The Silver Lining

Tony Pierce was right, and yet it's not all bad.

In June of 2004, Tony wrote "How to Blog", in which he gave all kinds of advice about blogs and writing them - number five being don't tell anyone you know about your blog, lest you censor yourself.

Now that people who know me offline are reading -thanks to the LA Times article - I have been a lot more careful about what I write (I deleted about five blog entries and about 20 photos from Flickr, mostly due to fear of legal action being taken against me), which isn't necessarily good, but it's the way things go.

Sometimes, though, this all works in my favor.

My boss on this last movie kept talking about wanting to eat Fugu (most of these conversations took place in a Hollywood sushi place that we went to while we were on stage - to avoid having to eat the caterer's food which made six crew members sick over the course of the movie), and most of us told him he was a crazy motherfucker with a deathwish.

Now, the LA Times has profiled another blog - Deep End Dining, which has an excellent story about eating Fugu.

You know who you are - I adore you, but you are, in fact, a crazy motherfucker (and that's not a bad thing).

This link's for you.

The best laid plans...

I'd hatched such a beautiful one.

About a month ago, I opened my mail and found an offer for a discounted room at the Wynn Las Vegas (the most expensive hotel on the strip), and thought it would be nice to go for a couple of days - just to soak up the swank (I can't afford the Wynn at anything other than a deeply discounted rate, so I figured I should go while I could. Fate may not throw me another rich boyfriend anytime soon). I talked one of my girlfriends into going with me, and we were planning on having the girls' weekend in Vegas - breaking the hearts of old men, being generally fabulous, getting massages in the spa while drinking something overpriced and fruity with a little umbrella in it.

Since neither one of us are gamblers (over two days, I'll blow about $40 in the casino - and most of that's tipping the waiters), we'd planned to bring another friend who does gamble like crazy - after all, the more money you lose in Vegas, the more love you get from the hotel.

I was pretty sure that Gamblor wouldn't spend enough to comp our room, but he'd probably manage to get us another discount room offer in the future.

Right? Right.

Wrong.

Gamblor has the flu and can't go - AND my girlfriend just called and bailed.

Not a problem, except that we were going to go Sunday, and had to cancel the room by noon today. It's now almost 6 pm.

Since I have to pay for the room anyway, I'm just going to go by myself. I won't have as much fun as I would with my friend (and not splitting the hotel bill with anyone puts a serious dent in my mad money), but since I haven't had an actual vacation (you know, where I have some quiet time and can do whatever I want) in a very long time, I'll still have a good time.

I've got a few calls out to folks (including one to my ex-boyfriend who probably won't want to go, but I called just to be sure), but so far no one's called me back.

I just hope my aging vehicle makes it across the desert and back - I sure as hell can't afford to rent a car now.

UPDATE: Girlfriend just called. She just got a check that she wasn't expecting, so she can go after all! Yay!

Look out, fellas.. here we come (well, not right now. Since we're not going until Sunday, you're safe over the weekend)!

The cell phone saga: Part three

Yesterday, while hiking with The Blonde, I lost my cell phone. I think it's somewhere at the bottom of Bronson Canyon, but who knows.

I decided that my chances of getting it back were slim to none, so I went and got a new phone. Verizon lets me upgrade once every two years, and since I never liked the last phone, I'm not all that broken up about the loss. I had an old phone that had 90 percent of my phonebook loaded in it, and the other 10 percent I can get off of my old crew lists.

I got an LG VX6100, which is the first camera phone I've ever had - I've always tried to avoid phones with cameras, as some shoots confiscate them (as does the green room at Jimmy Kimmel Live), but Verizon's not carrying any decent phones that don't have a camera.

Although scaring the cat with the flash is fun, I can't see that I'll be using the camera feature all that often - my digital camera's much better, and I almost always have that with me.

I officially retract everything bad I've ever said about Michael Bay.

Some of the most interesting stuff I hear pops up during casual conversations (in this case, over ribs with a bunch of other crew folks).

According to a friend of mine who's lined up to work on Transformers, Michael Bay is refusing to direct the movie if it shoots outside of the United States.

Basically, what this means is that if Paramount/Dreamworks decide to film the movie in Canada, they'll have to find another director, and they'll still have to pay Michael his rate under his "pay or play" contract.

Sweet.

Michael, you rock. Keep that work at home!*


*no offense intended to any of my non US-based readers. You all rock, too.

When bad Botox happens to good people

The Blonde is starting to scare me.

She called me this morning, as I was watching the rain-soaked Rose Parade on TV and thinking this was the year to have gone (the grandstands were half empty, and I've got some bitchin' raingear because of work), and suggested that we go have brunch and finally exchange gifts, since I was working right up until I left town.

We met at The Farm (the one in The Grove - which is expensive and so not worth the money, but she loves it) about 11 am.

The light at 11 am is unforgiving to anyone of any age, but it's especially unforgiving to thirty-something women who have gone way overboard with the botox.

She started out getting botox on her eye wrinkles "just once". She kept getting it over and over again, and now she's starting to get that "Beverly Hills surgery lady" look. I really don't get it. Before she went on the fix-it frenzy, she didn't look bad at all - she looked like a really pretty thirty-something woman.

When I asked what the hell she was thinking, she told me that I just don't understand what it's like to have to look good as I age (this is true - no one really gives a rat's ass what juicers look like - even when we're not on set, and for that I'm grateful). Apparently I'm not under the same enormous pressure to be flawless as she is.

Pretty far-fetched for a makeup artist (albeit one with her own upcoming TV show), but I think she's just afraid of getting older in Los Angeles - land of perpetual surgery-assisted youth and the fat, bald, middle aged men who won't accept women who look older than 19.

As we were walking out she turned to me and said "Guess what I'm going to get done! I'm going to get all those scars and wrinkles lazered off my hands. I think they're really holding me back."

I just shook my head, and wandered off into the rainy afternoon.

I went to the gym and worked out, and after that I sat in the steam room and drank a ton of water, which I guess is my version of botox - except that it makes me feel better even if it doesn't make me look any younger.

I don't think botox does that, does it?

Happy Cancelled New Year's Eve

It was going to be such a fun night - The Blonde invited me to some B-list starfucker extravaganza on the Paramount lot - an event which was cancelled due to the rain that dumped on LA all day.

Before all of you in other parts of the country decide that we're wimps, remember that Los Angeles is not a city built for rain. The city was built to suit it's arid climate - technicolor stucco buildings on wide palm tree-lined boulevards which have very poor drainage due to both the soil and the geography. The streets flood if more than an inch of rain falls in a 24 hour period.

Since it rained fairly heavily all day, there was citywide flooding (of course), and quite a few of the outdoor events got cancelled. Although I've got wet-weather clothing which would enable me to stand in the rain all night and be perfectly comfortable, it's not exactly something you'd wear to a party and I wasn't really looking forward to slogging through rivers of runoff water while wearing open-toed shoes.

So - I spent the evening in my underwear, watching Simpsons DVDs and listening to my neighbors fire guns in the air at midnight.

I have a bad history with New Year's Eve. Something always fucks it up. Last year, it was a Bel-Air house party full of twits, the year before that it was two bitchy gay guys who couldn't find a good party and dragged me all over the city with them while they complained. I think the year before that it was a psycho boyfriend.

I'm kind of glad this one was quiet.

Here's to an uneventful New Year's Eve and a good year to follow.

Happy New Year, everyone.