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.