Reset.

There are planes going by overhead from Burbank to who knows where. Who is still riding on airplanes?

I am somewhat at a loss. What is happening in the world is so big and scary, I don’t know where to begin. Everyone is frightened. No one is exempt. Social Media has become a room where in one corner people are screaming about the virus and/or the politics around the virus, in another people are screaming at the people screaming about the virus and/or the politics around the virus, and in another people are making “content.” The fourth corner is the WHO saying, “Wash your hands!” and the CDC saying, “Don’t spit in your partner’s mouth!”

Parks and beaches are now closed. We went to the beach on Sunday with my friend Gonzalo. All five of us packed in our car, which I understand is VERBOTTEN, and very bad, and we should be ashamed of ourselves. But Gonzalo is like family, so we figured we would be okay. And I was feeling so stir-crazy and sun-deprived, that I reasoned the chances of me getting sick or getting Gonzalo sick were worth the risk. We kept our distance from all other humans. We gave seniors the evil eye and said, “Back! Back, ye foul knave!” We yelled at babies who toddled too close. We didn’t lick any handrails. In short, we were as safe as could be while still venturing into the sunshine. And I’m grateful we did it before we lost the opportunity altogether.

I have become a homeschool teacher, which is a job I am wholly unqualified for, and very bad at. My attempt this morning devolved during our morning walk (first thing after breakfast, mind you) when I asked Monty to spell the word “people,” over which he had a full meltdown. Frankly, I don’t blame him. “People.” Really. How do I explain a silent and pointless “o?” There is nothing quite like teaching spelling to a six-year-old that highlights how nonsensical the English language is. Thankfully my sister has years of experience nannying rich people’s kids, so she has taken over the bulk of the teaching. She seems to be an endless font of activities that are both educational and fun.

Kurt also is better able to teach Monty than I am. When we got home from our walk this morning, I asked Monty to hit the reset button on the day. He went to his room for a few minutes and came out just as angry as when he went in. Everything I suggested was a problem. Then Kurt got up, and I retreated to my room for my own reset. When I came out, Monty was happily reading out loud from a book about Dinosaurs.

In discussing this with my therapist today, it became clear that Monty’s frustration mirrors my own. When teaching him is harder than I want it to be, I tend to throw up my hands and say, “forget it!” It’s no wonder he does the same.

My parenting strengths lie elsewhere. Though I will admit that sometimes it’s hard for me to see what strengths I do have as a parent. Sometimes I struggle to see what my contribution is. Especially when I’m hearing Monty and my sister laughing in the living room over a made-up game show called “What’s That Grammar?” and I can’t get him to spell “people.”

I have to regularly remind myself that Monty is a happy, well-adjusted kid, who seems to inspire joy in everyone he meets. And despite how frustrated I get, or how little I feel I’m contributing to his well-being, he is always thrilled to see me, wants me to sit right next to him at dinner and in the car, wants me to do bedtime, and tells me all the time how much he loves me. Maybe my contributions are just harder to quantify.  

I hope we are all taking some of this time to hit our own reset buttons.

I find myself thinking very seriously about what I want my life to look like when the dust settles. Do I want to remain in Los Angeles and continue chasing a dream that is illusive and never quite as satisfying as I want it to be? Do I switch careers (again)? Do I move somewhere quieter and open a country store? Do I run for office and try to help redesign our culture?

We certainly can’t keep going the way we have. If this disaster has proven anything, it is that the people in charge clearly care more about their own reputations than they do the good of their constituents, or their country. Hopefully it has become obvious to everyone that our priorities are completely mixed up. More value needs to be placed on our teachers and our service industry workers.

Money doesn’t disappear. It flows upward and is all still there. The only reason we’re in a depression is because the wealth has been distributed mostly to the people who see no reason to spend it on the greater good. All the companies who have temporarily shut down and stopped paying workers are still paying their CEOs. THEY still have money. And they will still amass more of it, while the rest of us watch our savings (if we’re lucky to have any) dwindle away.

We have an opportunity to make a better system. Will we do it, or will we put our blinders back on and go about business as usual?

Another airplane just flew by.

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ALBATROSS!

Here’s the deal, I’m not an Economist. I’m not a Sociologist. I’m not even THAT smart. But I have a very strong feeling that shit is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

What I’m about to say isn’t based on years of research. It’s just based on my observations of history and our economic situation over the 40 or so years I’ve been around.

First of all, I want to say that I KNEW the CDC was withholding information long before it came out that our Reality-TV-Star-In-Chief was ordering them to withhold information. I knew that whatever numbers they were reporting, the actual numbers were much worse. It was in their best interest to “prevent panic” by downplaying the risks. The great irony, of course, is that by attempting to prevent panic, they made the situation much, much worse.

I have also been saying for YEARS that we are going to face major social upheaval in the country, the likes of which we have not seen before. I believe that the only reason the people haven’t truly risen up before now is because most of us can’t afford to. The best way to keep a population compliant is to keep them barely paid (check), barely fed (check), barely educated (check), and barely healthy (check). We have a massive and growing population living at or near the poverty line BY DESIGN. This isn’t a mistake. This is absolutely how the powers that be want it. And they have won. I realize the statistics don’t point to a majority of our country being under paid, fed, educated, and cared for, but the numbers are still remarkably high for a country that claims to be the one of the richest nations in the world and a global super power. These are shameful numbers, and, I believe numbers high enough to cause unrest. Though, again, I’m no expert.

When people are hungry, tired, sick, and barely getting by, they can’t afford to protest. Sweeping change in this country (and throughout the world) has ALWAYS been made on the backs of the poorest people. Whether it has been by slave labor, or by the cavalier attitude that the poor will continue to keep their heads down and do the work no matter what. A single parent working three jobs and deciding which bills to not pay so they can feed their family doesn’t have the luxury of walking off the job to storm the castle. She has to keep working.

When we see massive social unrest in other parts of the world (like the Arab Spring, for example), it happens when the majority of the population doesn’t have anything left to lose.

The reason Occupy Wall Street didn’t work was because the people occupying Wall Street couldn’t afford to live in tents for weeks on end. The brokers still went to work, and people still poured their money into the markets. More importantly, the legions of working poor who cleaned the toilets of the assholes at top couldn’t afford to just stop going to work.

Even without this pandemic (which, to be clear, in case I haven’t been already, it’s not the virus that’s the problem, it’s the massive economic toll the fallout is going to create) we were already facing a massive housing crisis (which we already have), when this generation of gig economy hustlers “retires” with no pension, social security, healthcare, or proper savings. I don’t know what people are expecting. We’re like a country of ostriches with our heads in the sand. WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN WHEN MILLIONS OF PEOPLE GET OLD AND HAVE NO SAFETY NET? You think the homeless situation is bad now? Just wait. When our streets are lined with senior citizens with nowhere to go, then we’re going to be in some serious shit.

If we even get there.

So, here’s what’s going to happen: The government is going to toss us some pennies to keep us momentarily sated. Then, when the virus passes and the dust settles, they’re going to pump “stimulus money” (our tax dollars) into the airline, health insurance, and oil industries. Once again, just like they did with the banks in 2009, they are going to bail out the least in-need. They are going to line the pockets of the richest men in this country. MEANWHILE, potentially millions of working poor will have lost their jobs and/or significant income. THEN we will see massive and sweeping riots across this country. Once people have nothing left to lose, once their jobs won’t be on the line because they have lost those jobs, then we will see the pitchforks coming out. And it’s not going to be pretty.

I won’t lie, I have been hoping for a moment like this for many, many years. I am a big consumer of post-apocalyptic fiction. I believe that our need for STUFF is unsustainable. We don’t need tomatoes in the winter. We don’t need the newest Iphone delivered same-day. Especially when those things come at the cost of real human lives. It would behoove us, the population of the planet, and the “environment” to return to localized economies.

But now that the moment seems very likely at hand, I am not holding my breath with anticipation. This is not fun or exciting. I believe it is necessary, but it’s going to cost a lot of lives and it’s not going to be pretty.

I suppose I imagined that when this moment came, I would have a house on land with a water source. I imagined that I could hole up with my family, house some friends and family, and keep the rest away with barbed wire and a shotgun. But I don’t have a house, or land, or a water source. Or a shotgun, for that matter. I live at the mercy of a large property management company. I can not grow my own food. If I turn on my faucet and clean water doesn’t come out, I have maybe a week’s worth of water stored in the cupboard. If I’m forced to run, I won’t make it very far. I have always said that in the Zombie apocalypse I’ll be one of the first ones to volunteer to be shot in the head and left behind. I know what it would take to survive on the road without shelter, and I’m not designed for it.

I hope to goodness I’m wrong. I hope I’m being a paranoid alarmist. I don’t think I am. I have tended to be quietly right about this shit. It doesn’t take an economics degree to understand it. All you have to do is look at history. Hell, look at the past two decades of world history. You don’t need to go back to the time of The Spanish Flu or The Plague. Look at the countries that have squandered their economies on the wealthiest people, overlooked the majority of their citizens, rolled back rights, denied access to proper housing, food, education, and healthcare that have collapsed under massive social upheaval in the past few decades.

We will survive this. As a people. But we’re going to have to take a long, hard look at how we live and agree together to make some pretty serious changes.

Until then, let’s all send out thoughts and prayers to The White House. May everyone inside it come down with the Coronavirus. Except for the people who take out the garbage and clean the toilets.

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It’s okay. I’m okay.

I did not book the thing I flew back to NYC for. I know it’s not a matter of my talent or hard work, and everything else is out of my control. Something else will come along. It’s okay. I’m okay.

Something else better come along. I’m quickly running out of money.

I have never been good at money. If I have it, I tend to spend it. The concept of saving is foreign to me. It really only occurred to me the other day that on the past two major gigs I had, I should have been putting a significant portion of each paycheck into savings. But, alas, I did not. Instead I was like, “Money?! I haven’t had this in long time!” and I did things like take Monty to Disneyland, and buy expensive cheese and shoes I didn’t really need. And flights to NYC for callbacks… It’s okay. I’m okay.

To be fair, I only bought a pair of Converse and a pair of Adidas. It’s not like I’m running around buying Manolo Blahnik’s. And 95% of my clothes come from thrift stores. It pays to be chronically behind on fashion!

I emailed my literary manager yesterday basically saying, “How do I write things?” She hasn’t replied. Probably because she’s like, “Bitch, I don’t know!” (Actually, she’s incredibly nice and supportive, and she’s probably just busy with her clients who are emailing with actual finished pieces…). It’s okay. I’m okay.

It’s looking like we’ll be shooting my short film in the next month or so. If we can raise the money. We need about $30,000. Easy! Mike Bloomberg spends that every time he wipes his ass. I assume he wipes his ass with money. It’s about as practical as spending millions to run for president for two months instead of putting your money behind, I don’t know, Elizabeth Warren? Dick. Anyway, we’re going to be making my movie. So that’s pretty exciting.

I was thinking this morning about how awful and nasty it’s going to get when the Democratic nominee is finally chosen. There is no attack too low for Trump and I’m scared of whatever rhetoric he’s going to spew. I want to crawl into a cave until it’s over. Instead I’ll be doing whatever I can to get him out of office. I am TERRIFIED of what another four years would look like.

Okay, I literally just exhausted myself with that thought. I’m going back to bed.

It’s okay. I’m okay.

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You. Can. Not. Stop. Me.

Saturday I woke up at around 2pm from a nap, to a slew of messages from my managers. By 9pm I was on a flight to NYC. The job I had not booked and then insisted on going on tape for again (please see my last blog post), wanted to see me on Monday for the director and HEIR PRODUCER. Today I had a session with casting, a session with the director, and then a final, final session with the whole shebang in the span of four hours.

I just got back to my friends’ place (where last night I sweated so furiously all night into their sheets, that they’ll probably never be friends with me again), and though I am exhausted, I feel like a motherfucking badass. It doesn’t matter if I book it or not (though, to be clear, I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO BOOK IT), what matters is that I knew I could do better, and I did. I flew into NYC on my own dime twice for this job. I didn’t take no for an answer. They were like, “You’re not right the part” and, to quote The Beatles, I was like, “Oh, no, no, no, you’re wrong.”

This morning the casting director thanked me for flying in again and I said, “I’m too old to say ‘no’ anymore.” There are major gigs I turned down in my teens that I spent years regretting. I’m not doing that shit anymore. I didn’t want to pass on this and spend the rest of my life wondering “what if?” And, yes, I totally could not afford a last-minute flight ON A SATURDAY across the country, but it did not matter. I put that shit on a credit card and over-packed my bag.

And here’s the craziest part: If I don’t get it, it’s okay. It means it’s not my job. I did everything in my power to get it, and that’s all I can do. If necessary, I will be able to walk away from this knowing that I am a fucking warrior that cannot be stopped.

And now, I nap.

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I Do My Job Flat On My Back.

I was very excited to hit the ground running in the new decade. I joined The Wing late last year. I joined a gym for the first time in probably six years. I was posting blogs. And in the middle of January I got blown back by a pinched nerve. It’s been almost a month of near constant pain. I have done almost everything imaginable for it.

When I was in college I saw a video about a women with Sickle Cell Anemia. She said that she would just randomly get hit with serve pain everywhere and have to spend days in the hospital doped up on morphine and I thought, “Honestly? That sounds like the fucking life.” OBVIOUSLY I’m not ACTUALLY saying I think Sickle Cell Anemia is a picnic. No need to cancel me. I’m SAYING being doped up on morphine for days a time because you legitimately need it sounds like a fucking dream. Don’t at me.

Tomorrow I’m seeing a pain management doctor who I’m hoping will shoot heroin directly into my spine and send me home with a baggy and a syringe.

Upon reflection, I have managed to make the most of my time as an invalid.

I’ve read five books already this year. Granted two of them were from the Griffin and Sabine series and can be read in about ten minutes. But still…

My short screenplay “Tony and Annette” made it into it’s 10th festival/competition with the Pasadena International Film Festival. So, that’s fun. If you have an extra $30,000 lying around that you don’t know what to do with, consider giving it to me so I can make this movie already. I have production teams and a director lined up.

I also started writing a screenplay that I need to have done by March 25th in order to submit to a fellowship for women screenwriters over 40.

Also, not for nothing, I reached out to casting regarding a role I didn’t get that I knew they still hadn’t cast. I had them give me notes, and I did the audition again. I don’t know if I got it and in some ways it doesn’t even really matter. It was a reminder to me that I am not a wilting violet. I had begun to believe a false narrative about myself that I can’t handle rejection and I won’t allow myself to be vulnerable. Which is complete horse shit. Frankly, any actor who continues to audition despite the inevitable rejections, is both completely raw and made of god damned Teflon. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And if going back in for something I was already rejected for once doesn’t scream vulnerability, then call me…I don’t know, a Samsonite suitcase? Lay off. I’m in pain.

My therapist reminded me today that I’ve also been parenting through all of this, which, as we all know, is its own full-time job.

So, I suppose I have hit the ground running. I’m just doing a lot of it while laying in bed on an ice pack.

That’s all. I just wanted to drop a line so you didn’t think I was dead.

OH, YES. Also this very exciting news!

ALSO! If you like my blog (generally speaking. This one isn’t, like, my BEST) please subscribe and share! Thanks!

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#BookedIt

I was hoping to get some writing done today, but I am laid up on the couch with a severely awful pinched nerve and honestly all I want to do is die. I will settle for watching Pandemic on Netflix while trying to drown out the voice in my head that’s telling me I’ll have to quit acting because I’ll never be able to move my head again.

I was supposed to put an audition on tape today, but I can’t even think straight, or for that matter hold my head up.

So, in place of anything profound (ha ha), I’ll review the books I read last year. I will put a link to the book on HalfPriceBooks.com if they have it in stock. If not, I’ll link to something having to do with the book and you can take it from there. If you’re like me, you can’t read a book on an electronic device (Why, in my day, we had things called “books.”). Also, please try to avoid buying the books on Amazon. Please try to avoid buying anything on Amazon. You can read about why here, here, and here. (While you’re at it, don’t shop at Whole Foods, either…).  You can go to your local library. They have books there. For free. You can’t keep them. You have to return them. But you can essentially rent the book for free. It’s like Blockbuster but for books but you don’t have to pay. Blockbuster was a place we used to go to rent movies. Before you could watch anything anytime anywhere.

Okay, so, in rough order here are the books I read in 2019:

Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, by Yuval Noah Harari

One of my favorite books of the year. I am not a fast reader, but I ripped through this one in two weeks (lightspeed for me). Fascinating primer on how we got to where we are today as a species. Highly recommend.

White Houses, by Amy Bloom

Historical fiction makes me slightly itchy because it seems unfair to rewrite an actual person’s life. That said, this was a really good read. If you want to imagine what it might have been like to be a closeted lesbian First Lady in 1932, this is your book.

The Last Black Unicorn, by Tiffany Haddish

Very funny. I LOVE Haddish. She is one of the funniest people alive today. The book reads like she’s sitting there telling you about her life over drinks at an Applebee’s happy hour. There is a very cringey chapter about the time she fucked a handicap guy from work. Not sure why her editor let her leave that one in there.

A Simple Favor, by Darcy Bell

The ONLY thing I can say for this book is kudos to Bell for having such massive success with her debut novel. But it is trash. Skip it.

A Stranger in the House, by Shari Lapena

This book would make a great liner for your catbox or bird cage. Especially the part where the woman lies about domestic violence.

Blanca and Roja, by Anna-Marie McLemore

I wanted to like this book more than I did. It just turns out that I’m not a huge fan of magical realism. I recommend it for Y.A. readers. It has trans and lesbian characters in it, which is terrific.

Parable of the Talents, by Octavia Butler

I really loved the first book in this series, Parable of the Sower. It was one of my favorite books of 2018. I didn’t like this one as much, but I did still like it a lot. The first book is about a woman who is escaping the collapse of her community inside the collapse of the entire country. This one is a few years later once she and her new community have started to rebuild. It’s pretty bleak. I recommend it. But read Sower first.

Fox 8: A Story, by George Saunders

Very sweet and sad. It’s a short story about the perils of human encroachment told from the point of view of a fox who learned to speak English by listening to bedtime stories through a window of a child’s room. You can read it in under a half hour.

God: A Human History, by Reza Aslan

Really great primer on the history of organized religion and why humans have a tendency to create gods in their own image. Quick read.

Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth, by Reza Aslan

Fascinating look at what life was like in and around the time and place where Jesus was born, proselytized, and crucified. If you want to know how Christianity was developed through revisionist history, basically through a game of telephone, read this.

The Fifth Season: The Broken Earth #1, by N.K. Jemisin

I am a big fan of post-apocalyptic dystopian fiction. This one was a little more fantasy-based than I’m into. I didn’t LOVE it, but I found myself wanting to keep reading it, and thinking about it when it was over. Part way through I was wondering if I had missed a previous book in the series because there is a lot about the world that Jemisin doesn’t explain. She just wants you to get on board and hold on. If you can do that, it’s worth a read.

Oryx and Crake, by Margaret Atwood

Dystopian fiction. Another one I kind of reluctantly enjoyed. I didn’t get to finish it because I was borrowing it from a friend. But I read enough of it to have considered it “read,” I guess? Basically there are genetically engineered people and animals running around and this one dude has to try to survive. I think I’ll try to finish it this year.

The trifecta of dystopian fiction by white dudes. All written roughly around the same time. All pretty much in response to the TERROR of communism. I think these are worth reading given what’s going on in the world. By the way, apparently in North Korea there are government issued radio installed in every home and business that can’t be turned off… Guys.

The Courage to be Disliked, by Ichiro Kishimi and Fumitake Koga

Go read this right now. If you EVER find yourself second guessing yourself because of the trolls in your head, read this book. Just go read this book now.

Diary of a Young Girl: The Definitive Edition, Anne Frank

No, I had not read this before. What can I say? It’s fucking horrific. I knew how it was going to end and I was still shocked and infuriated. I was actually surprised by how bitchy she was. I was into it.

Everything is Trash, But it’s Okay, by Phoebe Robinson

Terrific. Hilarious. Smart. I laughed out loud like a maniac.

Little Weirds, By Jenny Slate

Absolutely one of my favorite books of the past few years. I love Jenny Slate. And this book is a collection of essays about depression, and love, and flowers, and misogyny. It is unlike anything I have ever read. I kept thinking about the tripped out white guys of the 50s, 60s, and 70s who were lauded for writing weird, tripped out essays that were filled with angry white guy energy. I think we’d all be better off if we had more Jenny Slates and fewer William S. Burroughs’. Her writing is delicate, gentle, weird, poetic, relatable, and beautiful. I plan on going back and rereading it over and over.

I guess this is me not getting writing done?

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Receipts

If you haven’t read the post before this one, go read it now. Then come back.

The infamous tweet. James Joyce’s The Dead poster. Original water color costume painting signed by Theoni V. Aldredge. A collage of TSG related design and creative elements from the creative team. A photo of me with Hillary, Chelsea, and Bill from my performance at The White House in 1991 with a letter from Hillary. Les Miz and TSG posters.

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I’m Still Here

Kurt and I have a collection of framed pictures and posters waiting to be hung in our place in L.A. because neither of us have the interior decorating gene, and because many of them are related to my career and I have, over the years, come to see them as reminders of what I haven’t accomplished rather than for what they actually are which are reminders of my actual successes.

In July of 2012, sitting poolside at my apartment building in Koreatown-adjacent, I got a call from a staffing agency with a potential job. After the call, I opened Twitter and without thinking too much about it I tweeted:

The Tweet went viralish. At the time, it seemed like it was everywhere. In reality, it got retweeted fewer than 1000 times, but back in 2012, that felt like a lot. And tbf, people did screenshot and share it on other platforms a lot. There was a reddit thread (for what that’s worth) of hundreds of comments about it, mostly having to do with the state of the economy, probably because most dudes on reddit are the kind of dudes who don’t think women can be funny, so they probably thought I was actually making a comment on state of joblessness in the U.S.

For the most part, the tweet attracted some very positive attention for me. I had taken some time off acting, and I think the tweet served to remind people that I was still alive and kicking. My Twitter following doubled overnight. I was approached by a literary manager who said she wanted to rep me for a memoir. A Broadway director told me he would love to work with me. I got to work writing a new show.

The show I wrote, “Fuck Off, I Love You,” which had its premiere at Joe’s Pub on Monday, September 17th, 2012 (Insider’s tip: Don’t schedule a show in NYC on Rosh Hashanah. It turns out a lot of Jews find this holiday more important than watching me sing “Banana Split for my Baby.” Go figure.), included a poster-sized version blowup of the tweet heard round the world (or, more like, “heard round the ten block radius that makes up the theater district in NYC.”).

A little side note here: I had forgotten how quickly I wrote that show. Honestly, writing, picking songs and having them arranged, and rehearsing a show in six weeks is a feat I forgot I was capable of. Kudos, me!

About a month later I found out I was pregnant. Very pregnant. Almost 11 weeks. My director and I decided to do the show again, this time using it as a platform to announce the pregnancy. We did the show on a Monday night in mid-November, 2012, just after Hurricane Sandy had ripped through New York (Insider tip: If a hurricane happens a few days before you’re scheduled to do a one-night only show, cancel it. Turns out people who have no power due to a weather “event” don’t want to watch me sing “Banana Split for my Baby.” Go figure.).

Notice I am blaming disappointing audience numbers on circumstances beyond my control rather than on the possibility that people just didn’t want to come see my show, or that my marketing budget was zero dollars. I am choosing to blame outside circumstances for a reason.

Not long after I did the breast milk tweet, some douchebag on Facebook reposted it along with a comment that I needed to stop complaining, and “shut up,” and package my breast milk, “bitch.” I know. SUPER charming. He probably gets laid a TON. I reposted his post and invited people to tear him a new one. They did, and he sent me a sniveling apology and said he was directing a community theater production of TSG somewhere. I didn’t reply because duh. But cool anecdote, bro. Who cares? Also, good luck directing a show about a little girl with PTSD who has become hardened and learned to shut down as a response to shitty people and death. Seems like you have a good handle on complicated women and their complicated feelings.

Then, on Oscar night a few months later, another Facebook douchebag tagged me in a post in which he said something about how Quvenzhané Wallis should ask me what it’s like to be a footnote in history. He tagged me. He went out of his way to make sure I saw him insult me and a nine-year-old girl together. Classy.

A couple years after that someone very close to me (family) told me I would never achieve my dreams as an actor. To my face. And apropos of nothing. I won’t say who the person because I don’t want the weight of having publicly shamed them hanging over me at every family gathering. Though it will be in my memoir… Sorry about, NAME REDACTED.

I’m ashamed to say that those comments, along with a handful others, blew me back. I am a deep believer in the idea that one bad review cancels out 99 raves. I know it isn’t logical. I know it’s impossible to please everyone. But over the years, I have somehow managed to let the few naysayers drown out the tangible proof of my talent and success. I’m not proud that I have let these people become the trolls in my head, but they got under my skin.

Over the years I managed to convince myself that the reason I won a Tony was because people were amazed that an 11-year-old could walk and talk at the same time. My show posters became reminders of how long it had been since I was on Broadway, rather than what they actually are: Reminders that I was on Broadway. A couple years after “Fuck Off: I Love You”, Kurt had the poster-sized blow up of the tweet framed. And there it sits, collecting dust with the other posters, because I have let it become a symbol of my failure, rather than a mark of success. Instead of feeling pride in the joke itself, as a stand alone thing, I am reminded of the small audience turn out. Instead of pride, I am reminded that I haven’t gotten a book deal yet. My Tony Award seems to whisper, “Yeah, but what have you done lately?”

Even when people congratulate me on doing a great job raising Monty, I find a way to chalk it up to luck of the draw rather than on my intentional hard work.

Tomorrow I am putting those posters up in my hallway. And every time I walk by them I’m going to be reminded of my talent, my work, and my success. The next time someone asks me what it’s like to be a footnote in the history books, I’ll ask him what it’s like to not even have made it into the history books. I have worked. I have succeeded. I continue to work and succeed. And if that doesn’t mean I’ve already achieved my dreams, I don’t know what does.

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Once Upon an Irishman with Knives Out

Excuse me, I know I’m VERY late to this party, but I only just watched the Golden Globes and didn’t even know what and who was nominated (except that there were zero women directors nominated) for reasons that I think will become very clear in this post, but can I just say real quick, Knives Out? KNIVES OUT?! Knives fucking Out.

Look. I love a good murder mystery. I love a GOOD murder mystery. This was an okay murder mystery with a MASSIVE plot hole that is so egregious it erases any cleverness that might have been squeezed out of this tired fucking script. Spoiler alert. If the housekeeper had bothered to tell the police she saw Chris Evans rooting through his father’s nurse’s medical bag, there would have been literally zero mystery. Case solved.

I can get on board with genetically engineered dinosaurs running around an island. I can (not really) get on board with Leia FLOATING THROUGH ACTUAL SPACE USING THE FORCE (come on). I can even get on board with people believing Ryan Reynolds is attractive. But the housekeeper not telling the police she saw the man she literally hates rooting through his father’s meds moments before said father dies? That’s too far. TOO FAR.

And I know, I KNOW, that I have a habit of yelling at the screen things like, “Take the fucking weapon with you!” and that the movie would literally end if the heroine didn’t insist on leaving the weapon NEXT TO the “dead” bad guy after “killing him,” but the leap in logic taken in Knives Out is somehow worse. I’m sure they could have figured out a way to have the housekeeper divulge this MASSIVE PIECE of information and still maintain the “mystery” of the murder mystery.

And let me tell you, I would watch Daniel Craig cut his own toenails. I would gladly listen to Daniel Craig do one of the worst Southern accents I have ever heard (and I’ve seen Forest Gump). I want to fold Daniel Craig up into a tiny cube, like origami, and put him up my vagina and keep him there and take him out once in a while to look at him. But Best Actor? BEST ACTOR? Is the Hollywood Foreign Press HIGH? Don’t answer that. I know they are. Best actor. Come the fuck on.

AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON JOAQUIN PHOENIX. Get your fucking shit together, dude. Enough already. You are a toilet stain. Your performance in Gladiator deserved a massive thumbs down. The kind of thumbs down that SHOULD HAVE had you fed to the fucking CGI tiger from that OSCAR AWARD WINNING BEST PICTURE (Seriously. Go back and watch that movie. I haven’t seen Cats, but I’m willing to bet it’s better, stone cold sober, than Gladiator.). Joaquin, you’re right, Hollywood keeps giving you chances and you keep acting like…you. You are the EPITOME of straight white male privilege. Go take several laps and come back when you can act like a fucking grownup. You shit heel. (Full disclosure: I haven’t seen The Joker, and it looks terrific, and I’m sure his performance is great. That doesn’t negate any of what I just said. Annie Hall is a great movie, Woody Alan is a cretin.).

Daniel Craig’s performance in Knives Out can be summed up by him going, “I say, I say, I say… Boy, I say, you’re all about as smart as a fart in the wind!” and doing a mildly funny thing while listening to Abba or some shit on a walkman. Come on.

The biggest travesty of Knives Out, the real crime committed here by The Hollywood Foreign Press is that Us is a FAR superior movie on so many levels and kind of has the same sociopolitical message (Us vs. Them. And before you come at me about how I misunderstood Us, let me tell you, I researched a lot* about it. *Read a few articles and watched a few interviews. AND, Jordan Peele and I dated when we were, like, 14, so I THINK I know what I’m talking about), but tells it in a far scarier, more compelling, more poetic way.

And while we’re on the topic of Us, you want to tell me that Quintin “Bloated, lipless, sack of egomania” Tarentino, who finally managed to make a movie without the N-word in it (I think. You couldn’t pay me to see Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.) deserves ANOTHER award? And Martin Scorsese, for that matter? Martin Scorsese has been making the same movie over and over since the dawn of cinema, with characters who are only a hairs-width less stereotypical than my friend Liz’s impression of all New Yorkers (Elbows bent, fingertips together, bending her wrists back and forth like an old Italian grandma, “Ay yo! I’m gonna miss da layst ferry to Sta’in EYElin!!!”). To paraphrase Jack Palance in City Slickers, “I’ve taken shits more interesting than The Irishman.” (Again, assuming. My time is precious. I’m not wasting eight hours of it to go see The Irishman.)

As long as Hollywood and its bloated sack of old white dudes who decide what happens in it continues to choose regurgitated cud like Once Upon a Time in Hollywood or The Irishman or the infinitely more interesting than those two, yet still needless Knives Out, over Us, I’m going to…continue to be super cranky about it.

And before you get snarky and ask, if you hate what’s being made so much, why don’t you make your own stuff, I will remind you that I am writing my own stuff. I just haven’t figured out how to get the money to make it.

Maybe if I write about old, smug white guys with weapons I’ll get my projects financed.

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Happy New Year, Happy New Blog

Hello! Hi! Hi! Hello!

Welcome to my first posting on my new website! I’m currently in the process of migrating everything (including my domain name) to WordPress, so none of the content from my previous site is up here yet.

Come to think of it, maybe I’ll just go ahead and start nice and fresh here, and we can all make a brand new start together. Shall we? That way, I don’t have to put in the hours figuring out how to migrate everything, we can all forget my new years resolutions from 2019 which I posted about and didn’t see to fruition, and we can wipe any knowledge of the relatively sub par posts I made last year.

I will continue to write about gender issues as they pertain to my own evolution. Depression, I’m sure, will be a recurring topic, no matter how high my dose of Cymbalta gets (my psychiatrist seems to be performing a one person study on me about how many milligrams of antidepressants one can ingest before they float off the planet from medicated euphoria). Parenting and my generally bumbling attempts at it. And whatever I can say about Hollywood without sounding like a bitter, rage-filled, psychopath (I’m not sure how anyone could exist for more than five minutes in this industry without losing their minds). Along with whatever nonsense strikes me.

Monty has been on vacation from school since December 21st. Of last year. There’s another seven more days of vacation before he goes back. Honestly, I may not make it. I may stick my head in the oven by Wednesday (spoiler: I will not be committing suicide any time soon. And if I were, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.). I suppose it goes without saying that you should be okay with suicide humor if we’re going to be cyber-pals (meaning, you read my blog and that’s the extent of our relationship, unless I know you IRL, in which case, you already know I joke about killing myself frequently and you’ve either chosen to stick around anyway, or you’ve already run for the hills.)

Anyway, my point was, that Monty has been on vacation from school and will be for another week, and I have found it next to impossible to find time to write because he’s in a phase where he makes noise from the minute he gets up in the morning until the moment he’s asleep. This phase has lasted approximately 1000 years which is weird because he’s only six and a half. And so I’m either trying to keep him entertained, trying to keep myself from going insane, or trying to hide from him by sleeping whenever Kurt is home.

But, here I am writing this post now to say that I’m migrating to a new website host and this is where you should come from now on for all things me-related. If you’re so inclined. I INTEND to post more often this year, as I’m trying to gt a book deal. So, if you have a pressing issue that would be best addressed by me, let me know! I’ll write about it. Maybe. Or maybe I won’t. Like, don’t ask me to write about something ignorant like “toxic femininity” (because that’s not an actual thing), or why abortion should be illegal (because it shouldn’t. Ever.). But if you want me to rank every James Bond theme ever, I will. Or if you want me to tell you why I barely speak to my parents anymore, I will open another bottle of wine and get going.

Yes? Good? Good.

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