Reject

Since the turn of the millennium, I have been employed in a job that has required me to squash dreams and dash hopes. I set aside one day a month to do so. Today was that day. Today was Rejection Letter Day. By tomorrow morning, I will be responsible for undermining someone's faith in him self and wrecking his self-esteem to the point where he (or she) calls me an "ignorant bitch" before diving headlong into his (or her) favorite vice. Jack Daniels, crack, double-stuff Oreos. Whatever gets them by.

It all started with the "Most Romantic Husband" contest at the women's magazine I worked for. I thought it would be fun to read all those letters and post cards about the nice things guys did for their wives and instead, I had to weed through piles of "He's the best husband because he is employed and doesn't beat me." (No. That isn't a joke.) And while that was tough, at least I didn't have to write those women back. Nope. I did, however, have to write to the numerous women who wrote every October about their cancer survival stories. How exactly do you tell a cancer survivor that her story is uninteresting and that unless she faced something more dramatic than her own death than we weren't interested in publishing it? I believe it went something like, "Thank you so much for sharing such a personal and triumphant story with us. However, featured articles such as 'My Mother and I Shared Chemo' came to us through one of our numerous and well-published freelance writers." Pain.Ful.

I thought it would be better in book publishing since an editor deals with agents and not the writer. And agents must deal with dozens of rejects a day, right? Well, maybe, but it seems that you still can't say, "Thanks, but no thanks." My boss, Genny O., taught me what has become my standard get-lost formula, "While I liked XX, I didn't think that YY was ZZ. In addition, write-something-that-can't-possibly-be-fixed-with-a-rewrite-so-that-you-never-see-this-again." The problem was often coming up with what you did like, and trying very hard not to say, "I can't believe you wasted my time with this."

And now here I am in development where I read books and scripts (which, hey!, anyone can write, right?) looking for our next movie. Even worse, I now have to deal with agents, writers, producers, directors, and actors who all have scripts or -- god -- just a concept that they want made into a film. Usually a feature, but as its been sitting a drawer for ten years, they're willing to sell out now and do a Movie of the Week (or MOW in TV parlance). However, even though we're their last stop on the track to Nowheresville, I still have to treat them with love and respect. Not only because this is Hollywood, the place where kissing ass is considered a savvy career move, but because now I'm working with a brand whose identity is synonymous with enriching lives and enhancing relationships one greeting card at a time. So, even my rejects have to be gentler regardless that my respect is lesser. "Thank you so very much for giving me the opportunity to consider XX. While I thought the YY was ZZ, I didn't think the crack-smoking abusive mother who shoots her six-year old son with a .38 would work for our franchise. But keep us mind for the next one!" Actually, I'm not even able to say that. I'm supposed to say, "I felt that some of the elements were a little too edgy for us." Then I usually wrap the whole thing up with, "I'm really sorry this one didn't work out for us. But let's keep trying!" For those of you who know me, you know that last part is...umm, not me.

The thing I hate most about rejects is not that someone is going to be offended by my criticism, but the karma I'm generating. All I can think is that I'm screwed for the rest of my life. I wonder if karma is like a break-up. What is it that they say? Take the time you dated and double it, that's how long it will take you to get over it. God, I hope not. However, if my love is any indication, that might be true. Even though it's been seven years since I've chucked out the last "Most Romantic Husband" entries, I'm still waiting for just one that's employed and doesn't beat me.

Biopsy Results

For those of you who were curious about my biopsy results, I got them back today. It seems that my liver is 100% healthy. No scarring, no fat (on the inside, I'm a pristine thin girl. Sigh, the world will never know of my beauty. I'm totally donating my body to science). However, they did see that I'm genetically predisposed to lupus. This is not a shock as one of my great aunts suffers from lupus. And as we all know, just because your genetically predisposed to something doesn't mean you're going to get it. Still, my liver doctor said that she'd like to see me again for a check up when I'm 40. And now for the scary news: That's only five years from now. AGH!

Take a Picture

Last Thursday, while I was waiting at a light on Wilshire in Westwood (near UCLA), I noticed a gentleman standing at a bus stop. There are people in this world that just want to stick out, aren't there? In this case, he was tall and lanky, probably around my age, possibly older, with curly, mouse-brown hair that brushed his collar. He was wearing -- all you kids from the 80s, perk up -- white parachute pants (at least they looked like parachute pants) with a blue long-sleeved t-shirt with the arms pushed up to his elbows. Think Mork from Ork without the rainbow suspenders. Aviator sunglasses. And the piece de resistance? A sun visor. Made out of green plastic with a white band. All it needed was a 9-volt battery with blinking lights and I would have squealed in delight. It was all so horribly cheesy and ridiculously retro.

Here is my problem when I see stuff like this: I just want to grab out the camera phone and take a picture. I really do. And I know that most people wouldn't think twice about doing so. In fact, this guy was probably hoping that people would photograph him. However, I always think, "Gosh, I would hate it someone took my pic and posted it on their blog only to make derogative comments or, even more cruel, mock me." My photo was taken about a month ago on Hollywood Boulevard, and I was terrified that this was exactly what was going to happen (though it was a guy, and he kept checking me out, so, I don't know. Although, when you think of the alternative of what he might have done with the picture, maybe posting it on his blog to say, "look at the ass on her" would be preferable). I know we live in a time of voyeurism and anonymous blogging, but I firmly believe that everyone deserves a little respect.

Still... I really wish you could have seen this guy. It was priceless.

Seriously

*Today is the first day of summer. It's 10:40AM in California and currently 103-degrees in the Valley. Is it possible for a human being to melt?

*Next month, the new Hands Free law will go into effect in California. This means, anyone using a cell phone without a hands free device while driving will be ticketed. I would like to say, "Huzzah!" I've recently been walking to work, and I've almost been run over four times. Once by a guy in an SUV who thought he could make a right on red and cut me off in a crosswalk, and three times by women on cell phones. Now, you all know me. I'm a feminist and I really, really hate the stereotype of bad women drivers. However. THREE WOMEN DRIVERS tried to kill me. All because they were too busy chatting away on their cells and not paying attention to things like pedestrians. One, seriously, never even saw me. She never slowed down and I felt her bumper grazer my shin. Geezus ladies. I beg of you. Stop it.

*Speaking of cell phones: my battery is dying. And I don't mean right now. (Though, I suppose that's technically true.) I mean it's dying quickly between each charge up. And what's really annoying is that I'll get on the phone with someone and have to get off almost immediately if I'm not near a charger as my phone starts its low-battery beep within ten minutes of chatting. Now, I would just buy a new battery, but my contract is up in September. So, I should just wait and get a new phone, right? Whatever. It's annoying.

*I lived for two years without internet access in my apartment in K-Town. However, within three weeks, I've become so accustomed to having internet access that I now feel inconvenienced that there has been a blip in the service. Since the internet coverage was in the last roommate's name, we had to switch it. But the internet provider basically told us that it couldn't be done on the same day. WHAT! So, now we have to wait a week until a technician can come out and set us up with "new" service. SIGH. Its times like these that I empathize with Veruca Salt.

*I'm reading a very bad script right now. Its based off a very bad book by a mystery writer who decided to write a schlocky Christmas novel. (No, not John Grisham.) Its times like these that I wonder why I haven't finished a screenplay. People got paid for this crap. Seriously.

Just Say No

A long time ago, in a career far away, I was told that I had a problem saying, "No." If someone says, "You've got to try this!" I try it. If someone says, "You need to get over here right now!" I get into a car and go. It seems that I don't take into consideration whether I want to try it or want to go. I just do it because I'm told to do it. Because, quite honestly, it's just easier to do it than to argue against doing it. (Although, I do feel I have to tell you that this acquiescence doesn't apply to everything. There's been things that I've considered immoral or dangerous or just plain gross and have had the wherewithal to decline. But for the most part, I go with the flow.) However, the result can often be a determinate to myself.

Case in point: On Monday, I found myself caught up in a conversation with a person that I'm quickly coming to realize I don't like very much. However, instead of avoiding her to the best of my ability and being civil when I'm in a no-way-out situation, I go about my business and silently pray she'll leave me alone. This has a fifty percent success rate. When I get away with it, I'm relieved. When I don't. Well. I cheerily effect that I like her. This is trying, and anyone who thinks I don't have patience should witness me having a twenty minute conversation with a person who doesn't realize that she needs to press tab and not enter when filling out a template on a web site. In this instance, we somehow got onto the topic of movies. She mentioned a movie that won an award at one of the film festivals last year and asked if I had seen it. I hadn't. She asked if I would like to borrow it, as she owned it on DVD. And I said, "No. I have a stack of Blockbuster.com films I haven't watched yet. But if I decide I would like to see it, I know who has it. But thanks for the offer." I believe I was quite clear, don't you?

She brought the movie in yesterday and handed it to me. Sigh. At this point, what I should have said was, "That's very kind of you, however, I really don't have the time to watch it." But I didn't. Nope. I took it. I figured, it was easier to just take the thing and watch it, than it was to argue that I didn't want to see it. Aha! But you see it wasn't easier! You know why? Cuz it didn't shut her up! She now had carte blanche to talk to me. For the rest of the afternoon, whenever I saw her, she was able to make a comment about the film or mention that it really wasn't her copy, it was someone else's copy and they would be really upset if she lost it. So. Now. Not only do I have to watch it, I have to watch it right away. And still I didn't hand it back to her and say, "Maybe later." Nope. I took it home and watched it ASAP. Pissed off the entire time. Knowing that if I didn't watch it, I would have to go through an entire new day talking to her about a film I had no interest in. And, in fact, would have to repeat this process until I did watch the film.

The movie was not bad. The pacing was slow. It was one of those "New York City as a character" pieces that I find really annoying. (Look! The subway comes out of the ground in Queens! Look! The architecture is different in SoHo than it is in Midtown!) The script was uneven and took a couple of bold liberties. But considering it had no budget and was probably shot guerrilla style throughout NYC, it wasn't bad. Notice how I'm not saying that it was good. Anyway. I watched it. Even my new roommate watched it...with me crabbing all the way through it. (Probably not the best way to endear myself to her.) I was infinitely glad when the thing was over, and spent the rest of the night watching Friday Night Lights, Season One, Disc One. (Kyle Chandler, call me!)

I gave the DVD back this morning, mentioned that there were a few things I would have changed in the script, but overall it wasn't bad. Then. She asked whether I would like to work with the writer/director. Are. You. Kidding me? AGH! Suddenly, I'm beginning to think that I was set up. Instead of answering the simple yes/no question, I mentioned what I appreciated about the storyline and somehow got away on that non-answer which was probably accepted as a Yes. Why? Because I can't say no. You see? You see how this is just going to keep going all because I didn't just say No?

Why Am I in L.A.?

There are times that I miss New York very badly.  Days when I think to myself, "Now, why did I come to L.A. again?"  Today was one of those days.  I was at lunch with a friend and one of her friends.  He said that he was from the suburbs of Chicago and I asked him if he was from Evanston as Evanston is the only Chicago suburb I know of.  He said no, he was from further south.  I then asked if Evanston was the suburb that Hemingway was from as I vaguely recalled that Hemingway was from one of the nice areas outside of Chicago, to which he responded that he thought Hemingway from the Keys.  I replied that no, he was from Illinois.  In fact, he was from the same town as one of my old bosses, and she said that Hemingway made a declarative statement that once he left Illinois, he would never go back, and as far as I know, he never had.  He got a job as a reporter, went to the continent for the war, and the rest was history.  The conversation only devolved from there.  He did not know that Hemingway was a reporter.  In fact, he knew nothing about Hemingway.  I thought he was joking.  He wasn't.  And suddenly, I was embarrassed.  Not for him.  But for myself.  I was the bore at the table telling people things they did not want to know about and had no interest in.  In fact, I even saw his eyes flick to my friend who was sitting there silently.  Which was the exact point that I felt stupid.  Not stupid as in ignorant, but stupid as in, "Know your audience."  In other words, don't talk about Hemingway with people who don't read Hemingway.  

Its been a long time since I've felt like the nerd at the table.  In fact, in the last ten years, I've become so accustomed to talking to people who either (A) know what I'm talking about (and usually know more about it), or (B) are curious about what I'm talking about and therefore listen and make considerate commentary, that I've forgotten how awful it is to feel ashamed about knowing trivial stuff.  I forgot what the blank look looked like.  I forgot about the uncomfortable silence.  And I forgot about the snide remarks people make to keep you feeling dumb for being a smarty-pants.  It was high school all over again.  Only this time, after he realized that he had hurt my feelings, he tried to start the conversation up again.  (I didn't let him.)  Whereas back in high school, they would have laughed about it for hours, making more and more stupid, redundant, and derivative jokes about Hemingway and me that I would finally just go home and cry.  (Thank god those days are over!)  

I'm not saying that everyone in L.A. is a defiant ignoramus.  In fact, I work with a couple of curious and intelligent people and can always rely on a friend and her hubby for an engaging night out. What I'm saying is, finding more of them is proving taxing.  After two years, I should have more than a handful of people here that I can call upon to keep my brain active, shouldn't I?  Why am I in L.A.?

That Smell that Surrounds You

So, as most of you know, I moved. (And if you didn't get my new address off that MySpace bulletin, email me.) And while boxing and schlepping and unboxing and finding the place to put the thing is all kinds of unsettling, what is really keeping me feeling discombobulated is the smell in the apartment.

No. It's not a bad smell. It's just not my smell. I don't really know what my smell is as you really can't smell yourself. (That is, as long as you shower.) But houses absorb the smell of the people in it. Becky Cawley once told me back in high school that the house on Jennings Road sorta smelled like wood. I remember my friend Kristen's house smelled like fried onions. And my great-grandmother's house always smelled like wet laundry. Don't know why. The girl who occupied the bedroom before me? Her smell is boiled macaroni. It's really prevelent in the walk-in closet. And I'm pretty sure someone smoked in our bathroom on Friday night. (For shame!) I figured if I gave it sometime, my own smell would start taking over, but since it wasn't happening fast enough, I pulled out one of my candles on Sunday. It's a Pier One special that I got on sale around Thanksgiving. It's, like, apple cider or something, and I bought it to cover the weird smells that would sometimes pervade my apartment on Western Avenue. Anyway, I opened up the closet doors, put the candle in the middle of the floor and lit it. A few hours later -- after watching three episodes of Mad Men (love it! Can't wait for July!) -- I went back into the closet and...nothing. I couldn't smell a thing. Not the boiled macaroni, not even the apple cider candle. Which must mean, it smells more like me now. Amazing how that one little thing can make all the difference between being a visitor and being home.

News From the Front

"Warner Bros. 'Sex and the City' opened shockingly well during the weekend, the big-screen adaptation of the former TV series grossing an estimated $55.7-million domestically -- about double what many expected -- and grabbing first place," said the Hollywood Reporter (6/2/08).

"Film's unexpected boffo performance mystified Hollywood and shattered the decades-old thinking that females -- particularly older ones -- can't fuel the sort of big opening often enjoyed my male-driven event pic or family movie" trilled Variety (6/2/08).

As promised, I went to see the flick on Saturday evening with a girlfriend. And while most reviews talk about the 80% female audience on opening night, my particular showing had a healthy dose of testerone of the hetro kind. Girlfriend -- or should I say Grrrlfriend since I'm definitely feeling the Girl Power -- and I both agreed that it was a good flick. Fun, emotional, sweet, and well-written. Definitely worth the price of admission. And, my highest compliment: I'd be willing to watch it again on DVD. I think what I appreciated most about the flim that I never saw indicated in the series was that it actively acknowledges that the lifestyle Carrie is portraying is a fairy tale. Right down to Carrie reading Lily Cinderella, a valentine depicting the Disney version of the same, and a terrific Handsome-Prince-puts-the-shoe-on-the-Beautiful-Princess's-foot moment that felt unforced and appropos. So, highly recommended for a girl's night out or for those not feeling the Love or for other Cinderella freaks out there. Ahem.

Now, of course, the trick is to not hammer this into the ground by making SATC: The Movie into a franchise (they're talking about it. For the love of all that is green, don't do it!), or by following it up with a bunch of derivitive drek (I don't think I could handle Designing Women: Design This! or The More Golden Girls), or saturate the market with a bunch of woman-unfriendly movies that star an actress that wouldn't know the difference between Naomi Campbell and Naomi Wolf.

Anyway. I liked it.

Do You Smell That?

Today, at lunch, I ate asapragus with shitake mushrooms at this pretty terrific Japanese restaurant we like to frequent around here. And about twenty-minutes ago, I went to the bathroom and went number one That smell is shocking. So I wondered: What causes that funky asparagus-urine odor? And after I washed my hands and returned to my office, I read this on wisegeek.com: Asparagus has one notorious side effect for some diners who eat enough of it. Within a half-hour of asparagus consumption, some people notice their urine has acquired a very pungent odor, often compared to rotting cabbage, ammonia or rotten eggs. (Iew.) The effects of asparagus on urine are generally fleeting and harmless, but it's not necessarily the consumer's finest hour, bodily excretion-wise.

The good news is that asparagus does not affect everyone. (!) Studies conducted on the "asparagus urine" phenomenon indicate that roughly 40 to 50 percent of those tested developed the distinctive odor. Surprisingly enough, there is also a segment of the population who cannot smell the sulphurous fumes of asparagus-laced urine. It is believed that both the generation of the odoriferous urine and the ability to smell it are based on genetics. Only those with a certain gene can break down the chemicals inside the asparagus into their smelly components, and only those with the proper gene can smell the results of that chemical breakdown.

Scientists are still not entirely sure which set of chemicals or amino acids contained in asparagus actually cause the smelly pee. The stalks themselves do not acquire a similar odor as they are prepared, so whatever happens most likely happens after ingestion. Experts believe that those with a certain gene produce a digestive enzyme which breaks down the asparagus into various amino acids. One of those compounds is called methyl mercaptan, which is the same chemical which gives a skunk its defensive smell. One theory suggests that asparagus breaks down quickly in the body and an enzyme releases methyl mercaptan, which eventually goes through the kidneys and is excreted as a waste product in the urine.

Others suggest that the asparagus smell is created by other amino acid compounds called thioesters. There is also an amino acid called asparagusic acid, which is not surprisingly found primarily in asparagus. If these compounds are broken down and mixed with the genetically-created enzyme, the results could be a strong smelling urine. This smell is actually considered to be good news, since it proves that the asparagus eater's kidneys are functioning as they should.

I find this interesting. So, not only do I have the genetic code to be able to curl my tongue. I also have the genetic code to smell funky asparagus urine. Decoding my genome sequence one Google search at a time.

Sex for the Team

Sex and the City is now in movie theaters and thankfully doing well. Before it premiered, Hollywood insiders were biting their lips and shaking their heads. They were concerned over the axiom that a movie starring a woman over a certain age could not make money. The track record (though shoddy at best) suggests that it is not possible and therefore there was a lot of fretful murmuring: Would SATC make money at the box office? Despite that it is a beloved and well known brand. Despite that it had a healthy, proven fan-base. Despite that people were clamoring for a movie even before the television show left the air. And despite all the frenzied paparazzi-stalking and blogosphere ruminating that the set suffered during filming. The stars are all woman over 40! Could it possibly make any money? To which anyone with half a brain would have raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but the doomsayers would have their way. So much so that on Saturday morning, some ticket talliers were saying things like, "It made money on Friday...but will it make money on Saturday?" It was unsettling. And oddly, it felt like fear-mongering: If you ladies won't buy this one, then we might not make a movie for you ever again!

We women are a tricky target. Whenever a manufacturer or a marketer goes after us as a group, we inevitably let them down by not buying whatever pink crap they put into our face and tell us we want. Hence, why Hollywood prefers to make big shoot-em up films and not quiet dramas. 18-year old boys will buy anything that goes BANG! But women won't go see just any hearts and flowers epic. If you're going to spend 8-digit money on a product, you may as well spend it on something that you know is a sure bet. I understand the logic, however, I can't help to feel the bias against me as a discerning consumer. Especially since I wasn't a SATC fan. Oh, sure. I watched a few episodes when they aired on TBS. But since I was a single gal in NYC, and I didn't spend my Mondays sipping lattes at brunch and later cosmos at happy hour before trotting off in my $600 heels to my brownstone where I would languish in bed with one of many lovers, I didn't find it all that identifiable. If truth be know, I found it to be a laughable fairy tale...and not in a nice way. OK, so the writing was pretty funny at times, and I certainly appreciated the portraits of independent females; I just wasn't a fan. However. I will see the movie.

Why? Because I feel like I have to take one for the team. (Actually, it'll be two for the team. I saw Mad Money for the same reason. You're welcome Callie Khouri.) I feel that it is my feminist duty to see Sex and the City at the theater were my money makes an impact on studio decisions about which films get made. If I want more movies (or television shows) about women and their issues, then I've got to go see this one. It's not fair, but that's the simple truth of it. So this weekend, I will be knocking back a cosmo (though, by now, those savvy ladies are onto mojitos), putting on a pair of pairful stilettos, and making my way to the theater where I will plunk down my $14 all in the name of the sisterhood. I'll send you news from the front.

I Want My Schadenfreude

Book Expo America (or BEA) was in Los Angeles this year, and I attended for business. My job requires me to monitor the book biz not only to scout it for material that might work for our franchise but also to track trends. Know what the trend seems to be these days? Living on the fringe. The theme of most books tended towards the dark. Awful thing happens to person and person turns to drugs, sex, and alcohol to cope. It's an orgy of addiction, trashy living, and not taking personal responsibility for one's actions. Hmm, here I thought we went to books for escape from the drudgery of our own lives. Of course, escapism was offered too, only through fantasy fiction and magical surrealism.


It's no different in TV land. I was just perusing the June 6th issue of Entertainment Weekly in which they highlighted the summer preview. On AMC we have Breaking Bad starring the dad from Malcolm in the Middle who is now playing a high school science teacher who finds out he has cancer so to make a little extra money he uses his powers for evil instead of good by making crystal meth. Over on CBS, we have Swingtown in which they've corralled Mrs. Garrett from Deadwood, Jack Hanson from Melrose Place, and Capt. Norrington from Pirates of the Caribbean into a suburb and into bed where everyone is wife-swapping and the name of the game is to entrap the new "square" neighbors into their risky little games. Showtime continues its descent into all sex, all the time by airing Secret Diary of a Call Girl, which is about -- well, a call girl -- and her many trials and tribulations while juggling her career and her personal life. As Scarlett O'Hara would say, "La!" ABC Family -- a Disney Channel for the love of all that's holy -- will be airing The Secret Life of the American Teenager which the creator calls "7th Heaven with sex" and EW calls "Juno goes TV...follows newly knocked up Amy, her baby's father, Ricky, and the guy she loves who isn't the dad." (Remember my rants about Juno? They'll never stop if this trend keeps up.) If you rather watch violence instead of sex or drugs, then maybe Generation Kill over on HBO is your cup of tea. Based on a nonfiction book and produced by the guys who brought you The Wire, it's about the first Marines in Iraq and what they faced. Namely, you know, war. The producer promises that they'll put you right there in the Humvee. Umm, great? Or, if reality shows are more your thing, you can flip to cable channel G4 to watch Hurl! A reality show that asks people to dog down a troth of food then subject themselves to nausea inducing activities and daring them not to puke.


I'm a prude. I've been a prude since I was a young girl. I blame my family and the crazy shenanigans I viewed growing up. Though it could have been Catholic school. Probably a combination of the both. And while I appreciate some of the more sexy shows that are currently on (The Tudors and Big Love come to mind), I find it kinda sad that we're currently in a climate where the more self-abusing a person is, the more entertaining we find them. I wonder if this is cynicism or Darwinism? Are we to a place where we don't expect anything good any more, or are we able to look to these characters in relief, noting that "at least I'm not that bad"? Don't know. What I do know is that my TiVo will get a break this summer. Because I will never be desperate enough to watch a show called Hurl! Seriously, that's just gross.