DREAM REFRESHING BEVERAGE Coconut water is a dreamy beverage with the same properties of human plasma. “It’s a natural isotonic beverage, with the same level of electrolytic balance as we have in our blood. It’s the fluid of life, so to speak.” It saves lives in 3rd world countries and replenishes the body with magic-like properties. Refresh!
DREAM HAIR COLOR I know that I just went brunette, but a girl can dream, right? I’m going to slowly work my way up to this Strawberry blonde/brown masterpiece. Bad idea? Hit me with thoughts, my little fashionistas. (please!)
DREAM TICKETS They go on sale today. TODAY! The future is here and the soundtrack is NomotherfuckingDoubt.
DREAM PANTS I might actually buy these from this chick on Etsy. Maybe they will change my life. But probably not.
DREAM LOCALE I want to roll around in Mother Earth’s vanity. In her pink compact full of powdery, sparkling sand. In her perfume bottle filled with salty sweet sea. I want to take naps in a hammock and swing from a rope like a spider monkey. I want to savor tropical delights and take sunshine and moonlight baths with pretty mermaids, my handsome man and seaside best friends.
DREAM = CLEAR, SPECTACLE-FREE EYES If I recognized Lent, I would give up negativity. However, I’m not religious and don’t really like to give up things completely. So my tiny complaint of the day is that I constantly have red eyes and can only wear contacts for a few hours before I have to go back to glasses for weeks to get rid of the red. I’m so, so tired of going to the doctor. And I hate wearing glasses so much that I’d rather just stay in every night. Ok, I’m done.
Truly, I do. But I just realized for the first time in my twenty-something years that punching yourself in the face is a near impossibility. Physically, it’s awkward to get a good wind-up for a square hit. And then ballsack-wise, I don’t have any. It’s like how you can’t sneeze with your eyes open. Or can you? I’ll have to try that one again.
I could use a good, hard MFing punch because I’m having a seriously retarded case of insomnia. As in, I will not sleep tonight. And I so desperately need and fucking deserve some sleep. I have been exhausted and jet-lagged out of my mind The. Entire. Day. And now the subway keeps rattling my brain, the dog is hot and spooning too hard, I’m hungry for one thousand snacks and I can’t stop buzzing about reasons my quality of life might possible blow. Plus I think I have restless ankle and wrist syndrome. Not the legs…just the rotators. HELP.
I’ve tried reading a cheesy vampire book, taking a melatonin, watching Battlestar Galactica, reading again, popping more melatonin, reading, crying, Internets and now blogging. It’s like Valley of the Trekkie Dolls and there are not enough pills or nerdy activities in the world to knock me out tonight. I hate me.
If insomnia manifested itself into an actual person, he would look like this:
He’s all “Having trouble sleeeeeeeeping? Oh, you are? Well, do you like my ouuuuuuuuutfit? You don’t? Tsk Tsk, assclown. The joke will be on you tomorrow when you have to go to your 12 hour job and try to be funny on NO SLEEP.” What a piece of shit.
Ok, off to try some bad TV and possibly just make some coffee and give into my stupid life.
I’ve waiting a long, long time. Oh, how I have waited. But it is finally here.
Now you can hark back to the permed days! Imagine you’re grounded from TV, so watching The Last Unicorn on your Beta machine for the 47th time isn’t an option, you’re all out of Ramona books and you’re little brother is straight buggin’ because the only word he knows how to say is “no”. So, you flip on the Commodore 64 and play a little Oregon Trail Game and start maxin’ like Michael Jackson. Until you die of dysentery, that is. But cheer up, Charles in Charge, cuz it’s Wiener Wrap Night and yo moms just bought a new can of Tang. *BURP*
Here’s how I did and be forewarned. I’m awesome.
Now if only I could ACTUALLY hit the trail to Oregon. That would be radical.
celeb sighting: Part Eight. Attack of the crazy brother.
I guess actor Jeremy Sisto lives next door to us. Husband spotted him a couple of weeks ago and was all “That’s the crazy brother from Six Feet Under” and I was all “Dude, we need to work out a celeb signal or some shit. Get on my team, Coulter.”
The sighting was confirmed this weekend when we saw him. Up in his apartment packing a suitcase next to the open window. Nothing says stalker like actually looking into someone’s lit bedroom as they fold underwear for their travels.
Here he is playing the crazupid* annoying brother on Six Feet Under. ZOMG that show is #1. Netflix it. Now.
And of course we can’t forget his epic giant-cellphone-holding performance as Elton in Clueless (no, I did NOT have to Google the character’s name). Cause I’m rollin’ with the homies.
*crazupid: both crazy and stupid. I did have to google that one.
celeb sighting: Part Seven. Please, feel free to inspect them.
Last week on my way home from another late night at work, I was walking through The Vil and talking to Amanda on my celly. We were discussing her music and trying to concept words that would be used to describe her music for some promo items she’s putting together.
We were throwing words around like “ethereal”, “sweet but dark”, “cozy” and “fragile”.
I might as well have been saying “Seymour Hoffman, Seymour Hoffman, Seymour Hoffman” in the style of Beetlejuice because he suddenly appeared. Philip, that is. Not a dead-tranny version of Michael Keaton. He was eating a snack and talking fancy-film-talk in the window of the Hudson Diner. Being angsty in a crappy diner is SO him and I love it. I said “I’m staring at Philip Seymour Hoffman”. Staring is right.
It was fun to have a Best Coast buddy on the phone. It was like we both had a star sighting. I knew he lived close to me and was definitely on my list of top 10 famous peeps to see.
Here he is in my all-time favorite roll of his. Obvs, Brandt. Devoted asssitant to Mr. Lebowski. The millionaire.
Bunny Lebowski: I’ll suck your cock for a thousand dollars. Brandt: Ah hahahahaha! Wonderful woman. We’re all, we’re all very fond of her. Very free-spirited. Bunny Lebowski: Brandt can’t watch, though, or he has to pay a hundred. Brandt: Ah haha. That’s marvelous. The Dude: Uh, I’m just gonna go find a cash machine.
Feast your ears on my Philip Seymour Hoffman sighting soundtrack while you’re at it. Ad friends, be the first to use one of her songs in a spot before she’s famous and too cool for school. Sounds like this:
(note: also my costume for dream burlesque comeback solo debuting in Spring of 2011)
Observations-on-moving blog ALERT. When will these end?
Putting distance between me and my friends and family was the worst part about Adventure Club*. But the second worst part was leaving my position on The Heavenly Spies. Ow ow ow ow. Ouch. Ow. It actually physically hurts to not have that fill at least 50% of my time and creative brain space. If that little kid from Jerry Maguire is right and the human head weighs 8 pounds, then The Heavenly Spies took up at least 5 of those LB’s. And beyond thinking about costumes and music and photoshoots, what I miss most is performing. While I might not be the best trained dancer, I’m pretty okay at the smiling, winking and comedic timing thing. There is nothing like getting a whole room of people, albeit drunk people, to laugh whole-heartedly. And laugh with you and not at you, no less! I live for it.
Math says that if I live for performing and I stop performing then I’ll die, right? No. Worse will happen. I will turn into a cold bowl of gelatinous, uninspired, lumpy Cream of Person. Grab your plastic sporks, because I’m on my way.
So, I did something.
At the beginning of January, I signed up for an Improv class at Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theater. It starts on the last Saturday in February and involves eight 3-hour improv sessions, watching two shows at the theater and one long-form improv comedy performance of our own. Yikes. Bring on the drunkards. The teacher looks really cool and he plays one of the “writers” on 30 Rock which lives close to the top of my list of funniest shows, like, ever.
As Husband noted, most people dream of moving to NYC or LA and pursuing something like this. I just happen to be here, so why not? My main motivation is to follow Improv 101 with UCB’s sketch comedy writing class where they help you get your book together for entertainment-based comedy writing. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the vagine!
So, again I spin further out of my cozy comfort zone. OMGwhathaveIdone. New chapter for me as a performer? A few classes will tell. Here’s to not getting my performing wires-crossed and taking my shirt off during improv. That does not a funny actress make.
*A club where you scrap everything you know and do something BOLD. Like move across the country during a recession. Members include Cyrus, Jessica and Walter The Dog.
Who? John Slattery Who the hell is that? Roger Sterling From Mad Men. Which character is that? You know, the boss. The silver fox. When? A few weeks ago. Why’d it take you so long? The sighting was immediately trumped by SJP. I had to give that one some breathing room. Where? At my office in the common snack area. What was he doing there? He was being interviewed for something. Couldn’t tell what.
Thesis? A pretty awesome sighting because I’m a huge Mad Men fan. Unfortunately, I wasn’t donning an outfit that suggested early 60’s oppressed female typist, otherwise I would have gotten a photo.
Note: couldn’t find any photos where he wasn’t day-drinking.
*UPDATE ALERT* I forgot to mention that this actor also played a small role in Sex and the City. It was the second episode of season three, I believe. And if my SATC memory serves, the episode was called “Politically Erect”. He plays the congressman that wants Carrie to pull an R. Kelly. You know…drip drip drip.
Here I am in the thick murky gooeyness of “next”. And what evil shepherd led such a short, delicate she-lamb to this concrete promise land? That was me. This guy. Self. So what do I see next next? A little pay up on the promise.
Stuff is everywhere. Especially in my junk drawer. Among the stuff, one of the favorite gifts I’ve ever received lives in in the junk drawer contradicting itself. It is a tiny brass circular stamp dispenser that my grandpa gave me when I graduated from high school. He had filled it with stamps and handed it to me unwrapped. Because I was now grown-up and grown-ups have responsibilities and a lot of those responsibilities have to be mailed through the U.S. Postal Service.