She/It Happens

Cliquing My Heels at 40

You know what I loved most about high school? Cliques. I found nothing more exhilarating then trying to bust through the frozen wall of some exclusive little group of teenagers who were honor bound to either flat out hate me or simply pretend I didn’t exist. Both types had their own special skill sets which I envied and aspired to. I admired the ones that pretended I wasn’t there because how could they do that unless they were great actors? It’s very difficult to pretend that hard. People in Hollywood get paid a lot of money to do that. I also looked up to the clique which seemed to so artfully hate me. How could I not be in awe of their witty rejoinders to my idiotic greetings. My clumsy attempts at socializing – doing such nerdy things like smiling and saying “hi” -- were swiftly and correctly answered with such classic responses as, “get away you little freak!”

I mean, who doesn’t like a good challenge? Now, I know that it looked an awful lot like crying when I walked away with my face red and my eyes all swollen and moist, but it wasn’t. That was my own special technique – my game plan. I obviously won the challenge because next thing you knew, they were laughing. I had them all in stitches! Ha! Lordy, lordy. I’m slapping my knee and snorting milk out of my nose this very minute just recalling those wonderful days.

I used to get melancholy thinking about the fact that soon we’d all grow up and those days would be over. I never realized that it didn’t have to be over. You know the phrase, fifty is the new forty? Well, I’ve discovered that forty is the new fifteen.

I’ve probably worked at over a hundred temp jobs in my life. My favorite place in these offices has always been the lunch room. The lunch room in any corporate office is a mini-sized version of the cafeteria we had in high school. It’s a great place to be in during hot weather because as soon as you walk in to the chattering huddle of middle-aged ex-teenagers, the temperature drops to below freezing, thus cooling one’s self off instantaneously. Sometimes, just before the bubbly chatter turns to total silence, I get a chance to hear the last bit of conversation, which usually goes something like this:

“Who’s she?”

“I dunno. Some temp chick.”

It’s so nice to know that I’ve been given an actual title. And so soon! Not everyone has a title you know. I want those who keep giving me one to know that they are greatly appreciated.

I used to drink too much. And so one day I thought drunkenly to myself, “Drunk Self, you know what sounds like a good idea? Alcoholics Anonymous”. In AA, there are some randomly odd people who offer their help, kindness, and phone number to anyone who needs it. They were weird -- you know, all helpful and shit. I didn’t know what to do with them. The best part about AA was the rest of the people who squared off into little AA cliques at every meeting. There are the Dogmatists – the ones who respond to any quip with a glare and the verbal warning “No cross-talking!” There are the Gutter Addicts who are always one-upping someone who they feel hasn’t defiled themselves nearly enough to even qualify as a member of AA. There are the Housewife Tipplers who would never sneer at the Gutter Addicts (out of fear), but enjoy their sly sidelong glances at non-housewife, single, childless drunks such as myself. And then there is the Humorless Lesbians Group (a sub-sect of the Dogmatists) who feel that straight girls and men – gay or straight – have no right to live, much less participate in their AA meeting.

The downside of going to AA was that I stopped drinking so much. God, I used to be so much fun in those final moments just before I threw up and passed out on the floor. The upside was that, except for the no alcohol part, the social transition from Real Life to AA Life was practically seamless. By the way, after reading this, one of my favorite dogmatists will email me to remind me that one doesn’t go to AA to stop drinking so much. But that’s okay. I’m used to pretty much getting everything wrong.

Recently I tried a renewed attempt at busting through the wall of the writers cliques. They have them in every city, town and suburb in the world. The most popular ex-teenagers in these groups tend to be, as they refer to themselves, the “alternative” writers. They read their shi... I mean, their powerful unpredictable prose at every reading in town. They write things that are too meaningful for mere mortals to understand, and they recite them with lots of pauses like, “the turgid-bellied... waters of my... spine became Snoopy... feet.” They are geniuses, and I am jealous of them. And they know this.

I really could go on, but I won’t. The brick wall upon which I keep bashing my head is starting to crumble. But I’ll tell you something. I was afraid that as I got older, I would have to resort to memories in order to feel young again. I mean, who knew that people in their 40’s could be so reminiscent of those teenagers you and I knew in high school?

Gee, I wonder if it means that creation theory is a fact. At the very least, it disproves evolution.

February 21, 2008 12:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Add Comment

Scene from Bringing Down the Bangos: Grace brings her daughter Poe (16) to AA

INT. CHURCH BASEMENT ROOM - LATER THAT MORNING

In front of the church is a large bright banner that can be seen a block away: "ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS
MEETINGS HERE". Practically the whole town is there, including: Nurse
Gloria, Officer Kevin Snow, Audrey the police station filing lady, etc.

POE
I am so going to go Columbine. I'll kill Madsen. I'm
an alcoholic and an alienated minor. It wouldn't be
my fault. I'd get off. They would say it's Mom and
Dad's fault and I'd get, maybe like five years
probation or something...

GAYLORD
I'd stand by your side.

POE
What are you doing here?

GAYLORD
Just hangin'.

POE
Are you an alcoholic?

GAYLORD
Nope. But my brother, Lord, is.

POE
So... you come to support him?

GAYLORD
Nope. Biggest asshole you ever met. Great
entertainment, though. From a distance.

He reaches into a baggy, and pops a mushroom into his mouth.

GRACE
Honey, sit up straight. You don't want to make a
poor impression.

POE
In case you haven't noticed, I don't have to make a
good impression for these people. They're - um -
what do you call them - alcoholics.

AUDREY
Hello. My name is Audrey and I am an al-co-ho-lic.

POE
See?

GAYLORD
Audrey's not an alcoholic either. She just pretends
to be one so she can get the dirt on everyone here.

AA GROUP
Hello Audrey!

AUDREY
Are there any new people here tonight who would like
to share? We know there is one... right... over...
there!

She points at Poe, who slouches further down in her chair. Lord (Gaylord's
brother), about 40, waves his hand.

GAYLORD
Lord speaks at every meeting. And he goes to three
meetings a day.

POE
Wow...

Audrey the AA Leader is forced to recognize Lord. She sighs with annoyance, but nods her assent.

LORD
Hey, I'm Lord and I'm a speed freak and an
alcoholic. Yeah, like no SHIT, or why THE FUCK would
I be here?!

AA GROUP
Hi Lord!

LORD
Hi y'all. First I wanna say -- and this is to anyone
who doesn't get it. This is what it's all about:
GROW THE FUCK UP, MAN! That's what it comes down to!
And if you didn't understand that, then let me
clarify -- make it real simple: Grow. The. Fuck. Up.
Anyways, GLAD to be here, man! I'm really proud of
all of you, and especially to the newcomers. You got
courage, and it ain't going to be easy, man! Look, I
KNOW I'm an ASSHOLE. And I can never forget that.
This is about HONESTY man! Get humble! I have to
come here no matter what. Every day. For six fuckin'
years, man! And I'll be coming here for the next
sixty years. KEEP coming. Cuz if you think that you
got it together, and you stop coming here, you won't
keep your humility. It's YOU guys who keep me
humble. Otherwise, I just think I'm the jackshit of
the world, man. YOU keep me humble. YOU remind me
that I'm not Jack SHIT, I'm just a tatooed, balding
jack ASS from New Fucking Bedford. I drive all the
way here over the bridge every day. I could go to AA
in my hood, but I want to come over here to see that
you lovely, perfumey, well-to-do HOUSEWIVES are just
AS FUCKED UP AS I AM! I STAY in my shit
neighborhood, instead of YOUR my-shit-don't-STINK
neighborhood to stay HUMBLE! And because of you -
because of THE PROGRAM - because I have given my
WILL over to my higher power because, I know, I have
no motherfuckin' will of my own because I am a
drunk, speed-freakin' ASSHOLE - I know now that I
CAN be a WORTHwhile, SOBER asshole. And I just want
to say one more thing. To any of you who aren't sure
if you really belong here: Then why the FUCK are you
here? Thank you.

Everybody claps. Grace gives Lord a thumbs up, her eyes shining bright with
tears. Poe looks at her mother with disgust.

POE
Why aren't I bringing you here instead of the other
way around? You're the one who likes it so much.

Poe dozes off - the testimonies become a distant, droning buzz.

TIME CUT:

The end of the meeting...

GLORIA
Wake up, 'oooh-I'm-in-shock' girl.

POE
Oh my God... I know you.

GLORIA
No you don't. I'm anonymous. And don't you forget it
you little creep.

OFFICER KEVIN SNOW
Well well. If it isn't daddy's drunk little girl.

POE
Do I know you?

OFFICER KEVIN SNOW
Oh, so you've forgotten me have you? What a
surprise. So no, you don't know me, because I'm
anonymous.

POE
But you know me? Don't I get to be anonymous too?

OFFICER KEVIN SNOW
No, Poe Alice Bango Social Security Number 555-55-
5555. In a small town like this, you have to earn
your anonymity.

February 13, 2008 9:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Add Comment

Scene from "Bringing Down the Bangos" - Uncle Henry has fonder memories of his cigarette butts than of his wife

INT. CAPE COD HOUSE - 20 YEARS AGO

ON SCREEN: "Cape Cod - 20 years ago"

Inside, the little cottage is dark, furnished like an old English parlor.
Uncle Henry and Aunt Virginia are playing bridge with friends, Dick and
Alice, all in their 60's. The men are drinking bourbon and Henry is smoking.
Next to him is a huge ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Virginia
gets up and reaches down to empty it. Henry slaps her hand away. Virginia
looks apologetically at her friend Alice.

AUNT VIRGINIA
Henry likes to horde his cigarette butts.

UNCLE HENRY
Shaddup, Ginnie.

AUNT VIRGINIA
He feels insecure when they leave his side.

Dick and Alice look uncertain. Is Virginia joking? Dick suddenly laughs, and
Alice, following her husband's lead, titters uncomfortably. Henry glares at
Virginia, then looks at Dick and smiles.

UNCLE HENRY
Hey, these butts are my favorite ones. I have a
special memory about each and every one of 'em.

He bursts out laughing and Dick and Alice join him. Virginia looks disgusted
and sits back down. She sips her tea.

The front door swings open and Henry and Virginia's nieces, Grace, 15, and
Madsen, 17, enter the cottage.

Madsen, with her long, black hair and curvy body dressed up like pop singer,
Madonna, seductively sits on her uncle Henry's lap. Freckled Grace has
braces and wears glasses. She is wearing a marching band uniform and
carrying a percussion triangle.

UNCLE HENRY
There's my Madsen. There's my girl! That's my niece
I was talkin' about, Dick. Whaddya think? Isn't she
a beauty?

DICK
(a little over-enthusiastically)
She sure is.

Alice kicks her husband under the table. He looks away from Madsen.

UNCLE HENRY
And sharp too. Smart as they come. Like a girly
Albert Einstein. Right, baby?

MADSEN
Yup.

Madsen plucks Henry's cigarette from his fingers and takes a puff. Virginia
snatches it away from her. Madsen snickers and rolls her eyes.

UNCLE HENRY
Oh, lighten up, Ginnie.

Henry holds his glass of bourbon up to Madsen's lips.

UNCLE HENRY (CONT'D)
Here, have a sip of this. It'll put hair on your
chest.

Henry and Madsen laugh. Dick and Alice look profoundly uncomfortable.

AUNT VIRGINIA
(to Henry and Madsen)
That's enough, you two.

MADSEN
Oh, you're just jealous.

UNCLE HENRY
Yeah.

Madsen and Henry laugh again. Virginia turns her attention away from them
and on to Grace. She forces a smile.

AUNT VIRGINIA
What do you have there, Gracie?

Grace holds up her triangle and smiles proudly.

GRACE
I made the marching band!

Henry and Madsen burst out laughing again.

UNCLE HENRY
So what?

Virginia hugs Grace.

AUNT VIRGINIA
That's wonderful, dear.

MADSEN
Yeah! Wonderfully retarded!

Henry and Madsen howl with laughter. Grace's face falls and she runs to her
room. Now there is an uncomfortable silence in the room. Henry nudges Madsen
off his lap. She takes the hint and goes off to her own room.

ALICE
Well, Grace is a very pretty girl too. Pretty blonde
hair and big eyes.

UNCLE HENRY
Big dumb doe eyes.

AUNT VIRGINIA
Thank you, Alice. She's a very sweet girl.

UNCLE HENRY
Ichh. It's sickening.

AUNT VIRGINIA
Henry!

UNCLE HENRY
Yep. Big dumb doe eyes.

Henry takes a drag off his cigarette as he flashes back to a few nights
before.

INT. HENRY'S CAR - NIGHT

It is dark and Henry is driving. He sees Grace up ahead, turns on his high
beams, speeds up and swerves near her. Blinded, she stumbles into a ditch.
He's chuckling. He sees a deer up ahead and floors it.

February 13, 2008 9:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | Add Comment

Will God Buy Me a Dress for the San Diego ASA Conference?

I was born in L.A. That was traumatizing enough. After being yanked out of the womb by the ankles and having my umbilical cord hacked off, immediately followed by lipo for that unsightly baby fat, and a blast of botox for that furrowed crybaby brow, I knew that something wasn’t right about that place. Look, I am just too ugly to live in Los Angeles, and even with a bank full of money, I would still shop at Target (but – you know – just to prove it, go ahead and give me a bank full of money and I’ll test out my theory).

I’m gratified to see that there are, in fact, some working screenwriters online who don’t live in Los Angeles. I’ve also read a lot of opinions by people in The Biz fatalistically intoning that if I (and you too, man -- I'm not alone in the audience) want a writing career in film or TV, you better damn well live in L.A. In fact, one article about TV writing told me that if I didn’t live in L.A. to not even bother reading the rest of his article. And so he got exactly what he wanted. I didn’t read the rest of his article. He got his exclusive audience. What a genius! I just read Gary Allison’s most current blog on Storylink that proves otherwise. He lives in Detroit and awesome things are happening with his TV comedy pilot.

I’ve also read interviews by Those-in-the-Know that all I need to succeed is to believe in myself and to have a tough skin. Well, that sounds like I don’t know that I exist, therefore, I need to “believe” in myself – like believing in God, or believing that liver is actually delicious if you smother it enough in bacon and onions. And as for having a tough skin – well then, I’m screwed because I burst out into tears when someone spells my name wrong. Luckily, I don’t have any talent, which some gurus have indicated is not required. And hopefully, I’ll find out that any kind of skill is actually totally undesirable because then -- I am SET.

I’m leaving in a week to attend the 20th Annual ASA Conference at the San Diego Film Festival. I haven’t been to the U.S. since I moved to Ajijic, Mexico over two years ago. It doesn’t sound like a long time, but it seems weird to me. I’m having that trippy time continuum conundrum (say that 10 times real fast) – it feels like time has flown by crazy fast, but at the same time, I feel like I’ve lived here for 20 years. Oh well, who cares? I’m boring even myself. I’m talking about this as if I’m The Discoverer of this feeling. Everyone has it – I know.

My rational and optimistic side is expecting that, like any place else (except for maybe a KKK rally), the film festival/conference will be a mixture of all kinds of people with a variety of personalities, opinions, and skills to share. The narrow, cynical side of me tells me that I’m in for a sycophant festival filled with ass-kissing hopefuls and total a**holes with egos larger than, um… my ass (which is NOT big, by the way, I was just looking for a metaphor).

Don’t get me wrong -- I am genuinely excited. I am so looking forward to this conference -- I’ve never been to one. I get giddy when I talk about it. I’m excited about the workshops – I’m excited about the people I will be meeting – I’m excited about the parties. I am also a little nervous. Sometimes… usually – and suddenly – at 3 o’clock in the morning, I am a lot nervous. I really don’t know of what. That would be the irrational side of me, I suppose. I want to enjoy what I’m doing and not be the ass-kissing hopeful that I was just so disdainful of. Most of the time, I am just really enjoying this process, as well as looking forward to the conference. And then I have the most absurd moments when I realize I gave away all my nice dresses to move to Mexico – and then I have this pathetic moment of panic -- Is the one I have left nice enough? Will that matter? As ridiculous as that sounds, what if it’s true? What if I can’t sell my screenplays because I'm not wearing the right dress?

Okay, well just by writing that down I answered my own question. And others answered too. See? Just look (Transcription of actual divine voices heard):

God: “Yes, Leslie, it is true. Better buy a new dress.”

An Even Better God: “Here’s $500 for a new dress, Leslie.”

But I have a point to make… and I can say this with a degree of confidence: I am doing something right now that I enjoy doing so goddamn much that it almost – almost -- doesn’t matter what happens.

September 21, 2007 8:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Add Comment

Does **it Really Happen?

I happen. You happen. We all happen for sh** happens. I believe in hard work, and I believe in just plain luck. I believe in the combination of the two, and I believe in them separately. Sometimes I need to work just for the sake of working – not out of any need for success (yeah, right). Sometimes I get lucky and $54 comes flying out of the change machine after I’ve inserted my one dollar bill. Sometimes I work hard and I get lucky exactly because of that – I worked hard. Sometimes I work my ass off and nothing good comes from it – and so you have to believe (or if you can’t believe – you have to think) that the doing of the work is good in itself. And you do believe that – at times. And then you have those moments where you feel tired and cynical. But then that’s what you are: tired and cynical. And who wants that on their epitaph? So you get passed that. Yet again. After 6,983 of those moments. And you still make brand new decisions about yourself. You decide something. For yourself, if only just for yourself, you become “the Decider”. It’s a beautiful thing to be that for yourself.

I have decided I am going to be a screenwriter. In the past, I have also decided to become Mother Theresa, a dictator of a small country, an ice cream tasting tester (say that 3 times real fast), and a computer game character (I was actually one of those – guess which one? Check out my profile/professional experience).

This will be more difficult. But it seems to be a natural progression. I have been writing my whole life and been a movie buff, a book buff, a buff buff, an in-the-buff buff, even a Buffy the Vampire Slayer buff. I love Puff the Magic Dragon (click on this link for Peter, Paul and Mary’s most recent, delightful live version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3OiOlnoyljk), which also makes me a Puff Buff. I am small, but no powder puff, which makes me not at all a powder puff buff.

All right, that’s enough of the buff stuff. We’ve all had enough. Enough! Jesus, I’m getting on my nerves…

Thank you for having me with you here….I have been reading dozens of blogs, interviews and profiles, and I have enjoyed them, and learned so much from them. Thank you to those of you who have emailed me and shared a bit of yourself.

Very sincerely, Leslie (oh yeah, it’s my blog – I don’t need to sign off so politely… but I will – because it looks nice and I like to)

September 16, 2007 8:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Add Comment