Everyone in LA Has a Screenplay, Right?

I’ve been a writer for a long time. A really long time. When I was in first grade I put out a neighborhood newspaper, printed on mimeograph sheets called the Sometimes Sun, which came out, well, occasionally.

Since all I’ve ever wanted to be is a writer.  It’s pretty lucky for me then, that except for a lengthy detour into publicity, where I continued to write on the side,  I’ve managed to write for a living. Or something akin to that.

I’ve written and been published in most formats: journalism, non-fiction, press releases, etc. Hell, I even took a painfully awful stab at fiction and poetry. Be glad you will never read them.  Unfortunately for me, I wrote them and therefore can never forget.  It’s sort of like viewing a train crash.

But strangely, considering that I live in Los Angeles, I never tried scriptwriting.  The common lore is that everyone here has a script under their desk. I thought that was just a nasty myth until I took a taxi home from the airport. When the driver found out I was a writer -he didn’t care that I was a journalist- he literally locked the doors and wouldn’t let me out until he told me about his script. It wasn’t good.

That experience scarred me deeply. I never considered scriptwriting. For one thing, it seemed like an insurmountable task.  Good scripts make you forget they were ever written. They just seem to exist.

But in my constant search to keep myself from becoming even stupider (see: grad school and GREs) I decided to give it a whirl. I may be dumb, but I’m smart enough to know what I don’t know, so I searched around and found a class. I figured I needed all the help I could get.

Since I am in Los Angeles, there was no shortage of possibilities. I could go to a Learning Annex or give some random guy money and do something online; there were a lot of choices. I ended up picking a new program that was affiliated with an acting and directing school under the auspices of a famous actor. For me, the teachers and the curriculum were the main draw.

The class was eight hours a week, divided between a lecture and a workshop.  The plan was to finish the program with a first draft of a script. It was a commitment with an end goal, which I love.

The classes were taught by two experienced, successful and talented writers who were also actors. This turned out to be important, at least for me. As useless as many actors think writers are, a lot of writers feel that actors are just dopes out to screw up their brilliant words and great ideas. I learned quickly that this is not true. Add in the fact that both teachers rock, the whole experience was pretty cool.

Mondays and Thursdays were class days, and became the absolute highlights of my week. Thursday was a workshop day, where the teacher and the other students would critique the pages I brought. Afterwards I’d drive home in a fog, busily plotting how I would work their suggestions into my script. It’s amazing I didn’t rack up the car; I don’t remember any of those rides. I hadn’t been this excited about writing since I sold a piece to Sports Illustrated.

Surprisingly, the most inspiring thing about this experience was the one that had worried me the most—age. Mine. I’m older than most of the people in my class. Going into the first session I was terrified that my classmates would dismiss me as the crazy old broad. They probably do think of me as a crazy old broad, but they don’t dismiss me.  And I’m glad, because I think they’re a remarkable group of people, and I feel like they’ve accepted me as an equal.

Some are actors trying to get a bead on what writers do, others are fiction writers looking to broaden their horizons. But there are many who are deadly serious about making screenwriting their careers. They work hard and leap at any opportunity to get ahead. I’m positive these folks are going to be successful. Several of them already have made short films. And they’re good.

Officially the class is over. But a group of us are determined to figure out a way to continue the workshops, which would be terrific.

I really hope that this new venture works out for me. I’m dedicated to following it through where ever it may take me—which hopefully will be to a theater near you.

MD, Schmd, The Next Time I'm Sick I'm Going to the Vet

In my household I’ve always believed that the animals have it better than the people.  But now I have absolute proof.

It started, as these things tend to do, with a visit to mom on the East Coast.  Which involved an airplane. Actually two—one to New York and one returning. Oh, the joys of flying commercial coach!

Naturally, I got sick.  Which then turned into a sinus infection. As is typical, I didn’t believe I had anything more than a sniffle.  The first day it was almost kind of fun—I slept most of the time, and the dogs sat around on my bed snoring. But by the second day they – and I -were bored with it. They wanted walks, potty breaks and two catered meals.

I still didn’t think I was ill; my belief in denial is strong.  But eventually it got past the point where I could plausibly blame it on drinking or the time change.

I started considering going to a doctor. The problem is that I don’t actually have one.  My regular MD retired a few years ago without giving any referrals. Which is kind of bitchy of her if you ask me.

As one does, I asked my friends if they had a doctor they liked.  I came up with a surprisingly short list. When I called those MDs, none were accepting any new patients. Not even if I asked nicely.

I finally found a doctor who would see me—in three weeks. By which time I would have been feeling badly for so long that I’d be contemplating suicide. ‘Cause if you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a big baby about being sick.

Eventually I gave in and went to a walk-in clinic near my house. It was lovely. In 20 minutes I saw a doctor and walked out with a prescription for meds. I was better in a few days.  Better living through chemistry, folks!

My cat became really sick about that time as well. It was a whole different experience.  I called my vet and made an appointment to bring her in that very afternoon. Of course she needed a specialist. I got her an immediate referral and the specialist saw her two days later. Tilly was pissed about having her stomach shaved for the ultrasound, but within days she was as healthy as ever.  But the truly amazing thing is that both vets called me two times to check on her. Two times!  I’ve had surgery and the doctors never called to find out if I was still alive!

An even bigger contrast for me is with equine doctors.  One of the horses became ill too.  (These things seem to happen in threes.) Naturally it was Lucy, the pregnant mare. It appeared to be colic, which is similar to that illness in people, except that in horses it can often be fatal. Lucy has already had colic surgery once, so I’m a little touchy about her health

. Okay, truth time, I am obsessed with her right now; I was frantic.

So I called my regular vet. (Again notice the difference. I don’t have a doctor but I have three equine vets on speed dial: My regular vet, a surgeon and Lucy’s OB-GYN.)  Neil was very nice and calm. And he arrived on my doorstep within the hour. Notice: he came to me.  When she wasn’t better in a day, he arranged for me to take her to a clinic. I showed up with Lucy literally in tow about two hours later than expected. Still, practically the entire hospital staff was waiting to greet us, and within minutes she was being examined. 

Shortly thereafter she was on an IV.  I’d still be filling out liability forms and surveys if it were a human hospital. Lucy was ready to go home three days later.

A few years ago one of my old horses tried to rip his lower eyelid off while scratching an itch. It wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. It looked ghastly. But it didn’t seem to bother him as much as it freaked me out..

Once again an emergency call was made to Neil.  (The good doctor takes awesome vacations, most of which I believe I’ve financed. But he’s generous about sharing the photos with me. So I can live at least vicariously.) Within the hour my Neil came out and stitched up the eye. It was perfect, and there isn’t even a scar.  

So this is the deal.  The next time I get sick, I’m going to call the vet. 

Don't Even Try to Argue with Me: Bruce Springsteen is God

I have post-Springsteen depression. It’s that feeling that follows an amazing Bruce Springsteen concert. Which is to say, it happens after almost every Springsteen show.

I guess you could say I’m a fan. And have been since, oh, Greetings from Asbury Park. Which came out 1973. When I was still very, very young.

It isn’t so easy being a Springsteen fan anymore. It’s considered uncool. The Boss hasn’t been hip since before the Republican party tried to co-opt “Born in the USA,” which they not only didn’t understand, but didn’t ask permission to use. It ended badly for GOP, but also left a bad taste in the mouths of the arbiters of cool.

I don’t care. I adore Springsteen. I love his songs, which are often short stories. They create entire worlds. In three minutes. I dream of writing screenplays based them.

All of this is why, in early February when I heard that he was doing a series of New England shows  in smallish venues, I decided to go. The shows were all somewhat near where my mom lives and it was a good excuse to visit.  This involved some preparation.

First on the agenda was getting tickets.  This is not nearly as easy as it was when I was almost somebody. In the good old days I could call someone who owed me a favor or just plain liked me, and they’d hook me up. Those days are long gone. Now, like the rest of the 99%, I’m screwed.

I called my friend Randi, who decided that she and Bill wanted to go to the Connecticut shows too and we put an plan in place. We’d both get online shortly before the on-sale time and sign up to the Ticketmaster website.  Surely between the two of us, we could get four tickets.

With military precision we began our assault on Ticketmaster’s site. And the tickets were sold out literally a minute after the on-sale time. Before we could get through. This was a frustrating on several fronts. How could 36,000 seats sell in less than a minute? Even if a couple of thousand tickets per show were being held for friends, family and radio stations, that should have left a hell of a lot of tickets for poor slobs with cash. But no.

Then there was the fact that the day before tickets were officially on sale, dozens of brokers were advertising ducats at triple face value. They had specific seats which meant they already had the tickets in their possession. Which explains how 36,000 tickets were gone in 30 seconds. They were sold before we even had a chance.

This left Randi and I sputtering with fury. And more importantly, plotting. How could we get

into the show without succumbing to the scalpers? We were flummoxed.  And furious.

Instant messages and texts sprinkled with curse words flew across the country. Then Bill, who is nothing if not practical, decided to go to one of the ticket outlets, just on the off chance that they might still have seats.  I thought he was dreaming.

He wasn’t.  He went to a Wal-Mart, a store I’ve never set foot in for political reasons, which had a Ticketmaster outlet. He handed them money and they gave him four seats in back of the stage. We took them gratefully.

Which is how, after practically begging someone to housesit the menagerie and a fight with Delta airlines about frequent flier mileage, I ended up sitting in a car in Albany with Bill, Randi and my nephew, Peter,  and his girlfriend. Peter is a HUGE fan. So are many of his 20-something friends. Pete had somehow finagled his own seats, so we split up at the show with a plan to meet afterwords.

Yes, we were in back of the stage, but we were low enough to read the little sign that read ‘Albany’ on the stairs going to the stage. And there was an awesome video screen just above us.

Bruce is a force of nature. At nearly 65 he looks better than 90% of my friends, and some of them are in their 20s. He plays to the entire crowd – front, sides and back, and acts like he couldn’t imagine anything better to do with his time. He probably can’t. Lord knows, he’s not performing because he needs the money. He probably has more money than he can spend (even if one of his daughters is an Olympic show jumping hopeful). Nope, he plays because he loves it.

It’s contagious.  From the little ‘tweeners’ that he pulled onstage to dance with him, to the grandma he waltzed with, to the man in near us in a wheelchair, the crowd was joyous. For all three hours and 27 songs.

But now I have that inevitable let-down that happens after a Bruce show. But it’s worth it

Losing the War with Nature

I live in an area of LA that is laughingly called semi-rural. It isn’t. I just happen to reside on a street that is mostly horse properties. Or what passes for such in Los Angeles.  That means that only one of my cross streets has its own freeway exit.

Still, for all the traffic and city proximity, I have been dealing with a fair amount of wildlife lately. I recently had an alligator lizard just move right into the living room. Literally.

I had the front door open to let someone in, and an eight-inch reptile just marched in with her like it owned the place. Which it doesn’t, or if it does, sure hasn’t been paying rent

Neither Poppy ,the intrepid hunting Brittany, or I noticed the thing, but my visitor sure did. She brought it to my attention with a strangled scream. Not a pretty sound.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one of these lizards, but they are aptly named. They really do look like tiny alligators. They’re quite attractive with black and tan diamond markings on their back, and they even sport substantial fangs. If it wasn’t so small, it would have been scary.

I think it came inside because we were having a ridiculous heat wave, and it knew the air-conditioning was on. I know reptiles are supposed to be cold-blooded creatures but people have said the same about me, and I was pretty uncomfortable.

The creature must not have a strong odor, because it practically ran over Poppy, and she didn’t even notice it. The lizard, like its namesake, was fast.  Just as I reached down to grab it and toss it outside, the thing darted behind a bookcase.  For a few days I just hoped it would move out on its own. But like a lot of uninvited guests  it didn’t cooperate.

It was a pleasant enough visitor. It stayed out of sight and unlike the rest of my quadrupeds, didn’t expect me to feed or clean up after it.  But it had to go. Preferably before it died and started stinking up the place.

Which is how I ended up on my hands and knees running a stick under the bookcase. I was trying to chase the damned thing into the living room and then outside back to nature. The first couple of passes brought forth a tremendous amount of hidden dog hair, but no reptile. The next time the lizard came shooting out, straight at me. I was so surprised I forgot what I was trying to do.

It wasn’t thrilled to see me either, and ducked back under the bookcase. Apparently I had not made my intentions clear, because then it scooted up the back of the bookcase and began walking on top of it. Where it glared at me directly—eye to eye.  I poked it with the stick to push it back to the floor and the thing hissed at me. Now I don’t speak lizard—until now I didn’t even know they could vocalize—but I knew it was pissed.

I was starting to feel a bit flummoxed by the whole thing—the standoff could have gone on for hours if not days—I  have a feeling that reptiles are pretty patient—when it suddenly ran back down the back of the bookcase, onto the floor and out the front door. Where it belongs. Back in nature.

The funny thing is that I have seen him regularly since he left. He’s taken up a spot by the doorstep. 

The creature Poppy found this morning wasn’t so lucky. Poppy is completely fascinated by whatever has been digging holes in the back yard so it’s not unusual to see her butt sticking up in the air and her head jammed down the animal’s tunnel.  It’s not her most photographic angle but I’m getting used to it. And she is usually just wasting her time.

Today was different. Poppy was digging as fast as her paws could move, the dirt was flying and then boom! The next thing I knew she was running around the horse paddock with something in her mouth. At first I thought –okay hoped-she had a clump of dirt, or even some horse poo. But no, I spotted little tiny feet. Ewwww.

She reluctantly brought it over to me and dropped it when I asked.  Good dog!

It was some kind of rodent, but I have no idea what species. I had thought that ground squirrels were the ones digging in the back yard, but this was no squirrel. Nor was it a rat. It was about the size of a skinny guinea pig, and had little short legs and a medium length tail.

It was probably some extremely rare creature which is now, thanks to Poppy and me, extinct. Yay nature.