Sunday, May 1, 2016

I Used to Be Funny, Relatively

I feel like you can't really claim that you're funny in the same way that you can't claim to be good looking, because it's subjective. I mean you can but walking around a braggart tends to irritate people.

However, when it becomes a relative measurement it's fair game, like how all the grannies are always saying "I used to be so hot." Along those lines, I feel like I can say that I used to be funny. Unfortunately, I also feel like the circumstances that cultivated my funny weren't sustainable for my well being so I'm not sure I should romanticize it. I do think about it though.

It was 2011. I took a flight back to L.A. from Australia and neglected to sleep a wink despite how uncomfortably long of a flight that is. Instead I drank four bottles of middle sized bottles of wine that I've never seen anywhere else. (They were free.) I was inspired by the girl sitting in front of me who was also drinking copious amount of wine, so we can blame some of this on her. I ended up watching four (five?) movies back to back in lieu of sleep, and the only one I recall was Limitless which really fired me up.

When I landed in at LAX it was around 6 A.M. and I was certifiably drunk. And naturally I was trying to pretend like I wasn't because my roommate who picked me up was a real rule stickler and I wasn't in the mood to be judged. I went home, took a nap, and then went out that night as anyone returning from a two week vacation does.

I don't know if I traveled through some sort of space time continuum skipping a night on that flight, or if that weird movie did something to my psyche, but I couldn't sleep right for about a year. It was a marked change from my previous sleeping habits. I don't know how insomnia goes for most people, but it really cracked me out. It wasn't comfortable, and half the time I felt like I was at risk of melting a little and sliding sideways off the planet, but I was also just funny.

I can confirm that I was funny during this time based on the fact that people told me so, and also that I've gone back and read my tweets from that time period. They're funny. This could have been a really useful time period for me to pen a hit screenplay or something but I wasn't a writer yet, so I did what most people do with strikes of creative genius...nothing.

Eventually I started sleeping again and my sanity was returned, but those strange moments of funny insight really tapered down with it. Is it possible to be both stable and hilarious? I'd like to think so. But while I wait for that to happen I can at least fondly reminisce about what once was and show you screenshots to prove it. At least I'm still good looking.

Saturday, April 23, 2016

The Book I'd Really Like to Write

Becoming a professional writer is a strange thing, because to make any money you either have to come up with something to sell and then actually sell it, or if you're like me, start writing a shit-ton of articles for other people and get so busy writing that you hardly have time for your own creative writing. It's complicated.

Writing all day long for work and then writing all night long on a creative project is a lot of time alone and in front of my computer. So I don't always do that. Even now it's Saturday, a charming 76 degrees outside, and I can see my neighbors laying out by the pool. I'll do as much work as humanly possible but I'm also just a girl with a bikini that wants to be worn, you know?

Not that I'm not inching along on some creative projects outside of my currently paid writing work because I am. I'm in the process of writing a screenplay with someone that I used to date but that is definitely a story for another day.

One thing that keeps pinging in my mind however is that what I really want to do is write a memoir of sorts. Bear with me before you scoff and roll your eyes. I like the way my brain works writing about my life from my perspective, and I think that sometimes it's even a little entertaining for other people as well. Except to get anyone to read your memoir you either need to be famous so that people actually believe that you have something interesting to say, or you need to do something. Like Eat, Pray, Love the crap out of your life or something. And as egocentric as some of my thoughts can be I am still well aware that it's not exaclty unique to be a young person existing and dating in Los Angeles while trying to live out my grandest dreams.

So while I figure out an angle, or get successful enough that anyone has to care about what I have to say, I guess I'll start blogging again. The title of my blog by the way, (which might suck I can't tell), came from a TV star I used to date who once said that to me in a way that was just bordering on disdainful enough to really drive home that not everyone would get me. "...that's random Kate." Although, he ended up getting arrested for something real dumb so what does he know.

I'll leave you with a random photo of me sitting on the ground in public because I do things like that. You should see the tanlines I got from those boots. Tragic.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Hey Women, Your Issues With Kim Kardashian Are Doing All Women a Disservice

Some people are driving me crazy about this Kim Kardashian naked Paper spread, and it's not the Kardashians. It's the women looking for trouble and expressing their various forms of distaste about Kim. There's a lot of bullshit, and there's a lot of backwards stepping. The last thing that women should be doing is criminalizing other women for making choices that they feel celebrate their bodies, because all it does is keep in place the structures we have about judging women's bodies. Here are my two favorite pieces of bullshit:

1. The Idea that Kim is Shameful for Baring her Greasy Butt Because She's a Mother 

The last time I checked, we women have been working pretty hard to get the world to accept us as people who can both work and procreate in a lifetime. We don't want to lose our identities within motherhood, because we can only be good mothers when we show our children that it's safe and possible to be who we want to be. I don't think anyone wants to be considered a desexualized old hag, but saying that Kim's nakedness is a poor choice more so has to do with the fact that she's playfully and accessibly sexy, and therefore you're suggesting she should be a little less sexualized and maybe even a little more haggy.

Lots of people are naked. Lots of mothers are naked. Just this past week Kiera Knightly showed us her boobies, and Lara Stone also showed us her boobies. And hot damn hold the front door...Lara's boobie photo shoot is her POST BABY body. Except in this case it's brave and a powerful statement because she's sharing with us her fatter self which obviously differs from her average super model status. It's different because Lara's sexuality is off limits to us, she's a fashion model, it's artistic, she's unaccessible. Kate Moss can do Playboy, Beyonce can sing about sex, and Chelsea Handler can bare her bum in jest. Kim's own baby sister Kendall Jenner has bared her nips on the runway, but we're okay with that because it's high fashion.

Kim is also a model whether you like it or not, or whether you appreciate the sort of modeling she does. Does putting a separate classification on why "serious" people can be naked but so called "talentless" people can't really sound like a good way to support our women? It sure doesn't to me.

By all means don't get naked if you don't want your kids to see you naked, and don't look at Kim's photos or any other lady lumps if that's not something you want to see. But do consider, just consider, if there's any ounce of hypocrisy in your idea of what's approved nudity and what isn't.

2. The Idea that Kim is Flawed for Having Work Done

This one particularly insulted me when I saw it coming from a woman who has a made a career out of allegedly supporting women's bodies in all their various forms. However her line is clearly drawn at supporting natural bodies. I am in no way suggesting that anyone should engage in any sort of procedures or surgeries to enhance their bodies if they don't want to, but if they do, why must they lose your respect or gain your assumption that they need salvation? Your suggesting that getting work done is wrong is your attempt to claim superiority over the people who think it's right. Doesn't supporting your sister women include supporting their choices, not just their own conformation to your single idea about what is right or wrong?

One argument of course, is that the people who get work done are not respecting the human form and are setting different standards and bars that the people who don't get work done can't reach, which isn't sisterly. But hold up girl if you're so happy and comfortable with who you are and what you look like, then you really shouldn't care what anyone else looks like. Can you confirm that Kim's butt is even fake? Can you confirm that dying your hair and spray tanning your skin isn't a similar concept as getting work done just on a less offensive and more socially approved scale? Would you really prefer the photo to not be photoshopped so you can point out her cellulite? We know she has cellulite because we have cellulite.

I don't think it's necessary to point out how many women in Hollywood get work done, but I can assure you that it's happening all over the damn place and to the least expected faces. Just because you can't tell that someone has had work done doesn't mean they haven't, it means they have a good doctor. But again, if you're an A-list actor you're a "serious" person and we're okay with averting our eyes over a little work. (But not so much that you pull a Renee Zellweger, keep it quiet.)

Did you know that some people have been altering, stretching, tattooing, and adorning their bodies since the beginning of time, and yet at another point in time ankles were considered too sexy to show? Sorry but you didn't come up with your holy judgement, you're adhering to one culturally approved opinion without thinking about the breaks you're throwing on the forward movement toward peace and acceptance and woman power that you say you want so badly.

Plus, Kim looks amazing.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Things That Scare Me

Nothing scares me quite like a Google search that brings up no results. I mean fine, lots of things scare me. Emotional intimacy can be challenging, and to be honest I'm still haunted by the facial expressions that Britney Spears made during her stint as a judge on X Factor. (See below.) But other than that, empty Google searches. In the entire world there's not one thing that even looks a little bit like what I was asking for? So you're saying I'm alone in my thoughts and super weird? I'M NOT.

To be fair it's not like I'm searching for a key word like "ice cream" and it shuts me down, it's usually more like when I'm trying to find out how dangerous an antibiotic is on a scale from 9-10 and I misspell it's cute pharmaceutical name. But I'd like to think that the internet has some left field ideas for me since it knows everything and I thought we were friends. It's almost as bad as when I misspell "ridiculous" in a text and the spell check doesn't have the slightest idea of what I was trying to say. But that's what abbreviations are for. Redic.



Friday, January 31, 2014

When Guys Flirt: Pin the Tail on the Donkey Edition

There are a lot of weird things that happen when guys on hit on women, like pretty much every part of it, but I have noticed a new bizarre occurrence in my own experience and I can't tell if I should be incredibly insulted or sort of flattered. Or some blend of both. I'll call it "the repeat". Or more colorfully "pin the tail on the donkey" for the blind and random element of it. Basically what has happened is that someone hits on me...and then on a different day they do it again...because they forgot about it the first time. WHOA BRO.

Example one: My friend and I are in Vegas minding our own business in the intimate nightlife venue that is Hakkasan. Just kidding, Hakkasan holds over 7,000 people which I obviously googled while I was there drinking my chardonnay because how can you expect me to have a good time without knowing those sort of important details. Anyway, these two guys start talking to my friend and I and we are not interested, but they're basically the most fun people we encountered so we hang out with them for a bit and dance to the extent that you can dance when you're sandwiched alongside 7,000 other people and disorienting strobe lighting or whatever.

Fast forward to a month or so later when me and my same friend are minding our own business drinking chardonnay at the Roosevelt pool in Hollywood, and would you believe the exact same guys walk up and start hitting on us! (Because they didn't remember the first time.) Now, I understand that people in Vegas can be a little drunk, and maybe I look slightly different when I'm in my hip Los Angeles clothing as opposed to my Vegas neon orange dress, but like there were TWO of us. You don't recognize either of us? Of course when I interrupted them and reminded them that we had in fact already met, it all came crashing back. What is interesting to note about this interaction is that Guy 1 hit on me both times and Guy 2 hit on my friend both times, so at least they were consistent in their approach. Could have been worse.

Example two: I'm drinking chardonnay at Warwick in Hollywood with my best friend and some guy asks for my number. I'm not interested but I give it to him anyway because I tend to forget that there are simple ways to get out of this exchange, such as saying "no". The same day of the following week I'm doing the exact same thing in the exact same place, and literally within feet of where he hit on me the first time he does it again...because he doesn't remember the first time. I'm like slow it way down guy, you got a blindfold on? Let me show you my pretend insulted face and point out that you already have my number right there in your iPhone. Look alive man. He has since texted me twice, so the best explanation I have for this example is that I must have looked way cuter the second time that he saw me for the first time.

Let's be honest, I probably don't remember half the people I made out with in college but that was 8,501 years ago. (I look great for my age.) And yes, these incidents both happened at nightclubs which are supposedly bad for meeting quality people. But pretty sure as a mature adult when I see a cute guy and speak even one word to him I would recognize him a mere week later no matter where the run in occurred, so I deduce that these "pin the tail on the donkey" type guys are the dating equivalent of those commercial fishing boats that use big nets and scoop up 43 different types of sea creatures that they don't need when they are just looking for one fish to sell/girl who will have sex with them. Offensive? Probably. But not more so than the fact that I basically just referred to myself as a donkey and a sea creature. I need better analogies.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

The Worst Coffee Shop

In the vein of those helpful and hip blog posts that highlight the best coffee shops in Los Angeles to sit down and pen your first hit screenplay, I'd like to suggest one that might be the worst.

I don't make it a daily habit to buy coffee out, because I drink it black like a beast and realistically I need caffeine to get out of the house in the first place, so it just makes sense to brew a cup of my own. Plus, I'm not raking in millions yet or even penning my first hit screenplay yet and you can't read any type of financial responsibility article without it pointing out how much money you waste at Starbucks. I listen.

But occasionally I run out of coffee, and then occasionally specifically go to the store to refill my stash and then forget it anyway, and I end up having to walk the half block to Hollywood Blvd to get some of the good stuff.

I usually cross the street for Coffee Bean because it seems like the most exotic choice for the neighborhood, but on this day I had already gone once at 8am and I didn't really want to go back at 2:30pm just in case anyone recognized me and held some judgements (fiscal or addiction related) about my two-a-days. It's unlikely, because I was wearing a different outfit but I had on the same groggy face, so you just never know.

To Starbucks I went. This particular Starbucks, which is about 100 ft from my apartment is quaintly situated below Madame Tussauds wax museum, next to the $10 store where everything is actually $5 as shouted at you by underaged boys pumping signs on sticks in your face, and right behind where the delusional people dress up as Hollywood characters and beg for cash in exchange for photographs.

This spot is usually hot, might be more polluted than the rest of Hollywood if that's possible, has roughly one million tourists to duck and run through at any given time, and the dance music blasting from Madame Tussauds is louder than any nightclub in the world which I know because I've been to them all or at least enough to know. I'm not sure how many tables there are outside of Starbuck's because I couldn't see straight from the aggressive noise level, but my best estimate is that there is one. One table that could be the absolute worst coffee shop table in the city to write at.

In closing, I know that it looks like Madame Tussauds is spelled wrong, but it's not. I checked.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

A Fun Day at the Doctor's Office/Clown Show

Now, I'm always in favor of trying a natural or homeopathic route when faced with some dumb health issue. But you better believe when I've been ill for over two weeks and facing challenges with working, working out, going out, or doing anything much besides reading Nicholas Sparks in bed and googling potential diseases and inflictions, eventually I will go hobbling down to the doctor.

On my first trip my litany of "mysterious" symptoms were met with a flippant (super bitch) young lady doctor who proclaimed my ailments "too much" and spat "what is it that you want me to do for you?"
Oh me? She suggested that I may have rheumatoid arthritis, and while I puttered about my other symptoms that don't exactly fit that diagnosis she swept me out the door to the lab for blood work.

To her credit, she put me on STAT so I got to cut 75 old women in line which was cool until they started revolting. "I have arthritis!" I imagined screaming while dodging canes. "So do we!' They'd scream back. Instead I tried to hide in my old college sweatshirt but then every nurse and technician I encountered after that tried to read the block letters and couldn't get it. "UCG?' "No..." "Oh 'UCD' is that UC Berkeley?" "Oh no, that's UC Davis." "Ohh UC Irvine?" Ok nice chat, you can take my blood now!

Three days later, and less well, I get in to see my primary doctor who seems much more focused because she has a sassy cartoon caricature of herself on her exam door. Snap! Two minutes after my arrival she slides her rolling chair across the room throwing her hands up in defeat. "I can't make any sense of this. Nothing! Could you be pregnant?" Not likely, but I'm very cooperative so sure I'll take a pee test, blood test, and repeat all of the tests I just took at my last visit.

The next stop was CAT scan. I'm feeling productive now and not pregnant, let's x ray that shit! Oh wait, I have to drink one and a half BANANA flavored barium "smoothies"? I would have stomped my foot but joint inflammation and fevers don't afford that kind of energy expenditure. So I did what anyone would do, sit on the hallway floor and drink my smoothie to avoid watching Maury in the waiting room for the two hours it takes for the gunk to work though your body.

Finally I enter the sweet oasis of the CAT scan room, reminiscent of a psychiatric punishment ward and yet also an underground alien probe bomb shelter. As standard protocol I signed my life away and then laid down for 30 minutes while my iodine-in-vein technician tried and failed seven times to get a needle in my vein. Ha ha! Each attempt was tested by an saline injection, and since the needle was not in my vein I lay there calmly growing saline mountains under my skin and leaking blood everywhere. He tried to get me to watch the whole process, I politely declined. Perhaps small veins are considered a challenge to overcome in that field, but by the time he went to get a child sized needle I was trying not to shake or let my let my eyes water. Baby needle worked on the first try. He wasn't pleased that we had to resort to that, and post scan sent me on my way with a "And I thought you wouldn't be difficult."  Thanks! I waved, holding down my bandages.

Back at my primary doctor, I thought we were getting somewhere. Doc bounds into the room with my CAT scan results and an animated "Now I understand your pain. Very unusual." Hit me. Their quick in-office diagnosis after reviewing my scan was that my bladder was dangerously large and that they immediately needed to put in a catheter for a TWO WEEK period to drain the freak thing otherwise major trouble. I saw my life flash before my eyes. Can you have sex with a catheter???

"But but..." I protested, "I had to pee during my CAT scan!"  She nodded her head no with a wild look in her eyes. Just as I started to cry and gently cradle myself she came back and said that the urologist would fit me in. He quickly determined that no, that's not the problem. I just have an unusually high capacity bladder, and that I'm quite lucky really.

So then I left, six hours later than I arrived, shaking with chills, more confused than when I went in and with less a lot less cash in my purse. This morning I messaged my doctor about some less complicated possibilities, such as deficiencies of some sort, and was that possible? She immediately ordered me back to the lab for blood cultures and said to expect a call from Infectious Disease. Okay cool. I hope they like adults with baby veins.