Post of shame

Greetings from the barren wasteland. 

I believe the eyeshadow color is called trailer trash blue. 

I don’t live in a trailer. Yet. 

I’m watching the director, Zack Snyder, narration of 300. He was talking about how awkward it was directing the love scene. “Could you move your stuff that way a little.” Funny. I could never direct, anything. People would die. Everyone. Like Shakespeare. I’m more interested in creating the visual fantasy and make believe than actual story telling. Art direction, I’m your girl. Story direction, nope. That’s in part why I love books and movies so much, I absolutely love and admire good story tellers. Get me out of this horrid reality for a while I beg you. 

Twice over Labor Day weekend I went to Fremont Street. It’s one of those places during the summer months with the free concert series going I just get to where I’m going. I don’t hang out. I hate being cattled. Was that Vanilla Ice, on stage? Good lord. We were being cattled for Vanilla Ice? I was out for about three hours. Then I went home and watched Swingers. The movie. Not actual swingers. Good grief. I’m 50 years old. I get more pleasure watching my coffee maker brew that sweet caffeine elixir. 

There’s a “Whoo Vegas!” scene in Swingers that makes me laugh. Truth. Younger  kids, sitting in the car making the three and half hour trip from LA to “Whoo Vegas!” in the middle of the night. But two hours into the drive the enthusiasm is completely gone. You don’t care anymore. You just want to get there. Yep. Makes me laugh every time. Been there. Been there. Been there. 

Menstrual cycle, peri menopause, migraines, cramping, arthritis, it must be Monday. 

Have, and have not, means something else entirely today than thirty years ago. Thirty years ago you either had a Porsche 911, or you had a station wagon. You either had expensive designer clothes, or you had Target bought clothes. Today, you either have somewhere to go, or you have not. You either have clean hair and clothes, food in your fridge, a roof over your head, or you have not. So every time I hear an “actress” complain about making one million dollars per movie instead of thirteen million, I just want to throw dog poop at her. You’re making a million dollars to do what your supposedly love! Shut up. Ugh. Makes me ill. That’s another reason I could not direct. (Sigh) no, I guess that too falls under the everyone would die, category. 

Wednesday. 3:11pm

It’s 107 degrees outside. Disgusting. I’m watching Miso sleep. He’s been here since 10am. I changed my schedule for the summer just to be home during the days so Miso always has some place to go if he needs it. I’ll change my schedule during the winter so he’ll have some place to always go during the cold winter nights. What am I going to do with this kitty cat?? I should just move and adopt him. I don’t think he would stay inside though. He’s used to going out when he wants. Plus so many other people in the neighborhood enjoy his company too, but does he enjoy theirs? I think my apartment is his quiet place. No kids. No other pets. Heat. Air conditioning. Food. Water. A bed. Just me and him. 

I’ve been working hard on the card company. I don’t know how to change the domain I bought six months ago to my current web host. A-record? Where’s the A-record? “PC load letter? What the hell is PC load letter?!” Ha. Love that movie. 

Ok well, the heat drops down under 100 degrees next week, yaaay! Of course the print shops for the greeting cards and postcards are all out in the middle of nowhere. Hopefully I’ll get some good visual shots while out in the barren wasteland. Time to drum up some cash. You know how filmmakers are always talking about going out to find money? Where exactly? Where do you guys find your millions of dollars to make your films? I don’t need a million dollars. It would be nice, but I don’t need a million dollars. 

Okay okay okay. A million dollars. If you insist.

So, Halloween 🎃👻...