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Archive for the ‘Los Angeles’ Category

Hey! My former hometown paper the Los Angeles Times published an essay I wrote about my memory of the L.A. Riots

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Just wanted to do a quick update so that new visitors to this blog don’t think I’m obsessed with Justin Bieber or something.

It is finally sunnier and I don’t feel like I’m looking at everything through smoked glass anymore. The collective lifting of depression has caused an outbreak of parties, parties, parties, which has been really fun. There are lots of books coming out, lots of birthday parties, lots of general relief at not being water-logged.

And yet, I dunno. I don’t love Seattle but I don’t love anyplace else either.

Yesterday–our first over 70 degrees day in 271 days, but who’s counting–I was at Alki beach with a girlfriend.

Lying in the undiluted sunshine under kites like beautiful dragonflies, looking at the row of white-capped mountains and city skyscrapers across the sparkling water, I sat up and said “It’s so gorgeous here, but the beach itself sucks. It’s narrow with rocks and driftwood. But the view is staggering.”

“That’s Seattle,” my friend said. “Everything out there is stunning, but if you look at where you’re actually sitting, it’s falling apart. That’s why we’re moving to Florida.”

About half the people I’ve talked to recently are moving away after this past winter. It’s been nine months of cold wet slate grey. Not that I’m counting.

My problem is I want to live in more than one place:

Seattle, maybe sometimes, because you can get kickass writing done here and there are tons of people I love.

Los Angeles because it’s so magical and sunny and hip and noir (in retrospect).

And of course home in the Midwest. Because family is everything.

Some of my friends think it’s so doable for me to have three homes, but I feel like it’s challenging to maintain one.

Stay tuned, though.

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One of my favorite search strings here is “Who played Amy DeZellar in The Social Network?”

I guess I seem like the kind of woman who’d have a one-night stand with Sean Parker (I’m not and didn’t). And who went to Stanford (I didn’t) a few years ago (I wish).

The gorgeous creature who played Amy in The Social Network was actually Dakota Johnson, the daughter of Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson, both of whom I know of since I am not a recent Stanford graduate but am in reality old enough to remember Working Girl and Miami Vice.

My first staff writing job was at a dot-com that was very reminiscent of The Social Network, though. We were in Beverly Hills, not Palo Alto, but the site was started by a few boys from their dorm room and they became instant millionaires because of financing by a Hollywood legend.

As writers for that site, we were paid a lot. We had to write approximately nine sentences a day. All of our meals were catered. We would have two-hour business-paid lunches where we could order appetizers, drinks and dessert while sitting next to Julia Roberts and Billy Zane just to have our boss tell us that, “We may be rolling out a new initiative soon.”

Out of 100 people at the company, three of us were women who were not assistants. One of them ended up doing entertainment reporting on a broadcast network, one ended up starting an extremely popular nudie site, and the other started a web site about going on 50 dates and getting a book deal from it*.

* Me

I was so behind the vision of the company at that job, I cannot tell you. More than anything. More than I was with DatingAmy.com, almost. It’s a close tie.

Were there sexual scandals? Yes.
Was there hush money about the above? Yes.
Could I have made $865,000 after one month’s work if a certain huge Hollywood player had accepted phone calls from one of the richest men in the world? Yes.
Did I make that money? No.

The truth is that the all-male editorial staff I worked with used to watch incredibly offensive homemade porn during working hours, after which my editor would try to get me demoted. It didn’t really work, since shortly thereafter we were all let go.

The Ford Modeling Agency was next door to our office. The guys I wrote with would say, “This is the best job ever. There are models and porn and we don’t have to work.”

One afternoon with tears in my eyes after an exhausting day at work I got onto the elevator with Virginia Madsen who was coming from a meeting down the hall.
“I loved you in Candyman,” I said.
She smiled and thanked me. She hadn’t done Sideways yet.

The other writers and I all got laid off after four months. As far as I know I’m the only one who’s been published. I don’t keep in touch with those people, since I’m the one who cried.

But, yeah, I’m not the Amy who was in The Social Network.

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Like Lady Gaga, I'm coming out of my shell musically


When I was in college I had a really cool international relations professor named Brian Job (pronounced like the biblical one). I had him for an early morning class the day after Valentine’s Day once and he looked at us after lecturing for about fifteen minutes and said that we collectively looked terrible, depressed. Then he laughed and said, “My little daughter is at a fun age because she doesn’t know what Valentine’s Day is supposed to be yet.”

That’s how I felt watching the Grammys last night. I enjoyed them with the unjaded enthusiasm of a kindergartener.

See, I know who these people are because of their reputations. Rihanna is the woman who got beat up by Chris Brown on the way to the Grammys two years ago, Lady Gaga is the one who wears meat, Arcade Fire is the group that was a trending topic on twitter for a week when their last album came out.

But I had no idea about their music. At all.

Last night I reluctantly caught the last hour and a half of the awards, positive I would literally not know one artist. But of course on came Mick Jagger, Barbra Streisand, Kris Kristofferson and I was able to recognize the others like Rihanna ’cause, you know, they’re superstars.

And to the surprise of nobody but me, I recognized the songs they performed because I’ve been to movies and the drug store in the past five years.

I loved lat night’s Grammys. It doesn’t bother me who’s overrated or underrated because I’m so out of the loop that I have no personal feelings on the matter. And Rihanna and Gaga are really good. After the show finished with a performance by Album of the Year winners Arcade Fire (who I correctly identified as being the band from the Where The Wild Things Are trailer), I hit up iTunes.

I’ve listened to “What’s My Name” and “Bad Romance” on repeat all morning. They’re really good!

Prediction: This Justin Bieber kid is gonna be huge.

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There’s a lot of entertainment news this morning.

Dexter actor Michael C. Hall and that woman who plays his sister are getting divorced–she filed.

Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens broke up. I kinda liked them as a couple.

2011 Golden Globe noms are being announced even as I type this. From E!Online:

As pretty much expected, Inception, The Social Network, Black Swan, The King’s Speech and The Fighter will fight it out for Motion Picture Best Drama.

As pretty much not expected, unless you had supreme faith that the star-worshipping Hollywood Foreign Press would not disappoint with a “crazy” nomination (or three), the Cher opus Burlesque will compete for Motion Picture Comedy opposite Alice in Wonderland, The Kids Are All Right, the oldester action flick Red and (another shocker) the critically trashed The Tourist.

Glee and Mad Men were among the top TV nominees.

Here’s the complete list of nominees.

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I came up with a title for my new book. I’m going to call it KISSIN’ MUSICIANS! [exclamation point]

Nah, not in this lifetime. It’s not a book about dating in Los Angeles, although I will say I was surprised by the sheer volume of men buzzing around. I didn’t even remember that until I read back in all these journals. I am also surprised by the aggressiveness of some of the guys–who shows up at some girl’s door at midnight when you’re not even dating? I mean it’s not a very likely booty call if no booty ever has been (or ever will be) happening. Weird. Especially since I often had a not-too-pleased boyfriend over.

I mean it’s not like I was a stripper with regular customers. I was a temp. And a waiter. And a sales girl. And a professional Christmas caroler…

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I love this picture. They had given me a bunch of Jack Daniel’s beforehand.

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There’s a great scene in Juno where Jennifer Garner says to 40ish husband Jason Bateman, “If I have to wait for you to become Kurt Cobain, I’m never gonna be a mother.”

Going through my old journals for this L.A. story I’m writing reminded me of what a painful turning point it is when you realize you have to give up your dreams of being a rock star. Sure a lot of people reconcile that by the time they’re college age, but those people probably don’t pack up and move to Los Angeles. By the time you’re 35 or 40 and haven’t made it in the arts, it seems logical to give up and move on, but on the other hand, you’ve already put so much time into the quest, it’s like it was all a waste if you quit now. Sort of like gambling–you want to keep playing to recoup your losses.

After all my years in L.A., I don’t personally know anyone who’s “made it” on the national level. By that I mean I’ve never been watching television or a movie, never turned on the radio and boom, there’s so-and-so from that financial corp. I temped at or that guy I used sneak champagne with when we were cater waiters.

I always wanted to be a singer-songwriter and I finally gave up when I realized I just wasn’t good enough. Thank god and my own creative flexibility that I fell into writing, a field that is much more right for me–it’s natural and satisfying in a way that music never was.

I do feel for the guys I knew that had to put their artistic dreams aside. (For some reason almost every musician I knew in L.A. was male, maybe partly because most of the reviewers were men, so they kept the beautiful female singers to themselves?) I know a lot of them went into production and session work, which would be fulfilling, I guess.

I think a lot of times a wife has to play Bad Cop when it comes to her aging musician husband giving up his rock & roll dreams, which is unfortunate. It also puts her in the Mommy role, which is icky.

It’s ironic or maybe just the way of the world, but a lot of the women artists I know would never have the lifestyles they do if their husbands didn’t have good jobs. Marriage enables them to pursue their creative dreams without having to worry about a sell-by date or a time-and-soul-sucking day job.

The Jason Bateman character in Juno was portrayed as selfish, but he probably would have supported his wife if she had wanted to become a full-time poet.

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The first writing job I ever had was for a music magazine in Los Angeles. I reviewed local bands at clubs about three or four nights a week. I cannot wait to get to the part of this current memoir where I revisit those years.

Half the time I bitterly complained about it–I didn’t like the way the music industry worked, I didn’t like the constant hustle, I didn’t like having to work temp jobs to make rent.

Looking back, of course, it was the most fun I’ve had as a writer by about a million. The Dating Amy project was fun in its own way because it was so high profile, but I was basically writing about regular guys in Seattle. Performers in Los Angeles, on the other hand, (and even the other music critics) were bigger than life. Because that’s the way people roll in L.A. The city itself is bigger than life, so it’s flaunt or perish.

This [as-yet unnamed] Los Angeles memoir is the most fun I’ve had with book writing, for sure. I’m working from about 50 journals I kept and even those read like gossipy paperbacks. They’re my bedtime reading and they’re keeping me up until 3 a.m.

I apologize in advance to the many, many musicians, writers and photographers I knew from the mid-to-late 90s.

Just kidding! I love you! Well, some of you!

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