Gym People of LA

So here I am, living in Los Angeles for two years now, somehow successfully avoiding two things that seem to come with a 9-0-something zip code: body image issues and a shrink. I eat carbs – specifically carbs laced with gluten – I don’t have a trainer and I’ve never participated in a juice cleanse. I don’t subscribe to sober January (or sober any month for that matter) and I have yet to step foot inside a SoulCycle studio, despite owning multiple pairs of Kate Hudson’s Fabletics stretchy pants. I’ll admit it, clothing that takes me from hiking Runyon right onto brunch just makes sense. I can’t believe I just typed that.

The thing is, its impossible to live in LA and not want to partake in some kind of fitness slash vegan slash stretchy pant situation. It’s nice, like, almost every day so there’s no hiding that winter bod behind layers of warm clothing. Which compels a person to peel themselves from their laptop slash stack of books slash Grace and Frankie marathon on Netflix and get their ass to the gym.

Which brings me to a particularly unsavoury part of trying to stay fit in LA: gym people. Obviously, people sweat it out in the gym all over the world. It’s not like Los Angeles is the only city where it’s inhabitants have access to a mirror and inconveniently teensy swimwear. But having experienced gym culture outside of the US, I can say for certain gym people are of a different breed here. For example:

Territorial Guy – This is the guy who drapes his sweat-soaked towel on various machines in between weights and jump rope to let everyone know that he’s interval training, so to avoid fucking with his flow. I will always fuck with your flow, guy, because guess what? You don’t own this gym.

A-Type Girl – Women are efficient as fuck at the gym, this I like. Most of us are there to get the job done, in and out, because we got shit to do. This gal is other level, though. Whatever you do, do not disrupt her 8.5 treadmill pace or take too long on the elliptical or she may poison your power elixir when you’re not looking.

Zero Exercise Guy – You want to know how to achieve absolutely zero results at the gym? Observe this guy, lounging about on sought after weight benches, watching sports (why does my gym have so many big screen TVs?), playing games on his phone like someone who will literally never encounter a vagina in real life.

I Woke Up Like This Girl – This gal rocks up at 7am in full make-up, false eyelashes, and barely breaks a sweat but really benefits from the half-dozen sultry power squats she’s posting on Insta via Boomerang.

Imma Big Deal Guy – I have a hectic day job, I get it. But I’m never going to participate in a conference call while at the gym. This guy has no problem speaking loudly and obnoxiously into his headset while perched on the leg press with zero anxiety about uttering anything proprietary. He loves to talk total nonsense to fellow gym-goers about the “business” in which he manages. He’s highly caffeinated and probably simultaneously listening to a Tony Robbins audiobook.

Au Natural Girl – I get it, I’ve switched to all natural deodorant too and I’m all about breathable cottons, but dropping to a lotus position to get in a minute of meditation in the middle of a loud gym is going to draw some eyeballs. Also, leave the mala beads at home.

Exhibitionist Guy – I see you. You see me. But there is absolutely no need to acknowledge each other’s presence. I get it, you worked hard for that eight pack, bro. But if you’re after positive reinforcements by way of a sleazy stare, I’ll never give you the satisfaction.

Bottom line, I look at the gym as a Harry-Potter-meets-Dirty-Dancing dynamic. As soon as I place my ear buds into my ears, just like that, I disappear under an invisible spandex cloak. This is my dance space; this is your dance space.

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The Beat Goes On

Venice is in transition, a time where gentrification is altering the DNA of this historically diverse community. A neighbourhood built by immigrants from all walks of life. While a quick stroll down the boardwalk might suggest that diversity is still a cornerstone in our quirky part of town, more and more you see it’s storied past fading away. Except on Sundays, in the hours leading up to sunset, slightly north of the skate park on beautiful Venice Beach.

Around midday, flags from every country begin to appear, planted in an inviting V-like formation in the sand. The Venice Drum Circle is open to all, regardless of color or religious creed. Boy and girls, young and old. Whether you have mad rhythm or can’t maintain a beat, everyone is welcome. It’s a celebration of inclusiveness, community, joy and unabashedly getting a boogie on with complete strangers.

In a time where the US feels so divided, the drum circle is a welcome reminder of the warm, tolerant, loving people who make up this great nation. Despite what the media clings to, I refuse to believe the majority of Americans thrive on hate. I won’t accept that everything is red or blue, left or right. The United States is a country of immigrants. And while there are still barriers to burst, stigmas to eliminate and glass cielings to shatter, an event like the drum circle represents what the US is all about: a sum of all its beautifully eclectic parts.

Happening every Sunday, from noon(ish) until sunset on the beach where Brooks Ave meets Ocean Front Walk. Bring a bongo, maracas, your best dance moves or any other percussion instrument. See you there, friends.

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City of Stars

When people ask me why I moved to Los Angeles, usually the first assumption is that I came here to pursue a career in the entertainment industry. An aspiring actress, struggling writer, or indie filmmaker perhaps. Something sparkly and ambitious that translates to the silver screen.

While I didn’t move to LA to become a star it’s impossible to not be touched by the energy that exists here. The feeling of hope and hustle towards finding a place in Hollywood, should the stars align (pun absolutely intended).

I’m constantly meeting people who are quick to offer their stories of struggle or why they decided to come to LA. Some are somewhat hidden within the minutiae of everyday life, while others seem to shine right through.

Like the waitress at the Del Monte Speakeasy in Venice who serves me boozy cocktails, but in her spare time is a singer songwriter.

Like the would-be comedian who bags my groceries at Whole Foods while testing out his latest material on me.

Like the guy sitting next to me on a plane, clutching his armrest as we hover above LAX amidst crazy turbulence. I strike up a conversation to try and calm him down, and he introduces himself as “the actor you’ve never heard of that’s been in everything.”

Like my Lyft driver who is also the drummer in a chart-topping reggae band working towards releasing their next album.

Like Preston, the handsome bartender at the wine bar in The Landmark Theater, who works two jobs while pursuing an acting career.

Like my friend Meghan – a fellow Canadian gal – who came to LA to pursue acting and screenwriting and, 7 years later, is still plugging away. Still hopeful.

Like Melissa, my neighbour who’s a film producer and comes from a long line of entertainers and film industry trail blazers, but has migrated towards a life of philanthropy.

Like so many, I spend a lot of time outside of my day job grinding, trying to carve out a pathway to my dreams. For me that means editing and rearranging, trying to improve my screenwriting chops and refine the scripts I’ve written. And while I pound away on my laptop in my little apartment in Venice or a nearby café surrounded by other writers, I can’t help but fantasize about something I’ve written generating interest from a filmmaker.

Each year I head to the Toronto International Film Festival, for years as a fan and more recently as press. While covering red carpets, most journalists flock to the actors but I usually zero in on the directors and screenwriters. My press pass grants me unbridled access to speak with some of the most exciting filmmakers in the world, so if I’m being honest, that’s the real reason I’m there. Maybe if I dig deep enough, that’s part of the reason I moved to LA after all.

This year, I interviewed writer/director Damien Chazelle before the North American premiere of La La Land. After watching his film, I realized I don’t want to be the one feverishly capturing every comment and anecdote on my voice recorder any more, sitting alone at a bar filing my stories. Someday, I hope to be on the other side of the red velvet rope impassionedly talking about a film I’ve written. Now that I live in La La Land, among a city of stars, I sometimes feel like that’s possible.

La La Land is in theatres nationwide. If you live in LA, my dearest Angelenos, this film is for us. Whether you’re in the entertainment industry or not, it’s a reminder to never stop dreaming.

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Seeking Redemption at Salvation Mountain

I’m not a religious person. I did some time in Sunday school, learning about Jesus and Moses and the rest of his crew. But to me it all seemed like a fairy tale, folklore that had somehow survived for centuries, interpreted differently all over the world. A power or light or being or whatever for people to believe in that’s bigger than themselves. I appreciate the comfort in that, but the thought of Immaculate Conception haunted me as a child. If I had an impure thought, would I too end up like Mary? Knocked up by a sheepherder giving birth in a barn?

The California desert is a hotbed for Jesus enthusiasts. The words “Jesus Saves” appears almost subliminally, whether it’s a large sign in someone’s yard or spray painted across an old, abandoned pick-up truck. He is everywhere. And while I’m not exactly a believer, his presence is somehow palpable.

The rise of Instagram and hipsters in need of a “candid” photo pointing their peace sign to the sky amidst a desert backdrop has helped draw attention to some of the most sacred places in and around the Mojave. Maybe too much attention? One place in particular is Salvation Mountain.

About a 90-minute drive along route 111 (aptly) from Palm Springs, past expansive palm farms, the abandoned Salton Sea and more Jesus propaganda is a little town called Niland. Just when you thought the desert couldn’t be more desolate and detached, this is your turn off to “redemption.”

After a few more miles along a winding dirt road you’ll reach an abandoned army bunker that indicates you’ve reached the Slab City limits. A few turns further, a colourful mound of mud, cement and junk shellacked together over decades of devotion pops up into view and you know you’ve made it.

Salvation Mountain began as a simple monument in the 1980s to express the simplicity of the Sinner’s Prayer. Created by Leonard Knight, the impressive site you see today is an ongoing work of many contributors and visitors and its message is simple: God is love. Regardless of your spiritual beliefs, I think we can all get behind this simple yet meaningful mantra.

We cruised onwards through Slab City, an off-the-grid community of squatters and snowbirds looking to stretch their retirement dollars, for a peek into the underbelly of California’s badlands. No electricity, no water, no sewers or services. The residents here really are on their own, and it appears as though that’s exactly the way they like it.

If you venture a little further down the rabbit hole, you’ll reach East Jesus, a collection of artwork and desert artefacts. But we were running low on fuel and decided to turn back. As much as this place intrigues me, I’m not sure I’d want to be stranded there. But I know I’ll go back.

Far beyond the desert road
Where everything ends up
So good the empty space, mental erase
Forgive, forgot
– My God is the Sun, QOTSA

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Finishing my second script

It always feels a bit corny to be living in Los Angeles while writing a film script. It’s so cliché it makes me blush every time I think about it. While my husband and I didn’t move to LA so I could pursue my dreams with stars in my eyes and sunshine in my soul, it does help to live somewhere where movie making is always top of mind.

This second crack at a feature length screenplay has been a lot tighter and fluid compared to my first script. I was more organized and well researched. I outlined the shit out of the thing, which of course morphed and evolved as any story does into something slightly different.

My first script was based in-part on personal experience and ended up this cathartic experience that helped me let go of things from the past and was a good exercise in script formatting. I’m not discounting it entirely, I’d like to revisit it one day and revise it from a romantic drama to the rom com it really is. As much as I wanted to avoid that genre, after hearing film producer Lindsay Doran speak earlier this year I was reminded that it’s okay to write something that makes people laugh and feel good. Some of the films I go back to over and over have happy themes and endings. God knows we could all use some pleasant escapism these days.

The 60s and 70s are eras I’ve always been fascinated by. I often say I was born in the wrong decade, because the music, fashion and attitudes of that time are much more raw and sexy and interesting to me than anything that’s happened since. So naturally, last summer, I made the lofty decision to write a biopic based on Freddie Mercury’s life. Not at all ambitious or ludicrous. Of course, the film has been in the works for years with Sacha Baron Cohen set to play Mercury, until he backed out of the project over rumoured disagreements with the remaining members of Queen. I think more than anything it’s a story I’m dying to see onscreen, and I’m just too impatient to wait for someone else to do it.

While researching my debunked attempt at a biopic, I read the memoirs of two notorious American groupies: Bebe Buell and Pamela Des Barres. Never mind writing a story about rock stars, the women who inspired some of the greatest rock albums of all time deserved my attention so much more. So that’s what I did.

It’s the story of two women who become entangled with the same musician. Not entirely based on Buell and Des Barres, but absolutely inspired by them. I tried to write something that focused on the strength of the women of that era and how so many of them played muse to artists with little to no credit. How many of them went on to enjoy their own success as musicians, mothers, writers and artists.

One of my protagonist’s is based in LA and the other in New York, which made it really easy to immerse myself in the some of the scenes because so many of the places I wrote about still exist! Working title East and West.

When I was in New York in the spring, I managed to finagle my way into Gramercy Park (scene #12) after a kind older fellow caught me awkwardly taking photos through the fence. I stood in the crumbling lobby of Hotel Chelsea (scene #70) to soak in the energy of what was once a creative epicenter and a man came up behind me (seemingly out of nowhere) and said, “You know, everyone used to live here.” Then he kind of disappeared. Maybe he was a ghost?

A few weeks ago, photographer Baron Wolman was to appear at a gallery party in Hollywood to exhibit The Woodstock Years, now famous photos he had taken of fans during the iconic music festival. The reception was to be hosted by Pamela De Barres, so obviously I had to be there and luckily I had a chance to meet the woman who in part inspired my script. And she was warm and friendly and just as lovely as I imagined her to be.

When Baron was signing the book I bought of his amazing photographs, he looked me the eye and said, “You missed it, you know. The party’s over.” I guess that’s why I wrote about it.

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Legendary groupie, author and journalist Pamela Des Barres

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C’est fini!

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6 Songs by Summer

As the saying goes, it’s never too late to try something new. Or learn something new. You’re never too old to tackle something you’ve been wanting to learn, master, achieve or overcome. Leonard Cohen was 33 when he released his first album. Nora Ephron was 42 when she wrote her first screenplay. A good friend of my mom’s was 46 when she competed in her first Ironman. It’s never too late.

I’ve always fantasized about playing guitar. My dad and brother both play. My husband is a natural. My mother-in-law backpacked around Europe with a little acoustic in her 20s, no doubt charming her way across the continent. It’s always been one of those things I wanted to learn.

I can read music. I play piano and flute, an instrument my mom kind of pressured me into because flutes get all the melodies, she would say. I always thought it was kind of girlie instrument until Beastie Boys released Ill Communication and obviously Ron Burgundy has given new life to the delicate woodwind. But guitar is much more badass, and given my taste in music falls on the edgy side, I basically wanted to learn something I could plug in and make a shit ton of noise with.

My dad and my husband bought me an acoustic guitar for my birthday last fall and my goal was to be able to play 6 songs by summer. They didn’t have to be perfect and they certainly didn’t have to be difficult. Just six songs I could play at the beach or around a campfire or alongside my husband.

After scouring the web in search of guitar tabs for some of my favorite songs I realized if you could play a C, D, F and G you can basically play 75% of rock songs ever written. Maybe throw in an A and E minor and you’re golden. Here’s my six:

I Won’t Back Down – Tom Petty
Otherside – Red Hot Chili Peppers
Old Man – Neil Young
What’s Up – 4 Non Blondes
Three Little Birds – Bob Marley
We Are the People – Empire of the Sun

I memorized all the notes, added all the tabs into my phone and practice practice practice. One day I heard the girls who live below us say quite clearly through our thin walls Oh god, she’s playing that song again. Yes she is!

If you’re a beginner like me, here’s a few more simple songs I’m learning:

Today – Smashing Pumpkins
Wheat Kings – The Tragically Hip
Tennessee Whiskey – Chris Stapleton

I’m not exactly ready to plug in and stomp on a distortion pedal, but for now I’m content strumming away at sunset. The other night I was at the beach and this cute couple was taking painfully awkward selfies so I asked if they wanted me to take their photo for them. They were from Milan so I reminisced a bit about when I traveled there and before they left the beach they asked if they could take my photo. That’s the other cool thing about playing guitar. Any instrument, really. It immediately breaks the ice, invokes a conversation and creates a sense of community.

When I walked back to where my bike was parked, two different people approached me to ask if I wanted to jam sometime. JAM? ME? Ha, not yet. But if you see my at the beach stumbling my way through my modest repertoire of songs, by all means join in.

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Dog Park People of LA

I’m not a people person. I’m not what one might call an introvert either, but I definitely don’t feel compelled to engage people I don’t know beyond high-level pleasantries. This isn’t because I lack manners or suffer from social anxiety. I’m just not interested in small talk. Next to filing taxes and getting my pikachu waxed, small talk is my least favorite thing.

You know what else I find tedious? Faking it. Whether it’s joy, an orgasm, or basic interest, I have a tough time putting on an act. It’s exhausting. Like, ask me to organize your book collection by color or to handwrite your Christmas cards for you. But don’t ask me to participate in anything that requires faking it.

I was never an effective networker (insert gasps and surprise). I’m the gal who strolls in, grabs a complementary glass of wine or five and vanishes. My friends and colleagues may find this hard to believe, because when I’m with my inner circle I’m the life of the party. I’m Frank the Tank meets Holly Golightly. I’m in my element. But strangers? No way. Stranger. Danger. Screaming my safe word all the way to the nearest safety exit.

The act of faking it becomes increasingly inane when it comes to mindless banter at the dog park. I have a dog. My husband and I adopted this little ball of fury eight months ago and I’ll admit, I’ve become one of those people. People who allow their canine to kiss them on the mouth, sleep in their bed and basically diminish any hope of having spontaneous sex again. Our idea of foreplay is getting the doggie into her kennel, or “luxury condo” as we have tried to convince her. I really love my dog. But despite being a reasonably good dog parent, I’m hopeless at the dog park.

I’ve never owned a dog in another city, so I may be attaching my experience to Los Angeles unjustly, but I suspect I’m not alone here. Dog park people are kind of basic, am I right? Interacting with humans is one thing, but conversing with another person via your pet is kind of fucked up.

Dog park person: Oh hello! Who do we have here?
Me: Uh. Abby. Her name is Abby.
Dog park person: Hi Abby! This is Peanut. So nice to meet you Abby. Peanut wants to know what kind of doggie Abby is?
Me: She’s a rescue. Not really sure.
Dog park person: Peanut thinks she’s part Chihuahua mixed with Fox Terrier.
Me: I’d say whatever mixed mongrels wander the streets of Long Beach, where she was found. But good guess Peanut.
Dog park person: *quickly drags Peanut in other direction*

The human-to-dog ratio where we live in Venice feels like it could be 2-1. That means 50% of the folks in my neighborhood own dogs, for the math prodigy’s out there. So unless I walk our dog at off peak hours – which I always endeavour to do – the chances of me running into someone with a dog are highly probable. In particular a few people, which despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to avoid.

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I’m a happily married woman. I’ve bought into the whole monogamy thing. Which is why I don’t need toned, tanned and highly fuckable young men walking about shirtless and barefoot and fancy free. Like this one fellow who is on the same human avoidance dog walking schedule as me. Strutting about with his dreads tied in a bun a la Citizen Cope, abs glistening in the hot SoCal sun. It’s too much.

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One day a woman with particularly plump lips among other fake body parts approached me and knew my dog by name. She asked if I was my husband’s girlfriend. I said no, actually, I’m his wife. Ever since, she seems to emerge every time I walk by her place so either she’s hot for my hubby or I’ve got a single white female situation on my hands.

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The most aggressive of the dog park people is this older gal with a southern drawl who sips wine from a to-go cup and let’s her dog run around off leash. Every time I see her she tries to convince me to join a Facebook Group for our local dog park, even though I’ve explained to her that Abby thinks Facebook is lame.

I know you’re supposed to socialize your dog and I do, among people I enjoy who also happen to have dogs. Otherwise I’m going to pretend to speak another language. I’m going to cross the street when I see you coming. I’m going say I’m late for a meeting, I left the stove on or my dog has fleas. Let’s spare each other the false pleasantries, let our dogs sniff each others bottoms and carry on with our day.

Follow my dog Abby on SnapChat @abby.dog and Instagram @abby.spike

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I slay. All day.

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Jim Morrison & Venice

James Douglas Morrison was one of my earliest rock star obsessions. My formative years took place during the tail end of the 80s hair band phenomenon through to grunge and alt rock, but bands of the 60s and 70s were ever-present in our house growing up. My dad’s vinyl collection was a vessel into an era of music so familiar to me it’s as though I was there. Maybe I was? In a past life, anyway.

I began listening to The Doors in my early teens, memorizing every poetic word of every song while listening to my Best of The Doors double CD set on repeat. I would make beaded necklaces that matched the necklace Jim Morrison wore in Joel Brodsky’s iconic “American Poet” photograph like an obsessed groupie. I even stole a huge sign from our local cinema promoting Oliver Stone’s The Doors, which hung above my bed until I moved out of my parent’s home.

In 2008 while in Paris I visited his grave at Père Llachaise Cemetery alongside other Morrison obsessives like me. Then, to top it off, I moved to Venice and live a short walk away from the home he lived in when the band came to be. That all probably sounds pretty creepy, but I swear I didn’t land in Venice just to channel the spirit of the Lizard King and lust after leftover hippies in leather pants, but it further proves my fandom is legit.

A lot of people come to Venice to be closer to Jim and the birthplace of The Doors, either as part of a larger pilgrimage or to relive the days of free love and flower children lining the boardwalk. And its true, his spirit is everywhere. Whether it’s in the form of a portrait by a sidewalk artist, part of mural or the sound of a Doors song blasting from a cyclist’s boombox on the bike path, remnants of Morrison are literally everywhere you look. I wonder if he had any idea how transcendent his words would be 50 years later.

One of my favourite Doors fan rituals was to sit outside Venice Bistro on the boardwalk Sunday nights just before sunset to listen to Peace Frog, their longstanding Doors tribute band. Gentrification has led to new ownership and the band has since relocated, not too far away though, at another bar in Santa Monica.

If you’re coming to Venice to get your Doors fix, here’s a good place to start:

  • Swing by Jim’s old Venice apartment, an orange building with a mural of Morrison himself, on the corner of 18th Avenue and Speedway, one block from the boardwalk.
  • See a show at the Whiskey a Go Go, where The Doors were the house band in the 60s until they were discovered.
  • Catch Peace Frog at their new residency at Zanzibar. The lead singer bears a striking resemblance to Jim, leather pants and all.
  • If you have time, spend a few nights in Mojave, ingest some hallucinogens and channel the spirits of Jim and Ray. Ride the serpent, man.

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The Doors’ John Densmore and Robby Krieger playing with Foo Fighter’s Taylor Hawkins and Stone Temple Pilot’s Robert DeLeo during a tribute to Ray Manzarek.

Now the soft parade
has soon begun.
Cool pools
from a tired land
sink now
in the peace of evening.
– Jim Morrison

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Venice’s Mosaic Tile House

It’s no surprise to stumble upon an unusually decorated home in Venice. Colourful murals adorning garage doors, alleyways brought to life with artful graffiti and decades-old artefacts lining pathways into overgrown gardens. It’s common to see artists using their home as an extension of their artistic expression here. But none as elaborate and ever-evolving as the Mosaic Tile House at 1116 Palms Blvd.

More of a love story than a tourist attraction, the enchanting 1940s house brought to life piece-by-piece over the past four decades, is the home and story of Cheri Pann and Gonzalo Duran. Married for over 20 years (Cheri mentioned Gonzalo was her third husband I believe), both around 80ish, their relationship and artistic partnership seem to have the fiery energy of a couple of 20-year-olds. His studio displays mechanical sculptures and multi-media pieces that challenge the meaning of devotion and love while her studio displays a floor-to-ceiling gallery of portraits of her beloved in various moods, expressions and color palettes. In a way, the place feels like a mutual shrine between the couple, but in no way do they make guests feel as though they’re intruding.

You can book an appointment to visit the Mosaic Tile House for $12 and Cheri offers a guided tour, sharing a few stories along the way until she disappears to let you meander through the home, studio, garden and surrounding yard – everything but the couples bedroom – as long as you like. Gonzalo was there too the day we visited, working on various projects in the front garden. He was kind enough to take a few artistic snaps for my husband and I, ricocheting our image from a reflection in one of their tiny, mirrored mosaics. My husband took a stab at it himself (last pic below) and did a pretty bang up job.

Our timing, luckily, was impeccable as we arranged to drop by in late March when the wisteria was in full bloom – an annual event that only lasts for about 2 weeks. Their front gate is dripping in the pretty purple blossoms, which made the visit all the more magical and colourful. Aside from the intricate detail and the incredible energy of the place, I was most surprised by the kitchen and bathroom, which are both completely covered in mosaic tiles and other curiosities. You would assume it would make the home look messy, but somehow the chaos of it all felt very neat and tidy. Even the hot tub in the backyard is decorated with a mosaic archway, you guys. It’s really a sight to behold.

Los Angeles has a lot to take in, if you’re traveling through, but if you crave something a little offbeat and local, stop by and soak in the kookiness and beauty of this place. Cheri and Gonzalo couldn’t be more friendly and gracious; you’ll feel like family by the time you’re saying your goodbyes.

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Looming deadlines and accepting feedback on a script

Have you ever set a goal right down to a certain day and time and instead of feverishly attempting to hit said goal, you sat at your desk with a glass of wine watching the minutes tick away? Letting your heart skip a beat – quite literally – with each passing hour until your deadline is nigh? No? Well, I don’t recommend it.

I set a goal to complete my second feature film script by TODAY in order to submit it to the 2016 Academy Nicholl Fellowship competition. Yes, that Academy. While I have completed my first draft (huzzah!), I need time to edit and revise and refine the thing so instead of killing myself to get it done (entries must be uploaded by 11:59 p.m. Pacific Time tonight, tick tock) I’m going to blog about not getting it done. How’s that for productivity?

Self-loathing aside, Los Angeles is a great place to be if you’re learning how to craft and develop a script. Not great in the sense of risking everything to be here just to pursue screenwriting. Don’t do that. Great in that there are so many resources for writers, whether you’ve been at it a long while, or you’re brand new to the game. Live reads, lectures, table reads with your nieghbors, you name it. Hell, head to the Venice Boardwalk and read it aloud to passers-by. Fuck it, anything goes in LA.

Before diving into the joy of editing – and I do mean that sincerely, editing is the fun bit – I decided to take this time to review the notes I was given on my first script, which I submitted to the Nicholl Fellowship competition last year. My very first script, a story based in part on real events in my life followed by a whole lot of fiction. A story about a girl who is dating a boy who is horrible to her who a few years later turns out to be gay and in a strange turn of events moves in with the girl and her husband temporarily until one day the girl dies and in the end it’s all very monotonous, save a few surprising plot twists sugared with punchy dialogue. Obviously, I should stay away from writing my own film synopsis and/or movie marketing.

Here are a few notes I found helpful and not completely soul-shattering…

Title: However Unlikely
Genre: Romantic drama

However Unlikely has an interesting premise. In a reflection of modern Los Angeles society, a newly married woman helps out her gay ex-boyfriend by letting him stay in their home. After a while, it all makes complete sense and they all become close friends. There’s a certain so-crazy-it-sounds-true to the story.

The dialogue is real, the characters are not all well rounded, but they are all believable and enjoyable.

The writing is adequate and has energy at the outset that quickly diminishes. The descriptions are visual enough for the little action. The high point moments of dialogue are snappy and humorous. Unfortunately it can’t make up for the lack of action.

Here’s the thing. This is such a fun, cute, fresh premise. I really like the idea. The trouble is the execution. This script needs to go back a few steps and be restructured and tell the story it means to tell. And then there will be something really nice here. As is, there’s a lot of obstacles that get in the way of a good idea.

Good advice for any script. I may revisit that story at some point, but for now I’m submerged in something new. This time the story is set in Los Angeles, New York and London in the 1960s. This time the story is not based on my own experiences, but the memoirs of two notable women of that era. This time I’m really trying to knock it out of the park. Sorry, looming deadline, I’m gonna have to let you go.

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