Bubbly toes

I just came back from dancing with friends. Oy. I don’t remember dancing out at night being such a difficult ordeal. First of all, I decided to become their wing woman for the night. Since I already have a boo and all. So I sit with them, and what’s the first thing these 30-something ladies do? ORDER FOOD. Okay, well now we have to eat this food before getting people to approach us. So the food takes forever, and finally it occurs to one of the ladies that sitting down is a bad idea. So we go to the dance floor, and I do what I was called upon to do. I approach a guy for my friend and this is what happens. Mind you, he was with a bunch of people.

Me: “Hey, are you here alone?”

Him: “No, I’m with my friends.”

Me: “No, I mean are you single?”

Him: “Um, actually yes. Why do you ask?” (He looks at me and stops dancing)

Me: “My friend over there thinks you’re cute and wanted to come and talk to you.”

Him: “Who?” She comes over.

She: “What are you doing?” (She’s totally pretending that she didn’t know what I was doing, I am thrown for a loop)

Me: “Um, talking to him for you. His name is…what’s your name?”

Him: “Jerry”

Me: “Jerry, this is Jean. Jean – Jerry.” (They shake hands and she grabs my arm like I’m a drunk. This was not part of the plan. Now this guy and his friend think I’m drunk.)

His friend: “Is everything okay?”

Me: (Walking up to him a little frustrated) My friend likes your friend.”

His friend: “Oh!”

Then ass wipe proceeds on acting aloof with my friend after that awkward ordeal. I was like, dude get a clue! Ugh being in your 30s and trying to connect with people on the dance floor is hard. I don’t know how guys do it. Mad respect after talking to that little skinny nerd for my friend, who ended up being a dud.   She was trying to talk to him, and a Michael Jackson song came on and he disappeared into another world via the moon walk. His friend leaned into me.

His friend: “He just got out of a relationship.”

Me: “Ah.”

My friend: “Done.”

The good thing that happened tonight is that she got a number from another guy, and I got to dance. Also, some beautiful chubby gay man kept coming to me just to say, “I love you! I love your hair, your lips, your curves!” and then later at the night he came over again and said, “I forgot to mention your legs!” Made my night.

Now I’m home thinking about how I can make this sad broken hearted guy in this story the next character in my script. Maybe his description will read, “Jerry, a late 20s guy oblivious to reality because he’s broken hearted,” or something along the lines like that. We will see. Me and my bubbly toes tingling from the high heels tonight – we shall see.


Back in Los Angeles, and I want to write…

Moving back to the City of Angels has proven to be an interesting task. For one thing, my family is driving me nuts. I have moved back in with them temporarily. There is a place I am moving into in the summer…maybe…(meh) we’ll see how it goes. But meantime, I’ve bunked up with them and listened to all of their thoughts about my thirty-something life. Wow, I’m in my thirties now. Questions about marriage, the future, grad school, my weight (which has fluctuated since I was twelve years old) have become breakfast, lunch and dinner topics.

Are you telling me I can’t be happy without a man? 

So, what you’re saying is…my body is the reason I can’t seem to find a job in Hollywood?

I’ve told you a million times, I want to write. I know it’s competitive and crazy, hence why I was in NorCal for five years going to school and exploring other types of work. I just didn’t like where I was at up there.

I want to write. 

However, getting into a television writing room requires a lot of planning, a lot of cunning, a lot of meet and greets, and networking, and all those things that used to give me anxiety. Now, not so much. I suppose the stuffy chitter-chatter of what’s new with you and what project are you into now? — are genuine things I want to know about. Am I growing up? Or am I getting desperate?

Who knows?!

All I know is that I want to be making films again, writing stories and plot and developing characters that are three-dimensional and complex (but with a hint of humor because everyone likes to laugh at a hero every now and then).  I went to a screening and Q&A tonight and felt emotions of excitement. Creative juices overfilling my brain with ideas of projects to collaborate on, or places I can write about — San Francisco, Oakland, Los Angeles, Callao, Lima —etc. etc. etc.

To keep me busy, I’ve been working on video editing and other remote work. And I’ve had two amazing writing sessions with an old friend who was recently laid off by a major studio. The writing session was cathartic and wonderful and funny and relational. It was good to hear her thoughts on a webisode I’ve been developing with an SF writing group.

I suppose it’s now up to me, and how far I want to go. I hope to make a dent here in Los Angeles; I sure had fun in San Francisco and the East Bay. It’s time to find what next-level-Lis is all about.


Self-Marketing: it’s awkward and important


In my short four years here in Northern California, I am able to deduce that (at least for me) the networking here feels a tad bit healthier than in Southern Cal/Los Angeles/Hollyweird. I stumbled into a colleague recently and we began to talk about our upcoming projects. And it was great! He told me about some concerts he was doing sound and lighting for, and I told him about my videography, and we smiled and talked about maybe doing something in the future. Then we drank some beer and watched a dance performance. One-two-three, short and sweet.

Fun times.

That is, until intermission rolled around. Then we just looked at our empty bottles and twiddled our fingers. We looked at each other for a milisecond as if saying, oh hi — I forgot you were there…sitting next to me. A gentle cough from him propelled expectations within me—What do I say? I said to myself as I panicked slightly, which one could only tell by looking at my twitchy eye, side effects of being a caffeine fiend. If this was L.A. and I was at a mixer, I’d be talking about my next movie project. I would throw in some work-travel experiences, and talk about my time in television—but emphasize how much more fun it is to work in film. And I would throw my head back forcing out an unnatural laugh, while (at the same time) hating myself in the process.

But no, this was different. This was a dance theater in the Bay Area, the dancers were waiting for the bathroom in plain sight, surveys were stickered to a chair awaiting my feedback for future grants/funds, and there were 5 different flavors of beer at the concession stand–

“I am working on a novel,” I blurted out. His eyebrows raised. I said that it was a passion of mine, that I was pacing myself, that my characters are floating about and reminding me about their stories. And it felt good, Blog Land. It felt like I was talking, not just to this person whom I’ve worked with before, but that I was verbally confessing something to the universe: this is who I am.

“I’ll keep you in mind for future projects,” and so forth the casual tone returned. This heavy awkward silence, lifted from our midst and we smiled at each other until it was time for Beer #2. I wonder if I should get new business cards? It would read: Writer, Videographer, Dancer, Weirdo and Survivor…or something like that.

Hippity Hop


So I am trying this new thing where I take dance classes I normally wouldn’t, in order to challenge my thought process and therefore, eventually, ignite some brain power in me that could possibly develop telekinesis, or better yet — improve my memory. The telekinesis thing would be a plus.

Anyways a few days ago I learned about TUTTING. These hand gestures triggered the leg to go out, the foot to go in, the palm to go flat—to magnetize the other hand in to a heart move to something that slithers and etc. etc. etc.    Well, as you can probably tell by now, I am NO HIP HOP EXPERT.  And although I was overwhelmed by all the information coming at me — I was absolutely fascinated by the hip hop culture.

I dance mostly Modern and some African Caribbean and Sabar, but Hip hop is not my forté. I was definitely challenged.

Anyways, the point of this is — try NEW things out. Especially things that freak you out. Did my hippity hop teacher laugh at me when I did the wave…yes, yes she did. But I laughed too. “I love your body. It’s beautiful how you hold yourself up, BUT this isn’t ballet. Turn your feet in!”  Oh dance teachers. They are great at two things: making you feel inadequate, and encouraging you. The dance floor is a juxtaposition sometimes.

I came home that night full of fresh ideas, full of energy, and with a new sense of respect for hippity hop. The evening was a great source of FLOW. Have you heard of FLOW? Look it up!  It makes you happy. So anyways, this experience broke some blockage in me and inspired me to write by hand again. I wrote seven new short short passages in my old pseudo poetry book. It was like taking a breath of fresh air.

This flow thing is amazing, Reader. I suggest you try something new or something that scares you. You never know. It could inspire you to think outside the box.

One of my favorite YouTube Hip Hop Dancers: Lizzie Wicks

Tutting, the art of making sure your hands don’t separate from your body. :S

Christmas Magic in a hermit like world

It’s burning in my bedroom right now and it smells amaze-BALLS! The bank shuts it’s door in 13 minutes, and I’m not going to make it. Glory, glory, glory—it’s another day being a hermit with my computer. I don’t feel bad though. It’s for a job. And when I become a hermit for a job, I don’t feel bad about it!

I have been editing this wonderful dance piece for an artist in New York, and I swear there was a point I almost cried. The dancers are so fluid, it’s like they become water in the middle of my screen. It’s like watching magic come to life. I think that’s why I like dance. You know, let me rephrase that. I know that’s why I like dance, and I know that’s why I like to make short films and stuff. Sometimes, it just feels like magic.

Like, I woke up this morning, smelling like yesterdays sorrows with a horrible ringing in my ear from the chanting of the people in my dreams: You’re a bad friend! Slut! You should never be alone with men!

And all that jazz. Apparently I was a slut in my dream, the funny thing is, I don’t think I did anything. It was like a witch hunt! Except I was kind of innocent, well not entirely, but I said, “I don’t remember a thing I was so freakin’ high!”    Honestly, I have to stop eating late at night and watching SNL before going to bed.   I don’t get high, and I am not a slut!

So yeah, I woke up pretty out of it today. My roommate came home around 1:00PM, and I was still in the attic typing away. She yells, “Dingo!!” And apparently her dog had pushed the sliding door open, gone into the bathroom, and made a nice little fort out of a pile of toilet paper and sheets. I was so out of it, I had not heard him do a single one of these acts. Good grief.

So I walk down, looking like an internet ad for Cal Gear (from head to toe), with disheveled hair, and the first thing I say is, “Wow, sorry…I literally have not come down once until now. Which reminds me, I have to brush my teeth.” That’s when we found out that he had gotten into the bathroom and torn out toilet paper, and eaten trash, and all the wonderful things dogs with bad habits do. Including chew up one of my roommates underwear. Gross.

Well, I am sure I filled you with enough details here, but the truth is I just needed to share that my cinnamon candle is pouring out some awesome Christmas Magic into my once stinky room. I feel like the holidays. The smell is so intoxicatingly beautiful, I went on Amazon to check out some weekly deals. I never shop online….wait….I never shop online.

Okay, now this candle magic is freaking me out.

See you, until next time I decide to vent!

Shameless NY Rats + Feet Judgement

Last time I was in NY I stayed near Time Square. After talking to a few New Yorkers, they confirmed what I felt during my stay there—big mistake. That’s where tourists go to mesh and create a blob of consumerism and chaos under flashy lights and advertisements. This time, I am here for a job. I was taken to Harlem. I stepped out of the taxi and felt like I was in a real NY town. There were regular people around me, regular city smells, regular streets, and I felt instantly happy.

This must be the real NY, I thought to myself. Well, in my two days and 3/4s here — I’ve come to realize that there is not ONE New York. In fact, there are many New Yorks…let me explain.

Today a friend told me that she walked around the city feeling like a character; this was after I told her about all the interesting people and things I saw on my way to the Central Park Zoo.

* The woman with a turquoise coat and red blush.

* The man who walked with an emphasis on his right knee digging into the ground.

* The teenage girls behind talking about art as we passed the Guggenheim, rather than boys.

* The shameless rats in the subways…etc. etc. etc.

“Yup,” she said, “it’s like you become part of the story when you move here.”

What a beautiful concept. A city being a story that you are written into when you move there. Have you ever looked at yourself and thought, Wow, I am such a weird character! I suppose that happens to some New Yorkers, and my friend is a fresh one.

She added, “There’s one thing about NY. You can be who you want to be, but people will always judge your feet.”     I started laughing. Why? Well…because, it happened to me a bizillion times to me today. I’d be leaning on the pole in the subway and turn to find some old man scorning at my get up.  I will be the first to admit that my style is kind of lax and shaggy, but this man was wearing sweatpants in the middle of the day! And he had a cane with tape on it! I didn’t understand why he scorned at my feet.

But my friend confirmed it. Feet Judgement is at an all time high in NY. All day I walked around the city with a bleach stain on my left shoe. I could care less, really, they’re still good shoes! You know, …except the one with a nice pink spot in the center of the top design. I have never had so many people look at me feet and scorn at me, as I did today.  And the judgement always began at my feet.

New York is amazing, unique, and a judger of feet.

Who knew?

Falling Awake

I seem to be under the impression that dreaming is more interesting than life, today. Thrice did I return to slumber! I didn’t want to move my limbs, I just wanted to go back to the picnic in my head. It was a glorious dream. Fantasies, fairies and farts kind of dream. Ephemeral. Yet now that I am awake, I am late to get ready for the real world. Call time for a show at noon. I wonder if I’ll make it.