real writer type writer, I'm going to write posts for this blog. I will sit at my desk (lay in bed) and compose some words. I'm telling no one and not looking for readers, I'm simply writing so I can feel more like a...writer.