I just went to a press screening of "Under the Tuscan Sun", in which Diane Lane's character asks this of us in plaintive voiceover...a question I have asked myself often enough in my own life -- several times in the past WEEK alone -- that, if I had a dollar for each time, I'd have none of my current concerns about money.
In spite of the emotional uplift I received from the beautifully produced film, I still came away with the same melancholy that has plagued me for what is now too damn long.
I have been a single woman for almost four years, if you don't count the torrid-but-unrealistic relationship that took place for the first two of them. Well-meaning friends have encouraged me to get back in the game for the last two, and the Internet has become everyone's first suggestion for taking such a step. In the past few months, I've actually met a few men of interest via the AOL Member Profiles (they looked me up) and Craigslist (I responded to them). A girlfriend recently invited me to join her on Friendster.com, a pyramid-schemish people-matcher. In order for it to work, apparently, you have to invite friends to hop on with you, and somehow we all interconnect. It's meant to create a safe e-environment in which to meet your next best friend or lover or soulmate. Fine. I filled out the form, which asked me for vitals (as if it were their business) and a few of my favorite things, and I'll probably recruit a few appropriates to come along for the ride. But, cheery Friendster testimonials aside, I'm still not quite sure how this thing works. I do know they have live Friendster gatherings occasionally -- just to get us out of our cages and burrows, I suppose.
It's a dangerous business, opening up one's bruised heart after keeping it in hiding for so long. Especially for an easy mark (some call it "romantic" -- go figure) like me, notsomuch a prime candidate for random fucking around. And I'm not sure I wish to don the pink veil of love again, when it so effectively obscures true vision of the one who might be my all-time beloved. If I'm going to love and be loved, I want everything out in the open, scars and warts and all other manner of flaws. We each have them in varying degrees and assortments and, to the extent we know our shortcomings, we should simply lay them out on the counter for our potential partner to peruse. It's easy to match up your best attributes, your likes and wishes...but if your faults match those of your possible spouse, well, now you've got something on which to build a lasting relationship! If we can love each other because and in spite of these character defects (to use one of the more unfortunate AA phrases), how much stronger will that make the bond?
But what the hell do I know, when it's after 2am on a school night and I'm prattling away to an ice-cold blog, for God's sake, instead of contentedly curling up next to a warm-bodied lover?
Friday, August 29, 2003
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
"Everyone ought to go careful in a city like this." -Popescu, The Third Man
In the volatile business of entertainment, an industry centered in Los Angeles, scripts are dealt death blows on a daily basis, often destroying meritorious projects for the most insipid reasons. No need to list the gazillion examples of films that weren't worth the celluloid on which they were printed; besides, my "Citizen Kane", "The Third Man", "The Apartment" or "My Favorite Year" (films which eat most others for breakfast) might not resonate for you as does, say, "Ishtar" (OK, I went for the easy target; it's been a hard day, and I'm tired). And we, the writers and producers who carefully craft stories from outline to script to (one hopes) film -- tales spun from our own notions and others' notes -- are admonished not to take it personally. It's just business.
But, as the song goes, it's like no business I know. It's VERY personal; one's success is often contingent on having the right relationships, making the appropriate appearance, and being in the right location at the right moment. It's the stuff of which dreams are made...no, it's the stuff made of dreams.
When I was an actor, I experienced rejection daily. Not because of who I am, but based on my ability (or not) to deliver the character they sought via my acting skills and physical attributes...not necessarily in that order. Many times, I was too short too heavy too curly too soft too whatever they weren't looking for. The reading was good, but she's got that NOSE. (Hey, what's wrong with my nose?)
Then I found refuge, and got a valuable education, at a television network. I was on the buying side, snug in the cozy catbird seat for years. There, one must deliver well and consistently to the honchos-that-be, but (unless you REALLY fucked up) there was always a paycheck at the end of every two weeks, medical benefits, a pension plan, stock options, and (because we had a senior VP who enjoyed treating us like a family) parties and outings and such. I knew, from my daily dealings with independent producers, theirs was a tough and insecure life. But I had no idea HOW tough until the past year and 5 months of swinging without a net.
Another important project was killed today. Important to me, as it was the first movie I had a hand in selling and developing as a producer. It was bought by a prestigious cable outlet, where my associates and I guided our fine writer diligently and lovingly in fashioning the script we were told was EXACTLY what they were looking for. It tells a story that has yet to be depicted in film, a subject which has great social and political import, a controversial topic that deserves fearless exploration and national exposure. But, as well as the beautifully-written script was received, we've been told it no longer fits the cabler's mandate. No matter what powerhouse agency or high-profile personalities are behind it. After 18 months of hard work and high hopes -- pass. I saw it happen many times at the network. I never felt it until now.
And this news is all the more disappointing since the real-life protagonist is in a battle for his own real life. We had hoped to get a pick-up so he could see his story filmed and broadcast...and so we could all get paid...especially our hero. I suppose it may yet happen. But I know better than to count an unhatched chick.
I've lived in LA a long time, but will always be a native New Yorker. It's not that I wasn't ever smacked around in that city, too...tales for another time. But tonight, I longed to escape to the relative comfort of my hometown when I spoke at length with my dear Linda M. It's amazing; even though she's now living in and about New York, she can still reach through my dejection and agitation with her kind, measured voice and her clear vision, fettered only by her affection for me, to give me the necessary perspective. To help me shake it off and continue. Made me wish I was there, hanging with Linda and her beloved Paul, who are renovating their new house in Connecticut and going to the US Open on Saturday.
In the latest episode of Sex & The City, Carrie Bradshaw closes with the voiceover, "Love is possible -- anything is possible. This is New York."
Well, love -- and anything -- will have to be possible in LA, too.
But, as the song goes, it's like no business I know. It's VERY personal; one's success is often contingent on having the right relationships, making the appropriate appearance, and being in the right location at the right moment. It's the stuff of which dreams are made...no, it's the stuff made of dreams.
When I was an actor, I experienced rejection daily. Not because of who I am, but based on my ability (or not) to deliver the character they sought via my acting skills and physical attributes...not necessarily in that order. Many times, I was too short too heavy too curly too soft too whatever they weren't looking for. The reading was good, but she's got that NOSE. (Hey, what's wrong with my nose?)
Then I found refuge, and got a valuable education, at a television network. I was on the buying side, snug in the cozy catbird seat for years. There, one must deliver well and consistently to the honchos-that-be, but (unless you REALLY fucked up) there was always a paycheck at the end of every two weeks, medical benefits, a pension plan, stock options, and (because we had a senior VP who enjoyed treating us like a family) parties and outings and such. I knew, from my daily dealings with independent producers, theirs was a tough and insecure life. But I had no idea HOW tough until the past year and 5 months of swinging without a net.
Another important project was killed today. Important to me, as it was the first movie I had a hand in selling and developing as a producer. It was bought by a prestigious cable outlet, where my associates and I guided our fine writer diligently and lovingly in fashioning the script we were told was EXACTLY what they were looking for. It tells a story that has yet to be depicted in film, a subject which has great social and political import, a controversial topic that deserves fearless exploration and national exposure. But, as well as the beautifully-written script was received, we've been told it no longer fits the cabler's mandate. No matter what powerhouse agency or high-profile personalities are behind it. After 18 months of hard work and high hopes -- pass. I saw it happen many times at the network. I never felt it until now.
And this news is all the more disappointing since the real-life protagonist is in a battle for his own real life. We had hoped to get a pick-up so he could see his story filmed and broadcast...and so we could all get paid...especially our hero. I suppose it may yet happen. But I know better than to count an unhatched chick.
I've lived in LA a long time, but will always be a native New Yorker. It's not that I wasn't ever smacked around in that city, too...tales for another time. But tonight, I longed to escape to the relative comfort of my hometown when I spoke at length with my dear Linda M. It's amazing; even though she's now living in and about New York, she can still reach through my dejection and agitation with her kind, measured voice and her clear vision, fettered only by her affection for me, to give me the necessary perspective. To help me shake it off and continue. Made me wish I was there, hanging with Linda and her beloved Paul, who are renovating their new house in Connecticut and going to the US Open on Saturday.
In the latest episode of Sex & The City, Carrie Bradshaw closes with the voiceover, "Love is possible -- anything is possible. This is New York."
Well, love -- and anything -- will have to be possible in LA, too.
Monday, August 25, 2003
"Enjoy every sandwich." -Warren Zevon
If you didn't catch last night's commercial-free presentation on VH-1 chronicling Warren Zevon's last days -- which, as of this writing, he's still living, much to the amazement of his physicians -- check for a rebroadcast. The man who wrote "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" doesn't invoke those sentiments in this documentary. It's an elegant appreciation of life on one's own terms, an affirmation of love in its highest forms -- not maudlin, just matter-of-fact. We see his last recording foray, titled "The Wind", for which he's lovingly joined by legendary fellow artists Ry Cooder, Jackson Browne, Don Henley, Tim Schmidt and The Boss Himself (after Springsteen executes a positively smokin' solo on "Disorder in the House", a morphine-wasted Warren beams up at Bruce and says, "You ARE him!").
It's perfectly in character for the sardonic Zevon to cover "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" on his final CD -- obvious acknowledgement of his condition, but also a tip of his cap to a man who copiously covered him on his 2002 tour, with versions I wish I'd heard of "Accidentally Like A Martyr", "Lawyers, Guns and Money", and "Mutineer."
At one point, he's laying down a vocal on "Disorder" and his time's off, owing to the effects of morphine -- his producer, Jorge Calderon, joins him in the studio to cue him. Later, during playback of the ragged vocals, Calderon suggests they come back the next day, refreshed. Zevon: "Jorge, I'm dying -- I have no 'fresh.'" But there isn't one smidgen of self-pity in his tone. It's just what it is.
"Never thought I'd have to pay so dearly for what was already mine..." This CD is going to be a hard listen; but I can't wait.
"It's a sin not to want to live." Okay, Warren. Then we'll hang on. And, when we catch up with you, we'll let you know how it turned out.
It's perfectly in character for the sardonic Zevon to cover "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" on his final CD -- obvious acknowledgement of his condition, but also a tip of his cap to a man who copiously covered him on his 2002 tour, with versions I wish I'd heard of "Accidentally Like A Martyr", "Lawyers, Guns and Money", and "Mutineer."
At one point, he's laying down a vocal on "Disorder" and his time's off, owing to the effects of morphine -- his producer, Jorge Calderon, joins him in the studio to cue him. Later, during playback of the ragged vocals, Calderon suggests they come back the next day, refreshed. Zevon: "Jorge, I'm dying -- I have no 'fresh.'" But there isn't one smidgen of self-pity in his tone. It's just what it is.
"Never thought I'd have to pay so dearly for what was already mine..." This CD is going to be a hard listen; but I can't wait.
"It's a sin not to want to live." Okay, Warren. Then we'll hang on. And, when we catch up with you, we'll let you know how it turned out.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
"Just because you're smart doesn't mean you can't act stupid." -Christopher Lloyd
Full day yesterday: I had a potentially fruitful morning phone conference, made an embarrassingly silly error in judgement concerning a new friend, and enjoyed a harmonious lunch meeting at the Studio City Gaucho Grill, at which I introduced my esteemed series partner and fine friend, Mike, to the aforementioned writer Michael (who ordered a frighteningly black blood sausage as an appetizer, about which I had a mild nightmare). If the tumblin' dice come up seven or eleven, we could all be standing on the Shrine stage in our tuxes and gowns, gleefully accepting Emmys for our Showtime series. Mark your September 2005 calendars. Ah, but there are hurdles to leap and moats to cross before we thank our agents and moms.
"The future will be better tomorrow." -Dan Quayle
The week may have started with a boss concert by Bruce, but that didn't stop it from being brutal. Loss of one moving client and one mentor gig, ergo loss of critically-required income. Two betrayals of trust (one wittingly against me, one unwittingly by me). Still no definite answer on the HBO project. Business affairs holding up creative affairs on the Showtime project. Planes lined up on the runway and the fog won't lift.
I can only blame it on Mars, the planet of communication and conflict, coming so close to our fragile little Earth and wreaking havoc on otherwise sound plans and relationships.
And yet, the blessings of loving, golden friendships continue to flow freely, even as I question my value as a storyteller and my sanity as a human being. You all know who you are. I'll never stop thanking you. And never stop striving to be the woman you believe me to be. The need for perfection is a disease best treated by generous doses of forgiveness.
Let's all get a good night's sleep and see what the morning brings; Mars be damned.
I can only blame it on Mars, the planet of communication and conflict, coming so close to our fragile little Earth and wreaking havoc on otherwise sound plans and relationships.
And yet, the blessings of loving, golden friendships continue to flow freely, even as I question my value as a storyteller and my sanity as a human being. You all know who you are. I'll never stop thanking you. And never stop striving to be the woman you believe me to be. The need for perfection is a disease best treated by generous doses of forgiveness.
Let's all get a good night's sleep and see what the morning brings; Mars be damned.
Sunday, August 17, 2003
"I want to guard your dreams and visions." -Bruce Springsteen
The Blues. It's a style of music I enjoy. It's a mood I don't. I've been experiencing a serious case of the latter the past couple of weeks, triggered by multiple professional and personal stresses and The Ongoing Oppressive Heat. I was not built for temperatures over 80 degrees...especially not in combination with 80 percent humidity. Which is one reason I chose LA over hometown New York. Yeah, it's good for the skin, but it sucks the life force from me, and how attractive is a luminous complexion on a sweaty lox?
My blues antidote today? St. Agatha's Church, a progressive Catholic parish in a sketchy part of LA with a slammin' gospel choir. Heard about them a month ago from an acquaintance who'd seen them at the House of Blues' Sunday Gospel Brunch -- then again from dear friend Jolene (another fine omni-woman: reality producer, writer, wedding planner, gardener...), who planned the wedding for one of the singers in said choir. Turns out new friend Michael (screenwriter, novelist and all-around wordsmith par excellence ) attends St. A's Sunday mass, as well. I've come to believe God likes to keep the world small.
My first visit was July 27, and I was immediately hooked -- on the soulful music, on the welcoming energy generated by the multicultural congregation, and by the energized smile and well-placed humor of Fr. Ken, who later told me I could bring my spirit there anytime; guess he could see I was moved right to the place God wants us to be. So, I've added a little progressive Catholicism to my Hindu-based meditation practice and Zen Buddhist studies.
Truth is truth. God hasn't ever said we can't have it all.
And, as further illustration of that fact, friend Linda P (killer attorney and advocate for the elderly) called earlier with an extra ticket to tonight's Springsteen concert in Chavez Ravine! Much as I've always loved The Boss' music, this will be the first time I've seen him in the flesh...which I've also always admired.
Hallelujah!
My blues antidote today? St. Agatha's Church, a progressive Catholic parish in a sketchy part of LA with a slammin' gospel choir. Heard about them a month ago from an acquaintance who'd seen them at the House of Blues' Sunday Gospel Brunch -- then again from dear friend Jolene (another fine omni-woman: reality producer, writer, wedding planner, gardener...), who planned the wedding for one of the singers in said choir. Turns out new friend Michael (screenwriter, novelist and all-around wordsmith par excellence ) attends St. A's Sunday mass, as well. I've come to believe God likes to keep the world small.
My first visit was July 27, and I was immediately hooked -- on the soulful music, on the welcoming energy generated by the multicultural congregation, and by the energized smile and well-placed humor of Fr. Ken, who later told me I could bring my spirit there anytime; guess he could see I was moved right to the place God wants us to be. So, I've added a little progressive Catholicism to my Hindu-based meditation practice and Zen Buddhist studies.
Truth is truth. God hasn't ever said we can't have it all.
And, as further illustration of that fact, friend Linda P (killer attorney and advocate for the elderly) called earlier with an extra ticket to tonight's Springsteen concert in Chavez Ravine! Much as I've always loved The Boss' music, this will be the first time I've seen him in the flesh...which I've also always admired.
Hallelujah!
Saturday, August 16, 2003
"Everybody knows everything." -Jack Kerouac
I have a friend named Brian (not his pseudonym), who is one of the brothers my parents never gave me. (They never gave me a spiritual path to follow, either, for which I'm grateful...so I made my own way as an only child through the maze of religious dogma, and found my own damn personal relationship with God.)
...but i digress...
I (television producer and resourceful entrepreneur) was recently in career update conversation with above-mentioned friend Brian (musician/composer and master electrician), who lives next door to me with his beloved wife Margaret (holistic healer and one of the sisters my parents never gave me). I was telling Brian about the status of my HBO movie project, giving him a blow-by-blow description of who the players are, why it hasn't yet been picked up, what needs to happen to make it happen, where it could go if HBO foolishly decides not to produce it after 16 months of development, how frustrated I am about it all, and exactly when I plan to crawl on my belly to the Century City twin tower which houses HBO, find Mister Big, and beg like a dog.
Mid-tale, an amused Brian interrupted with the observation that I can't just say, "We're waiting for the guy in charge to make a decision." Oh no. Why, when life is so entertaining? There's always a whole scenario available. My friends have come to expect full disclosure from me; they wait for me to careen around every detail and bounce over each bump in the day before arriving at the destination. Look, I was born to, and raised by, storytellers; I didn't have a chance. This body contains a singer, songwriter, actor, dancer, poet, graphic designer, producer. "You're Story Girl," my next-door brother laughed, insisting that I make something of it in print. Okay, Brian. I'm taking the bait like a trout.
I have followed many a blog in the past couple of years; even started one last year that dealt with the end of my last love relationship (appropriately, it went the way of the man who "inspired" it). And I've recently met a screenwriter who has a most entertaining and often edifying pop culturish blog.
So I'm thinking perhaps it's time for me to dip toes in the blogging pool again. Make some observations. Share some experiences. Try not to be too metaphorically masturbatory. But there's another "Story Girl" in the BlogSpot system; no surprise. However, there are no ZanTales being told. Until now.
I am Zan. And these are my Tales. Read at your leisure, at your own risk, at bedtime, at the first sign of a cold.
...but i digress...
I (television producer and resourceful entrepreneur) was recently in career update conversation with above-mentioned friend Brian (musician/composer and master electrician), who lives next door to me with his beloved wife Margaret (holistic healer and one of the sisters my parents never gave me). I was telling Brian about the status of my HBO movie project, giving him a blow-by-blow description of who the players are, why it hasn't yet been picked up, what needs to happen to make it happen, where it could go if HBO foolishly decides not to produce it after 16 months of development, how frustrated I am about it all, and exactly when I plan to crawl on my belly to the Century City twin tower which houses HBO, find Mister Big, and beg like a dog.
Mid-tale, an amused Brian interrupted with the observation that I can't just say, "We're waiting for the guy in charge to make a decision." Oh no. Why, when life is so entertaining? There's always a whole scenario available. My friends have come to expect full disclosure from me; they wait for me to careen around every detail and bounce over each bump in the day before arriving at the destination. Look, I was born to, and raised by, storytellers; I didn't have a chance. This body contains a singer, songwriter, actor, dancer, poet, graphic designer, producer. "You're Story Girl," my next-door brother laughed, insisting that I make something of it in print. Okay, Brian. I'm taking the bait like a trout.
I have followed many a blog in the past couple of years; even started one last year that dealt with the end of my last love relationship (appropriately, it went the way of the man who "inspired" it). And I've recently met a screenwriter who has a most entertaining and often edifying pop culturish blog.
So I'm thinking perhaps it's time for me to dip toes in the blogging pool again. Make some observations. Share some experiences. Try not to be too metaphorically masturbatory. But there's another "Story Girl" in the BlogSpot system; no surprise. However, there are no ZanTales being told. Until now.
I am Zan. And these are my Tales. Read at your leisure, at your own risk, at bedtime, at the first sign of a cold.
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