Did you just blow your nose in my shower?!

Talked to Josh the other day. again for the first time in a couple of years... things just get so busy that it gets easier to not return a phone call or email because, well, I don't really have a good excuse. Hanging up, I started remembering things (both sweet and sad) about that time in my life.

I miss the memory of us sitting on the beach in San Diego mesmerized by the phosphorescent phenomena of the eerily beautiful, luminescent, softly glowing green tide. I miss the feeling of childlike wonder I felt... when I wasn't so cynical to not see that as inexplicable magic happening just for the two of us to see on that night as we sat so close to each other on the sand.

I miss his enthusiasm and passion for words -- the only man on the planet who could match my own obsession for using "Good Words!"... his eagerness to read to me at night before going to bed. The deepness of his voice & the sexy, confident way he read everything -- from Marquis de Sade to Roget's Thesaurus -- the rumbling timbre in his voice was both hypnotic and electrifying. I'm quite sure neither of us can take a shower without chuckling a little, remembering my admonishment to discontinue his habit of nose blowing in my shower.

My two favorite memories of that time with him and Mr. T (the pictures burned into my brain, almost like a picturebook):

• He & Travis surprising me with breakfast in bed one morning... consisting of 1 frozen waffle with syrup, canned peaches and a daisy picked from god-knows-which neighbor's patio garden.
• Travis jumping up and down on my bed singing the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars, giggling madly when I threatened to tickle him into oblivion.

I'm ecstatic that he and Travis are finally able to live together in NY and excited for Travis' future as a soccer superstar :) Talking to him refreshed my gratitude for his continued love and friendship. No matter how many months or years go by without talking to each other, 10 minutes on the phone and it's like we just spoke yesterday.

My neighbor is cheating on me.

The dogs and I have this normal routine - a walk in the morning and another in the evening that always takes us past the sweet, quiet, gray haired neighbor who seems to be perpetually raking leaves or watering his yard. The same sweet, predictable schedule. He would bestow upon me (and sometimes the dogs) the same slightly shy little smile and wave whenever we walk by. We made a real breakthrough - really bonded - when he started giving me the little wave from afar when I would get home from work in the short walk from my car to my front door.

He *always* says hello when I walk by his yard - and only to me. In all the time I've lived next to him, I've never once heard him say hello or wave to anyone else on the street. Those were just me for me. I was special. Who could blame me for feeling slightly smug? Just a little bit superior to the rest of the neighbors because *I* was the chosen one - who got the quiet old man to smile and wave.

Imagine my shock when, on this evening's walk I catch him red handed! Cheating on me! He says hello *and* waves to a neighbor ACROSS the STREET! Can you imagine the betrayal I felt? Intimacy shattered and my heart broken with this seemingly innocent act of infidelity.

Those smiles and waves were just for me, dammit!! How could he do this to me? Doesn't he know how hard I worked to get those small signs of affection from him?

I don't think I'll recover.

Oi, I need to find a new job... this is what my life has been reduced to. A drama queen with no drama is worse than an aging drag queen with no lipstick.

Look at me! I'm "Beautiful" & Famous!

So, the other night I'm making out with this chipmunk in the bathroom and I say to myself "Hmmm... he looks more like a badger if you ask me, but who am I to judge? He's pretty hot for a small, furry animal."

Okay, he was really just another extra in a chipmunk costume and we were making out in front of 5 people, 2 cameras, 8 other extras, and a bunch of other people whose actual job function remains a mystery (I mean, what the fuck, exactly, do the "Grip" and "Best Boy" do? Nothing, I can report with confidence, that a "Best Girl" couldn't do better, but I digress... ) but that's the most action I've gotten in, um... a long time.

Why did I end up swapping spit and doing some heavy petting (sorry, couldn't resist.) with Mr. Chipmunk (Badger? Meer Cat? Does it matter?), you ask?

To be a rock star, yo!

Okay, um, not really. I just happened to have *nothing else to do* before moving my ass back to San Francisco, so by total fluke and on a whim, I got picked to be an extra in a Moby video.

I thought "How COOL! I LOVE Moby!!! We can discuss politics, great literature and the state of American Veganism and how ironic it is to be shooting a video consisting of nothing but animal mascots attending a 70's wife-swapping key party while we let our organic tea bags steep over breaks between scenes!" -- until we were informed that Moby will not be filming with us today. "Of course", I think, "Moby doesn't *do* his own videos".

Arriving at the location an hour later than my 4pm call time (Jesus H. Christ, people - the fucking Oscars were over days ago! Must we keep Hollywood Boulevard closed until the Grammys?!), three of us waited over an hour for the shuttle to deliver us from the parking lot of the Hollywood Bowl to the house we'd be making the video at -- an uber retro 70's love palace up in the hills. At least we had entertainment. The crack addict who was completely absorbed in his daily exercise routine kept walking in the same little head-first marching circles without pause made me ponder deep stuff. Wow, dude. Like, crack is bad... mmmmkay?

I joined the rest of the extras outside by the pool and awaited further instruction. Feigning indifference and trying to wipe the sneering distain for all things shallow and celebrity out of my head, I cleverly brought along my New Yorker magazine to make it known to all who glanced my way that I was completely above the whole LA thing. Isn't that just so clever? And utterly retarded? Why on earth I felt the need to impress a bunch of celebrity infatuated, 20-something, hipster-wanna-bees is beyond me, but I forced myself to become completely engrossed in my highbrow reading material while cooly smoking the -- "Shit!" -- Last. Cigarette. I. Had.

The only truly gifted performance that night was my own. My ability to appear calm despite my sudden terror and utter panic at the realization that I AM OUT OF CIGARETTES. AND WE ARE NOWHERE NEAR A 7-11!!! was nothing short of Oscar-worthy brilliance.

So, what did I learn about being a rock star? Oh! So many cool, useful things! Let me share with you now, so you can turn green with envy at my fabulousity. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

• It is important not to wear your costume head outside or eat while not completely covered in plastic sheeting unless you want to see the stylist's forehead veins in bas relief as you eat your extra greasy fried chicken. Do *not* attempt to give the stylists a heart attack as they are usually bad-humored with anyone but the "talent" they are fawning over.
• How to not pass out (or worse, die) while encased in a very furry, very stuffy, very HOT mascot costume while having a "dance party" for 5 takes in a row of non-stop booty shaking action
• Actors are called "talent", The Producer is apparently required to suck up to the director *at all times* while spoon feeding the "talent and extras" their acting requirements (aka "motivation") while the camera is rolling in the manner of a kindergarten teacher to her 4 year old ADHD students
• The "crew" (consisting of many people but can be described as mostly acne-prone, dreadlocked surfer dudes wearing headsets in desperate need of Ritalin and/or enthusiastically "ROLLING!" shouting, clipboard-clutching, hipster females just out of college or day jobs at Urban Outfitters) rank above extras (whom, it should be clear at this point, are pretty much pond scum in the biosphere of "the shoot", ranking slightly below peons.) who are fed as an afterthought once all of the aforementioned important people have picked over the food table.
• There are people employed by the entertainment industry whose job title and sole purpose is "Talent Wrangler". Which is a misnomer, since the "Talent" is far too important to be handled by anyone other than their cooing, ass-kissing PA's (Personal Armies of people paid to repeat ad nauseum "Oh my God! You look amaaaaayzing!" and "You were soooooo amaaaaayzing in that scene, darling!" or "Fuck the director, honey, he's a schmuck who doesn't recognize true talent..."). Anyway, the apparent sole function of this overpaid babysitter is to make sure all of the extras are corraled into a holding pen (usually somewhere cold, uncomfortable with folding metal chairs arranged so they sink into the muddiest, buggiest , farthest-from-civilization-or-running-water area that can be found) within a mile radius of the shoot location.

So, would I do it again?

Fuckin-A.

Overheard @ Starbucks...

"I'm cold!", she says, tottering on her 4 inch high stillettos before ducking into Starbucks.

Wow, you think? Regardless of how painfully clear the correlation between your IQ and the size of your 4 inch high stilletto fuck-me shoes may be, I must commend you, Cupcake, for you have mastered the skill of stating the obvious.

I mean, where I come from, wearing the equivalent of two loosely wrapped ace bandages at 9 o'clock at night in any city but Miami (in, like, July) will undoubtably produce goosebumps the size of small tumors.

Apparently she makes a living as "Um, like, a Meeteyourologist?" for a local news station. I find it difficult to believe she can talk and point at the same time.