Jerry O’Connell got another tv pilot. He seems like a nice enough person but he must have pictures of every network executive in Hollywood blowing a goat. I’m just saying. The article about O’Connell’s new show said he wanted to translate the “hilarity” of being a dad into a show and started “bouncing around ideas” with a couple of guys. Hilarity and bouncing are the words you hear right before a show gets cancelled. But this doesn’t stop the machine that is Hollywood. Everytime a new article gets printed about someone getting their umpteenth pilot – I want to vomit a little. I have a friend who has now sworn off reading Deadline Hollywood because it’s starting to feel like he’s reading a suicide note of his own career. I know as a writer I’m supposed to feel happy for everyone and live under the tenet that there is room on television for everyone to succeed but if they keep making these sitcoms when will they have time to make mine – a hilarious look at a fifty year old who bounces ideas off of her dogs? My friend Lisa G paid me the highest compliment ever today – she said I write and think like Larry David. Larry David probably just drove his beemer into a tree but I am going to buy her a picture of someone she doesn’t like doing something bad to a goat. She doesn’t need this, but I’m a giver.
I am people intolerant. There is no pill for this. I’m thinking about hiring my friend Mary to be my Minister of Happiness. She’s always happy. It’s because she’s skinny. She doesn’t know this – but I do. I think if I were thinner I’d be nicer. My muffin top has a muffin top and it’s hanging over my pants like Archie Bunkers beer gut. This is not sexy. They say fat people are jolly but I see a lot more happy skinny people in the world. Maybe fat people wheezing sounds like laughter if you’re not listening really closely. I try to tell myself every day that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels but the churros dipped in chocolate sauce that I ate last night tasted pretty fucking good. I should have just stuck them to my fupa because that’s where they’ll end up anyway. If you don’t know what a fupa is – then you probably don’t have one – so consider yourself lucky. My friends and I used to shout FUPA!!! Greek style whenver we saw a chick with one – now I am that chick and this doesn’t seem so funny. If you want to blackmail me – this is the photo you’d need. No goat. Just my fupa.
My memory is having melancholy flashbacks of someone else’s life. I drove past my neighborhood high school last night and there was a football game happening and the bleachers were filled with happy people shouting and the band was playing and the cheerleaders were pumping their pom poms. I thought to myself – gosh – how did I end up here at fifty one? Why is it I’m still not doing what I want to do? Is this it? Why can’t things be like they were back in high school, easy and fun and filled with joy? Well, I’m not sure whose memory of high school I was having but it certainly wasn’t mine. The closest I ever came to a football game was getting drunk on Boones Farm Strawberry Hill wine and making out with some kid under the bleachers and then throwing up. I did try out to be a cheerleader at Susan Wagner High but I didn’t make it past the first round of auditions. I was not “in” with the right people. I wasn’t friends with the other cheerleaders who really just picked their friends to be on the squad. I eventually became the captain of a squad at the JCC – that’s Jewish Community Center – but cheering for a bunch of short kids with jewfro’s wasn’t exactly the same as being a high school cheerleader. Being a high school cheerleader was the shit. It meant you were popular. It meant you were going to be somebody some day. We did have some great times on the big yellow school bus that drove us to other JCC’s where I would perform masterful cheers in my corduroy jumper with a big megaphone patch on it and white gloves and saddle shoes. I had a pageboy haircut which was incredibly hard to maintain with my own jew hair but I straightened that shit out before every game. I remember making out with the only non jew who played on our team. That’s me – always the rebel. I think my friend and I fought over him. I may have even lost that friendship over this guy I barely knew and have never seen since. His name was John. I wonder where he is now. I wonder if he’s living his dream life. I wonder what he remembers about me and what meeting him means in my bigger picture of life.
I am a person who mocks, pokes fun, snickers, points and laughs at things. It just so happens that the first thought that strikes me about something is usually a funny one. I don’t remember if I was always this way or if life has just beaten me into a point of humorous submission. I suppose that’s a good way to see things but I am not blissfully unaware of all that I encounter. What are the lessons I am supposed to be learning? I can’t find my bigger picture right now and I’m starting to get more than a little scared. Life is such an interesting journey but I don’t think we were put here to just get up and go each day. I believe we were put here to get up and go “somewhere” and do “something.” Where is my somewhere? What is my something? If only I could google this or find it on mapquest. Steve Jobs could have helped with this but he’s gone now. He knew where his somewhere was.
Life is such a fantastic journey and I am so grateful to be living mine. I have wonderful family, amazing friends, people I barely know who cheer me on every day. I have so much more than so many people and yet – I want even more. I am greedy with desire.
It’s almost Halloween, a holiday everyone I know loves. People get dressed up as someone else and take a temporary moment out of their real lives to be silly and reckless and live out their fantasies as the naughty nurse that lives inside them. I never get dressed up for Halloween but maybe this year I will. I’ll be a real high school cheerleader and I’ll rah rah myself on like you read about.