I’m not sure how Jason got it into his head that I needed to shoot a gun. I know that he’s not the only person in my life who assumed I would enjoy such a thing. Chris Huff, a weapons expert, has wanted to take me to a shooting range for years. It’s only his wise wife, Allison, who has insisted that would be a bad idea. “First of all, she’ll be holding that gun sideways in five minutes, acting like she’s tearing up the joint.” Continue reading
I just looked up “fatigue” on the Internet. That can’t be a good sign. I’m so exhausted, you guys. I can’t even explain it.
One day during the Top Model strike, I went to visit Dan and sat with him for a second. He kept staring straight at his water bottle, the sunburn on his nose looking painful, as he mumbled, “I don’t know. I guess this is my life now. This is my life now. I hold a sign. For free. All day. And, I don’t know. Negotiations. Honking. My life. Not… not… why am I outside? Still? And… is this… what day is this? Why is the weather–? Are you? Do you have to go? Do I have to go? My phone’s ringing, isn’t it? Am I boring you? Are you… did you… we… I’m still thirsty.”
Right now, I’m in the middle of that feeling. I looked up today and saw my friends holding signs that say ON STRIKE and I suddenly thought, “What the fuck is going on?”
First: everything you need to know about the strike, with Neal Pollack and his five-year old son Elijah.
Then, another from the series Strike Life. This one features friends Laura House, Jason Allen and Liz Feldman.
And for those of you wondering how to one day find yourself semi-naked with Jake Gyllenhaal and Natalie Portman, Ray offers his easy thirty-two step plan. (For reasons I cannot understand, he omitted the part where six years ago he wrote his goals in black Sharpie on the walls of our brick patio.)
I know it’s important during week four to keep up the fight, the resolve, the rah-rah-rah, but here on week four, day four, I have woken up with a serious case of Picket Lung.
That’s the Radiohead song Laura House and I wrote yesterday while we walked, because we picket in a very active construction zone. (To be fair, I kept making her come up with more lyrics with me, while she marveled, “Wow, you’re really going with this thing, huh? Joke’s kinda…. okay!”)
If Thom Yorke walked our line, perhaps we’d get to hear: Continue reading
Some mornings, when I’m holding my sign and walking in a circle, I realize this is the second time I’ve lost my job because of the Internet. And if you count the giant day of the dot com bust where my 401K was smashed to pennies, I find that while I only have so much control over my career and my destiny, the Internet seems to be what really drives almost all the major decisions in my life. It’s very strange.
Oh, that’s not a flattering picture of my face. But I wanted to talk about Andy.
This is Andy Gordon. He’s very funny. He’s one of the sweetest, funniest guys I’ve ever been lucky enough to work with. He’s a prankster and he’s kind. Everybody loves Andy. But because he has such respect for writers, he’s also not interested in coddling. Therefore, Andy Gordon is the person who taught me what a “clam” is. He taught me by pointing out that I’d written one in my first script that was to be produced for television. He pointed it out by shouting it to everyone in the room.
You see, a clam is not a good thing. Continue reading
Laura House writes about how much this strike starts to get personal once you’ve walked the line.
[And yes, Laura, I hope we get to see each other off the picket line, too.]
“But why do you want to do this?” my mom asked in that tone, the worried whine of motherhood.
“For a lot of reasons,” I answered. “Because I want to, and because I don’t think I can, and… well, probably because Dad and that race when I was in the third grade.”
She sighed. She remembered.
I don’t know if I wrote about this before. Probably. Yep. I totally did. It’s worth reading, because it explains things a little.
“Just be careful out there,” Mom said. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Mom, it’s 26.2 miles. It’s going to hurt.”
More sighing. “Good luck.” Continue reading
On Sunday morning I got up very early to help Laura raise money for ovarian cancer. Afterwards we walked to my car in the parking garage, only to find someone had hit it, leaving a nasty scrape along the back bumper.
“Oh, Pam. That’s…”
“Someone hit my car.”
“Looks like I’m buying breakfast. Hey, look! There’s a note!”
Nope. On my windshield were seven ads for other upcoming races in the area. Not one note from someone who hit my car.
“You know what’s crazy?” I asked. “Someone parked, ran a race for cancer, then hit my car and drove away.”
“That’s really bad karma,” Laura said. “That guy’s totally getting cancer.”
(Best joke of the race went to Laura’s friend, who admitted once we were finished: “Well, I’m glad that’s over-y.” wheee! too many comedy writers + seriousness = going to hell) Continue reading
Hi. I know some of you read this at work and would get in trouble for severe language, so don’t click the little “continue reading” after this sentence if you’re in (“urine!”) that kind of situation. I’m just going to post an email with some uniquely adult language.
Before I do, I should mention that I’ve been getting lots of nice email about Jollibee, its place in Filipino culture, why it’s better than McDonald’s (or McDo, as I’ve learned), and why it tasted so damn sweet. In fact, I’ve learned so much about the Philippines over the past week (including why I should be happy I didn’t have to try dinuguan or balut), that I’m really glad I had my Jollibee experience and wrote about it the way I did. Especially when I woke up this morning to find the following: Continue reading