Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day One

I’ve been woefully delinquent in my blog postings.  It’s been a busy few months—packing up belongings, moving across the country, and then embarking upon a globe-trotting tour complete with a near pick-pocketing experience in which yours truly willed herself from sticking a fist up the perpetrator’s throat and a knee into the perpetrator’s crotch—now that I’ve somewhat settled in the city by the Bay, it’s time to resume my pleas to NPH and Tina Fey.

I asked myself:  How can I place myself into a position where I can fully comprehend what it feels like to be a writer?  And then, it dawned upon me.  Actors better themselves in their craft by fully submerging themselves in a particular role.  I must better my craft by becoming what most writers are:  struggling and unemployed.

So today, my adventures took me to Chinatown, where flocks of mostly Cantonese-speaking Chinese people flood the streets in an all-out, cheap grocery shopping assault.  I navigated my way through the crowds, making sure to absorb the literary and comedic fodder around me.  Seeking respite from the human storm, I walked into a somewhat empty fish store, where soon-to-be eaten crabs and lobsters were clawing in tanks, likely unaware of their fate.  The crustaceans attempted to claw at each other, made futile by the rubber bands rendering their claws impotent.  I began to ponder various plots involving the human equivalent of such helplessness . . .

Suddenly, a giant turtle started climbing up the side of its enclosure and fell over backwards, creating a ginormous splash, leaving my exposed leg covered with not one, not two, but three nasty drops of turtle water.  I squealed in fright and jumped in shock, only to find that the once-empty store had become filled with patrons—all of whom were staring at me as if I had walked in with the plague (or SARS, I was in Chinatown).  I immediately ran out of the store, thereby ending today’s adventure.

Ahhh, the life of a struggling writer.  Tina and/or NPH—how could you not want to hire me after what I’ve just been through?

I’m Back!

I just spent the last couple of months on a globe-trotting tour to find Tina Fey or NPH.  Details to come!

10 Days for Desperation — Day Two

It’s been quite a while since my last post.  I’d like to say that I spent the time sipping sweet tea vodka with my new best friend, Tina Fey NPH, but that would be an unfortunate and desperate lie.  And unfortunate, I am not.  Despite my still unrequited pleas, I must press forward in pursuing my dreams.  Because what good are dreams if they are easily obtainable?  (That is what the man in the corner liquor store said to me to convince me to exchange my $138 in Coinstar money for 138 lottery tickets.)

So, what have I been doing for the last couple weeks?  I’ve been stuffing, packing, and padding.  Although, in some circles, that sounds like something you would do in the champagne room of the neighborhood windowless bar, double-fisting vodka tonics or human melons—my task was not quite that exciting.  I have spent the last few weeks moving across the country, in an attempt to find Tina Fey NPH on the west coast.

I’ve moved quite a bit in my life (especially for someone in her mid-20s), and I pretty much always underestimate the amount of time it takes to fully pack your belongings.  After weeks of passive packing, I finally reached the “what the hell do I do with this shit” part of the move—aka, the final 10%.  This segment of any move, while relatively small in a numeric sense, takes the greatest toll on the mover in terms of sanity and time.  This is the part of the move where the mover stares at a particular “what the hell do I do with this shit item,” stare at it some more, sigh, find something else to do like play Mafia Wars on Facebook, stare at it some more, and finally decide that the best course of action is to again watch the Nappy Tabs’ choreographed performance on SYTYCD so that the mover can perfect lyrical hip hop and become a world-famous dancer by Season 8.  I digress.

Long story short, the hubby and I finally packed up all of our crap and were ready to embark on a new journey.

While at the airport, waiting for my flight to northern California, I scanned the premises for inspiration for a new spec script.  A cute family was waiting for the same flight, and they were playing with their unbelievably adorable Maltese puppy, whose name I later discovered was Snowball.  Although Snowball was only 9 months old, he was quite well-behaved and did not need a leash to understand that he needed to stay close to his family.  As I sat there, sipping my overpriced coffee, I began to wonder how the hubby would react to me bringing a puppy home—my canine stupor was interrupted when a woman walked by with her child . . . on a leash.

Before I comment on leashed children, I should first add the caveat that I am not a mom.  I have never babysat any children, so perhaps I’m not in a position to judge.  But I literally fell out of my seat into convulsions, trying to hold my laughter in, as I watched this little leashed girl petting an unleashed puppy.  The leash was about 2 feet long, and the mom held the leash as the little girl moved around the waiting area.  Apparently, the little girl had not learned the “heel” command, because she was often pulling the leash complete taut, in a fruitless attempt to investigate her surroundings.  As I was watching this scene, I began furiously texting friends.  I also tried to take a picture with my cameraphone, but I was not quick enough to get a good shot.  (Mom did, however, turn around when my cameraphone made an incredibly loud noise when I tried to get a snapshot off, after which I quickly pulled my phone in and looked around in a completely inconspicuous manner).

In any event, as I was watching the scene unfold before me—leashed girl cooing and petting unleashed puppy—I realized that I was not the only one staring.  Dozens of other individuals stole glances, and I had a Eureka moment.

I must find a leash.  If this otherwise nondescript girl could get dozens of completely bored individuals at the airport to look at her, perhaps I too could generate publicity by attaching myself to a leash and having the hubby lead me around!  Of course, I would have to avoid spiked and rhinestoned leashes, because the hubby and I would only attract swingers (and I’m not sure how fast I can run away from swingers if Iwere attached to a leash).  I will design my own leash—wide enough to contain, in hot pink, the words, “Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!”  The hubby will walk me around the streets of San Francisco, and I will pull forward, panting as the collar restricted my airways.  I am a writer.  I am a genius.  And I will be a human dog.

Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!

10 Days for Desperation — Day One

I am at a crossroads in my pleas to Tina Fey NPH.  Weeks, in fact months, have passed—and I have yet to obtain any legitimate responses to my pleas.  I have received the occasional imposter email, like the email I received from Tima Fey, who requested that I provide her with my social security number and birthdate so she could “confirm” whether I was in fact an undiscovered talent.  Or the email I received from Neil Pat My Harris, who asked whether I liked “franks and beans.”  After brief consideration of the possibility that Tina Fey NPH was in fact responding to me, but using an alias—I resisted the urge and left their requests unrequited.  

Since my last plea to Tina Fey NPH, I have since spent my days sighing in despair.  The air has been sucked out of my sails.  The hop has been removed from my step.  The glimmer has been extinguished from my eye.  But alas, through my anguish, I saw a silver lining, and his name is Rascal.  Who is Rascal, you ask?

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Rascal holds the record for titles in the World’s Ugliest Dog competition.  Desiring to view more pictures of Rascal, I ran a Google search and, lo and behold, Rascal has his own IMDB page!  And then it dawned on me.  How could I have been so blind?  I have spent months and months attempting to entice Tina Fey NPH with my writing and my literary displays of devotion.  I wholeheartedly believed that Tina Fey NPH would independently discover this blog and respond to my requests with outright offers of employment.  Alas, my naivete led me to write my WGA award acceptance speech and practice it in front of the mirror, bidding adieu to my fans as I announced my new journey toward becoming a lyrical hip hop dancer—after which Wade Robson and Nappy Tabs meet me backstage to begin my intense journey, which will be captured on a major network for prime time television so that my fans could witness my sweat and tears as I transform into one of the greatest dancers in the world before their eyes on Alexis Nectar:  Road to SYTYCD.  

I digress.  The point is—I have been approaching this the wrong way.  Talent alone can and will go unnoticed without proper publicity.  If Rascal can get an IMDB page by virtue of being the ugliest dog in the world, why can’t I approach it in a similar fashion?  Can you imagine the publicity I would receive if I, Alexis Nectar, attempted to enter the World’s Ugliest Dog competition?  I realize that my DNA doesn’t exactly allow me to necessarily qualify for entry into the competition, but perhaps the rules do not explicitly state, “A human being with an alias of Alexis Nectar may not enter this competition.”  Absent this specific rule, I can surely try.  I can crimp my hair, 80s style, perhaps tease it so it becomes a gigantic bird’s nest, smear nutella all over my teeth, and rub my eyes with cat dander to make them demon red.  And after I win the competition, I will obtain my own IMDB page, with which I will finally capture the attention of Tina Fey NPH, and begin the road to stardom that is so richly-deserved.  Hollywood star, here I come!

Discover me Tina Fey NPH!!

An Interruption in My Pleas: Lost Icons

Today, as I descended into the stuffy confines of the Metro, I reflected on the loss of two icons yesterday:  Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.  As I stood there, waiting for the train to arrive, I saw three women speaking with each other, and I envisioned them striking their best Charlie’s Angels pose.  I imagined myself leading a procession of people to an impromptu performance of Thriller.  And I sighed in appreciation for the contributions made by such fabulous entertainers.  Below, some of my favorite Michael Jackson videos—videos that inspired my 10-year old self to grab her crotch in front of a mother gaping in shock.  

Rest in peace, y’all.

10 Days for NPH — Day Ten

On this tenth and “final” day of my pleas to Tina Fey NPH, I cannot help but be inspired by Governor Mark Sanford and his email proclamations of love.  Governor Sanford is one hell of an eloquent ladies’ man.  Given that his political career is rapidly swirling down the toilet of self-made indiscretion, he probably needs an alternative career path.  After reading your emails—may I suggest, Governor Sanford, that you pursue a career writing Valentine’s Day cards at Hallmark?  Or perhaps writing your own Harlequin Romance novels—e.g. a new series entitled, Marky Mark & Her Two Magnificent Parts.  I mean, check out these juicy tidbits:

You have a particular grace and calm that I adore.  You have a level of sophistication that so fitting with your beauty.  I could digress and say that you have the ability to give magnificent gentle kisses, or that I love your tan lines or that I love the curve of your hips, the erotic beauty of you holding yourself (or two magnificent parts of yourself) in the faded glow of the night’s light . . .

while all the things above are all too true – at the same time we are in a hopelessly—or as you put it impossible—or how about combine and simply say hopelessly impossible situation of love.  How in the world this lightening strike snuck up on us I am still not quite sure. . . 

please sleep soundly knowing that despite the best efforts of my head my heart cries out for you, your voice, your body, the touch of your lips, the touch of your finger tips and an even deeper connection to your soul.

Dayum!  I’m getting all hot and bothered just reading these (or maybe it’s just acid reflux).  

In any event, thank you Governor Sanford for being a total hypocrit.  Thank you for providing fodder for my blog.  And most of all, thank you for inspiring my tenth plea to Tina Fey NPH.  For this final plea, Tina NPH, below I write to you, as my unrequited love.

Tina Neil, 

It is with the utmost regret that I must express my feelings for you through such an impersonal medium.  While I certainly would have appreciated the opportunity to be in your esteemed presence, circumstances beyond our control, such as the threat of restraining orders, have extinguished that dream.  What I want to express cannot be adequately described by the limited words available in the English language, but I will do my best.

Your work inspires millions, and enables me to continue pressing on through the vicissitudes of life.  I could digress and say that you have the ability to make me lose control of my bowels and urinate in my panties, or that I love the way you raise a single eyebrow or that I love the spikes in your hair, the erotic beauty of you holding a fake video camera in Rent in the blistering lights of a Broadway stage . . .

Alas, Tina Neil, we are in a hopeless and impossible struggle of love.  Perhaps it is I alone who struggles with our entirely fabricated relationship.  But if this is a dream, may it never end.  If this is a fantasy, may I continue to ride unicorns with you into the sunset as we escape evil vampires being staked by Buffy while Jenna Maroney sings the soundtrack to my heart.

Please sleep soundly knowing that, despite your best efforts at ignoring my pleas (or the 100-yard TRO), that my fingers cry out to type for you; my brain bleeds plots for you; and my telescope and binoculars are pointed directly toward you.  Tina Neil, savor my devotion.  Hear my pleas.  Cherish my heart.

Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!!

NPH is in Philly

This just in.  NPH is in Philly.  Geography-phobes, that means NPH is about 2.5 hours away from me (2 hours without traffic plus a healthy dose of mania).  Apparently, he is filming a movie.

Originally, I thought the best plan of attack would be to just hop in my car, arrive near the set, scream something along the lines of “NPH, I NEED YOUR SPERM TO MAKE MINI-NPH,” jump the security line, and run as fast as possible while holding a t-shirt gun so that when security finally tackles me, I could fire said t-shirt gun and my script would fly into NPH’s trailer, which hopefully will have an open window because Philly is blistering hot right now.

However, given that I have one shot at this (assuming that a restraining order can be issued after a single act posing as a “threat” to NPH’s physical safety), I’ve decided to brainstorm other ways to get his attention.  Neil, if you’re reading this, please come down to DC.  I’ll meet you and we can have a lovely chat over a cup of coffee.  If you’re into it, my friend still wants to make out with you.  And I’m willing to do anything to write scripts for you, like tattoo my forehead with “PROPERTY OF NPH,” or perform my choreographed lyrical hip hop routine to Robin Sparkles’ “Let’s Go to the Mall,” or amend all my business cards to state not only my name, but a parenthetical like “nee NPH’s beyotch.”  

Because Neil, I love you that much.

Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!!

10 Days for NPH — Day Nine

When I was growing up, my pops often watched American movies to improve his English.  One of his favorite American actors is Clint Eastwood.  Back in the day, Clint Eastwood was a certifiable bad-ass, starring in iconic films such as The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly and Unforgiven.  In films (other than The Bridges of Madison County), Eastwood is a man’s man—one who knew how to wield a weapon, could chase down bad guys via car or horse, and could beat you into submission with a single glance.

Naturally, in my childhood, I thought that American men emulated Clint Eastwood.  That all men desired to be Dirty Harry, if you will.  And who wouldn’t want to be Dirty Harry?  He’s a freaking bad-ass:

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But, as time has passed, and my childhood quickly spilled into my 20s, I realized that the image of the strong American male has indeed changed.  The definition of strength has evolved.  Long ago, packing a weapon on the hip was a symbol of strength.  But today, men don’t care about packing heat.  Men care about packing electronics.

Dirty Harry?  Meet Joe Blackberry.

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For example, on my ride to work today on the Metro, I saw dozens of men packing e-heat, enticing me with their sexy and sleek electronics.  I could barely contain myself as these men removed the Blackberries from their hip and seduced me with the quick movements of their thumbs.  I growled in anticipation.  I mean, is there anything sexier than a man who is perpetually attached to work, is capable of responding to emails within seconds, and has defined thumb muscles?  I think not.  

Perhaps the only competition for the modern Joe Blackberry are the hubby and HGG (Hot Gay Guy).  Speaking of HGGs . . . 

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I have no idea where I’m going with this post, but it enabled me to post an awesome picture of NPH.  Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!

An Interruption in My Pleas

For those of you wondering where I currently live, check out the video below.  For those from California who are as ignorant about east coast geography as I once was, Arlington is located just across the river from DC in a region of the country known as the Mid-Atlantic.  This time of year, I’d like to call this area of the country, “back sweat.”  

And if you are Tina Fey NPH, feel free to return the favor and stalk me around my hood.  I’ve made a miniature version of my script, and I hide it in my bra like a dirty stripper with dolla dolla bills, so when I finally do see you, I’ll be prepared to astound you with my genius.  Discover me!

10 Days for NPH — Day Eight

Last night, the new season of So You Think You Can Dance really kicked off as the 10 couples danced for America’s votes.  I have to say that I absolutely, whole-heartedly, and unequivocally LOVE this show.  I cannot get enough of it, and for the record, I am thrilled at the fact that the show will begin its new season this fall (and can Natalie please try out again, kill it in Vegas week, and get on the damn show?).  

For those of you who have been following my blog, it is very apparent that I have delusional aspirations of becoming a Hollywood screenwriter.  I mean, being a lawyer is awesome.  I essentially engage in verbal and written warfare all day, thereby vicariously reliving the days of my youth when I secretly thought about how cool it would be to actually fight someone after school at the church.  Speaking of which, I used to always think it was  a bit ironic that the delinquents of my school chose the purportedly sacred grounds of a place of worship to engage in physical violence.  Yes, I was a bit precocious.

Anyways, if Tina Fey NPH never hears my pleas, perhaps I should strive to meet another unattainable goal?  So Tina Fey NPH, pay attention to the following ultimatum (please).  If you do not respond to my pleas, I may just have to refocus my maniacal and delusional attention.  And where will I refocus my pleas, you ask?  

I will be a lyrical hip hop dancer.

Yes, I can hear the laughter traveling through the Web.  I can sense the mockery and chuckles.  But I ignored the jeers of my peers when I first announced that I would be making these pleas to Tina Fey NPH.  Granted, the pleas have so far yielded little in substantive response—I’ve gotten a few encouraging comments; the hubby hasn’t left me; and a flight attendant gave me extra peanuts as we shared stories of delusional fantasies.  So it’s not like I’ve come out completely empty.  So if I took the energy and devotion from scriptwriting, and invested that passion  into my lyrical hip hop training, I will be a force to be reckoned with.  To dabble in this delusion, I will take a three-pronged approach.  First, I will study the lyrical hip hop dances on So You Think You Can Dance (including watching them over and over again in order to memorize the movements and practice in front of the TV).  Second, I will enroll in a lyrical hip hop class—preferably one that does not require any technical training.  Although I did spend much of college digesting the choreography of various NSYNC songs, including Bye Bye Bye, Tearin’ Up My Heart, I Want You Back, and It’s Gonna Be Me.  Perhaps that could be considered “technical” training.  E.g., if my instructor were to ask me to give a nice “Bye Bye Bye” fist pump, I could do that in my sleep.

Finally, as the final step in my delusion investigation, I will engage in street performance.  I will set up in a populated area and perform various lyrical hip hop routines (preferably self-choreographed).  I will place two containers to accept donations.  One container will be labeled, “YOU’RE BAD ASS” and another container will be labeled, “YOU’RE BAD.”  That will enable me to gain an objective perspective on my dance training.

Finally, for some inspiration, here are my favorites from last night’s SYTYCD.  P.S. DISCOVER ME, TINA FEY NPH!!!