Damn it! I've been home for three hours now and unless we're willing to call "watching last week's Veronica Mars and Lost" a productive activity then I am just sunk. I mean, I did do some knitting while watching these shows. That's ten inches of scarf that didn't use to exist. But now the time has come for me to be a useful human being and I am just done.
But I'm tired. Tired tired tired. Ran around all day today -- picked up new books for reading, dropped off timecards for temping, bought yarn from Michaels and a baked potato at Wendy's. Picnicked at Griffith Park (as the Michaels was in Burbank, close by) while reading a book, and then spent the rest of the afternoon, unexpectedly, en route to Claremont, in Claremont, and leaving Claremont. (A friend lacked transportation and had real need of it; I had no other plans beyond either catching Walk the Line at the Los Feliz 3 or working on an essay that I've been avoiding for weeks. Was a fun time. Delicious Indian food!)
I forget how driving and traffic just wipe me out mentally. It also doesn't help that the only caffeine I've had today was a large diet Coke. A poor substitute for the real thing.
I really want to go to bed. But that's the coward's way out. And I am not a coward. Today, at least.
My Mayday team, the Eros Battalion, managed a fine showing on Saturday, winning for Best Line and Best Interpretation of Title. I have a copy of Final Draft 7 now! Good times. And the other films were really great -- some quality work by some talented folks.
Harry Potter? Good stuff. Could have been more emotionally stirring, but they certainly did manage to tell that story in two and a half hours, and I had no real hope of them ever managing that. So, impressive. Ralph Fiennes wins the creepy Olympics, yet again.
And hey, you aspiring short film-writers out there, check it out:
I am an independent producer seeking an excellent dramatic short script with some very specifc parameters. Here are the specifications required:
-It must be 7-12 pages -Only dramatic pieces (no comedy) -A finished piece (no works in progress) -The script must focus on a romantic relationship between an attractive couple in their mid to late twenties -Female character must be a beautiful woman -Male character should be a role that a young Andy Garcia or Alec Baldwin could realistically play when they were that age -The male character should be a cool guy in control, and have a profession of someone who lives a dangerous or exciting life (cop, drug dealer, lawyer, gangster).
Please email the script (PDF or a word document) along with a resume of your writing experience and training. If I select your script, it will be fully produced in Los Angeles and submitted to festivals throughout the world. However, there is no pay at this time. If you went to NYU, Columbia, USC, UCLA, or AFI it is a plus, but all submission will be taken into consideration. All submissions must be in screenplay format or will be disregarded. It will also be seen by some top hollywood producers, as this project was assigned to me by a very famous producer in Hollywood.
Ah, Craigslist. So inspirational. So very connected.
Sure, being turned into a pretty pretty diamond might be interesting on a metaphorical level, especially if you're a twelve-year-old girl. But when I die, please just put me in the ground and leave me there. Don't feel obligated to CARRY ME AROUND.
That is all. Probably until next week. I have a pretty crazed 72 hours coming up -- starting with a hockey game at 7:30, Harry Potter at midnight, and a temp gig at 9:30 AM. In GLENDALE! God.
In which a short entry about my new haircut gets all second-person on your ass
Friends, pity those who see me in person regularly, because I got a haircut yesterday and it is FABULOUS. Fabulous enough, perhaps, to scorch the eyeballs of all who witness it? Maybe. Maybe some reverse-Medusa action going on.
It is short and flippy and on FIRE. Love it. And it was FREE. Free professional haircut from Vidal Sassoon professional! The Vidal Sassoon Academy? Love it.
I mean, certainly it's a gamble. You go in, you pay your ten dollars, you wait to be assigned to a student. And sometimes you just get a decent haircut that takes four hours because the student has to wait for the teacher to give approval on the first five hairs she's cut before she can move onto the next five.
But then sometimes you walk in and it's a quiet Monday afternoon, and as you're handing over your moneydollars a nice man comes right up to you and asks "so, what are you looking for today?" And you say, "um, a haircut," and he says "do you want to play it safe or take a chance?" and you say "um, is there something in the middle?"
And then he asks if you can wait an hour and then be his demo model for his afternoon class. And then he gives you your money back, because there's no charge for being a teacher model, because life occasionally can be good that way.
You spend two hours sitting on a chair in front of nine beauticians while the teacher snips away, completely unable to see what he's doing due to the placement of mirrors in the room, just knowing that all the students seem to be nodding in approval. You hear about the technique, about how to understand what clients are really saying when they say things like "How much of a bob will that be?" You stare at the diagrams of heads on the white board when the teacher spins you around to show off your back. You listen to him explain about weight, how to strip it away but still leave length. You listen to the horror stories. You hold still.
People ask about your natural hair color and you explain about the wash-out red last August, the childhood as a platinum blonde. You confess your eighth-grade hair trauma to these strangers, and somehow that makes it possible for you to stray away from playing it safe, say to Nathan, "Sure. Go a little crazy."
Afterwards, they take pictures and you can see your hair now and now that you can see it, you can't stop staring. It's something really different, something brutal and cute in one go. And it makes you happy, to run your fingers through it, feel the texture. Feel like a different person. Feel unsafe, and like it.
I've begun slowly, slowly going through my photos from last August, and have started putting a select few online on my Flickr page, for want of a good alternative. I wish these were less amateurish, but we do what we can with the equipment we have.
We're up through Arkansas right now. Which means that Graceland is next!
"Do you enjoy the slaughter of innocent puppies?" "Yes."
Just did an computerized phone survey, asking me several yes/no questions about the California initiatives. I'm guessing it had a Republican bent, given the following:
Do you think only a man and a woman should be legally considered man and wife?
Do you support Proposition 75, which requires that the big bad unions ask the poor defenseless union workers before using evil union money to buy elections? (the only one of these I've exaggerated)
Do you have a favorable view of Governor Schwarzenegger?
Are you a man?
Are you over the age of 50?
Are you a Republican?
On the issue of abortion, if the choices are pro-life and pro-choice, do you consider yourself pro-life?
That last one was a bit of a killer. No one wants to say they're NOT pro-life. I consider myself very pro-life, in the literal sense of the term.
No one cares about the literal anymore.
Psychologically, as I understand it (I mean, I don't have a doctorate in psych or anything), there's an instinct to want to say "yes" to those sorts of questions. To agree, to please. To fit in. And I actually hesitated on that question. Because who wants to say no to being pro-life? Even when it's the truth?
In other news, I've been joking about how I haven't seen a single pro-Schwarzenegger billboard in LA so far, but yesterday I finally saw two of them, east of Highland on Santa Monica. And they're the most insidiously passive-aggressive pieces of crap I've ever had the pleasure of hating. "I'd rather save lives than play politics," a lady nurse says. "I'd rather teach kids than play poltiics," a lady teacher says. Something about it sticks in my craw. Maybe it's those pesky feminist instincts of mine, but when the message is to stay out of politics, not participate? There's just something wrong there. And I hate the fact that those ads are being paid for by the man who runs my state.
I wonder if the firefighter billboard features a lady firefighter. And if it doesn't (which is most likely), will the duder firefighter prefer saving lives? That kind of repetition lacks poetry. Not that that's the biggest problem.
I need to look up how the initiatives are polling. Does anyone know?
In her later years she becomes a more dynamic force with a strong belief in the party line, but even then she's simply acquiescing to a larger ideal -- which makes her a great Communist, but a poor protagonist.
If you're trying to kill me with kindness, then this is just overkill.
I really don't know what'll happen to me if this movie gets made. Maybe I'll just spontaneously combust. Or maybe I'll grow up and get over having crushes on movie stars and actually date a real dude...
...A real dude who will take me to see this movie opening night. A real dude who understands.
So what am I up to all day long, without the Man getting me down? Well, it varies, due to freelancing being awesome. But today was fairly representative. So, for you readers, I present this accurate time-line!
8:30 AM: Wake up to something horribly cheesy playing. Wonder which of neighbors has such horrible taste in music. 8:31 AM: Remember that I use iPod as an alarm clock. 8:32 AM: Stumble into "the office" (my desk chair). Check email. 8:40 AM: Get massive bowl of Special K. Consume while reading message boards, websites, and columns. 9:30 AM: Nearly finished with those message boards! 9:35 AM: Oh, crap, somebody responded to that post! 9:38 AM: Hah. That'll show 'em. 9:45 AM: Maybe it's time to write those three pieces of coverage I need to write before you go to lunch. Given that it's six pages of writing I haven't started yet. 9:46 AM: Oooh, TWoP! 10:05 AM: Seriously, dude. 10:10 AM: Go onto balcony with water, cell phone, headphones, books, extra pair of socks, laptop. 10:15 AM: Start writing coverage. 10:20 AM: Phone rings! Friend returning call. Have conversation regarding "what I'm up to these days" and "why I have no money." Make coffee while doing so. 10:35 AM: Hang up. Continue writing coverage. Try to ignore melting asphalt smell from next door. 10:50 AM: Quick email break. 11:15 AM: Resume writing coverage. 11:30 AM: First piece of coverage done! Have to leave for lunch in an hour. Still wearing pajamas. Crap. 11:31 AM: Bust a move on second piece of coverage. 11:55 AM: Boom-shaka! Third piece of coverage. Thank god for easy-to-summarize children's literature. 12:31 PM: Coverage mailed off! Time to go to lunch! 12:33 PM: Where in Santa Monica? Oh fuck. 1:07 PM: Arrive at sushi place. Friend is gracious. 1:10 PM: "So, what are you up to these days, Liz?" 1:57 PM: Delicious sushi. Agree to do website for her friend. Talk about projects and ideas and writing. Remember at least two projects that have been completely forgotten in lieu of other projects. Am beginning to consider notion that there is a critical mass within my brain of how many projects I can track at one time. 2:30 PM: Home from Santa Monica. Realize that I need a new batch of books to cover for Unnamed Boutique Production Company. Call friend from college/supplier of books. Agree to come by later that evening. 2:45 PM: Craigslist! Send out five resumes. Consider sending photo to "Get paid to lose weight!" ad. They want to help me lose that last five to ten pounds. I want to let them. All I have to do is work out with a personal trainer five days a week. That doesn't sound at all like hell. 3:30 PM: "Short reading break" becomes "read a full section of Gig." 4:30 PM: Back on balcony, start writing TV show proposal. IM Dad for names of 70s cocktails. Read interviews with Pam Grier, then decide not to use Pam Grier at all. 5:30 PM: Go to pick up books. Gossip about friends from college, and wonder who will be the first to be famous/rich/successful/married to someone famous/rich/successful. 6:00 PM: Drive home listening to NPR cover the Dems' new balls and $7.2 billion in bird flu money. A good day for news. 6:30 PM: Work on proposal some more. 7:00 PM: Put on workout clothes. Jog to gym. 7:30 PM: Arrive just in time for hip-hop class. 8:00 PM: Bail out of hip-hop class, feeling less than hip-hoppy. Do weights and abs before jogging home. 8:35 PM: Start performing boil-pasta/shower-and-dry-hair multitasking. 8:50 PM: Roomie 2.0 knocks on my door to let me know that my pasta pot is about to combust. 9:00 PM: TV! My Name is Earl and The Office. Live! With commercials and everything! 10:00 PM: Continue working on proposal. Finish character descriptions. Feel pleased and empowered. 10:30 PM: Email catch-up. 11:00 PM: "I'll write a blog entry about my day, how fucking long could that take?" 11:41 PM: Post blog entry. 11:46 PM: Watch TiVo-ed Bones while either painting nails or editing photos. 12:30 PM: Start reading new book for coverage. 12:32 PM: Sleep.