I think she said she wrote me sometime in July for the first time. Some kind of spill her guts e-mail saying things like, wow you're great...I've read your history - It's kept me up late nights many nights. Then she told me I was all at once an egotistical cocksucker...called me fascinating...then boring...smug and false...judging my missteps and conquests with women...dealing with all the dickhead selfish and hurtful things I constantly say and claim. Every now and then I get an e-mail from some girl posing either as herself or someone else, telling me I moved her, telling me I wow her, essentially wanting to have a better connection with me - some guy who writes about things on the internet, hopefully truthfully, maybe over dramatically, but always with honesty.
Anyway, Reese came to me because she was in need of something. At first, because we're trained to do so, I thought it might all be a bit too much. After all, here was a girl who wasn't even offering me her name, her identity, and she was spilling her life to me...asking me to spill my life to her. I don't remember the point, but there was certainly a point where things changed between us, at least for me. I stopped seeing her as some girl trying to reach out and grab something she could never have - statements like that piss her off wildly and she'll be sure to tell me all about it, leaning back on the ever too familiar, you're such an incredibly arrogant motherfucker, or something in the ballpark. I don't mean for this to sound overly sentimental, but at some point she turned into a friend...and at some point I sat back in my chair after sending a long reply to a long e-mail she had sent and thought to myself something like, wow...28 years old and does a girl in this world know me better in this moment than one I've never met...one who hasn't even given me her name. Interesting moment for a reflective soul, I'll give that.
It's something after 8 on a Thursday. We've both been busy for the past few weeks, trading e-mails about meeting up, a face-to-face but it hasn't yet been allowed to happen. Tonight works. I'm taking a drive to the Beverly Hills Hotel. I'm going to have a cocktail in the Polo Lounge and told Reese to meet me there. She'll read this sometime before or after she goes and will undoubtedly give me shit - especially for preemptively stealing her thunder about giving me shit for writing another post about her. I think she's thinking a little bit too much about this right now. I think it's working her up, nerves and such. I think she is nervous as hell to see me, to reveal herself to me and I understand why but don't. I love myself and think I'm hot shit but mostly for the sake of arc. Maybe she thinks I'm something I'm not. Maybe I fail to give myself proper credit. Is that even possible? I'm going to tell her that I don't want to know her real name...because to me it will always be false. Reality and truth came in the form of a false reach out a long time ago. Seeing this girl and meeting this girl isn't going to change anything for me. What she is has been engraved - this struggling and talented and fierce and wounded and confused fucking bitch that I want to sit in front of and say something like, I got you if you got me. We're gonna be just fine.
Showing posts with label Beverly Hills Hotel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beverly Hills Hotel. Show all posts
December 17, 2009
January 09, 2006
Sigh...
I’m supposed to set up a meeting to pitch Mickey Mouse next week. Same studio…yes, again. Second week in January…that’s what my girl said. Though, my interpretation of the invitation was loose…so I am treating it as such. After all, I’m not ready.
Step back. Let me re-phrase. It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m full of soul-lifting, pull masses out of the gutter, tales. It’s just that I’m not ready for them.
Nothing forced will ever be good. Trying to hit my loose deadline next week would at this moment…seem forceful. Until my pitches are hotter than video-phone sex, she wont be hearing my rings. Then again, who’s to say a storm of brilliance doesn’t roll in tonight…in bed…while I fail to sleep.
This week in the trades, Disney got in on some action. It went a little something like…
'Chicken' pair sell Disney on 'Missing' pitch
6 Jan 2006 3:27am EST - By Tatiana Siegel
Chicken Little scribes Ron Friedman and Steve Bencich are reteaming with Walt Disney Pictures for the live-action family comedy The Missing Link. Disney paid mid-six figures for Friedman and Bencich's pitch, which is described as a monkey spy adventure in the vein of The Bourne Identity. Beau Flynn and Tripp Vinson of ContraFilm are producing along with Bryan Brucks, who brought the idea to Flynn and ContraFilm creative executive Gitty Daneshvari. Disney's Karen Glass and Casey Wolfe will oversee for the studio.
…
Did your eyes hear that? A “monkey spy adventure in the vein of Bourne Identity.” That’s what I’m up against. You might say it’s nowhere even in the realm of being up my alley. Or…how perfect?
It’s likely you know me better than I know myself…in THAT sense. Honest.
I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. But lately, I’ve been deep into finishing my “soul searching angels in New York,” piece. At this very moment…my desktop is a digital picture from my last NYC jaunt. Battery Park. Taken from the hurricane deck on the Staten Island Ferry. I’ll never forget the feeling of a city so beautifully bitter.
One of these days, when I’m everything I promised I would be, you’ll look back with a certainty in your whisper and say…of course.
…
Did I mention that it’s Lingerie Bowl season? Yeah…it is. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I added a link from this site on the sidebar. I’ve pretty much been working with them since the day I set foot in this town. All of your questions regarding my work can be answered by one of the following responses…
1. Of course.
2. Worse.
It goes down on Pay-Per View at halftime of the Super Bowl. When the Director of Operations takes off for the 14-city bus tour in a week, I have to keep everything in Los Angeles running smooth…whatever that means.
My title for the company has spanned the board. When I first got into town, I straightened the Producer’s garage for a Benny. This summer, I wrote and floor directed their 50k television pilot that got a small offer from E!.
But really, my title should be Human Mapquest. We have 60 girls. Very beautiful. Very self-conscious. Very have lived in LA for much longer than I have and have no idea how to find ANYTHING. When we do photo shoots, hold events or have production days, they all seem to wind up with my cell number. Not funny. After the third pick up, I become quite swift in dropping, “I’m from Chicago…find you a gas station, Smith out.”
And here’s another thing. This town is all about chewing these girls up and spitting ‘em out. There will always be someone to come along that’s more beautiful…or exotic…or younger. Usually, all of the above.
It’s cruel and terrible, but it’s the nature of the beast in this town and in this life. Naturally, the process will break them down in bits and pieces. Over time, it adds up.
Since I’m not a pig, I can say this to you. Or perhaps the “pig” qualifier is that I am saying this to you. But 35 of the 60 girls want to have my children. The rest, I haven’t met. There’s something in my appearance that screams, “life/soul band aid.” Girls looking for that sort of healing usually turn out to be a little fucking bit out of their chain him down and cling, minds.
I got over certain things in this town real quick…real quick. Beautifully flaunting women was one of them. Now, around Lingerie Bowlers…I just pretend like I’m gay. Or, that I have a very serious girlfriend. Of course, in this town…nobody believes the latter.
…
Chronicles of the Sweet Life. That’s what I call these posts, correct? Sometimes, my worries stem from a failure to live up to my end of the deal. This past Friday served as a reminder to my initial reference.
I didn’t “work.” Technically. I woke up at 8 to polish a scene before heading to my cult spin class. Already rough, I know. Did I mention it was sunny and an unseasonably warm 80 degrees? Well, it was. I have a handful of friends in MWF noon spin. It’s like a family. Two of them were going to spend the afternoon by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I agreed to wingman. Now, I can’t really paint the picture of this place to you, but take my word that it’s exquisitely beautiful…elegant, sweet, wonderful. For reasons we don’t need to spend time on, they’re treated like King and Queen every time they go. Though, they’re not together. This will be important later.
Did I mention the entire place is painted pink?
We sat under the sun and drank champagne until the glowing rays cooled. After moving to the Jacuzzi, we ate Fruit Stripe and drank a toast to all our lovelies in the cold Midwest and on the East coast.
I met the Queen out that night in Santa Monica. We left…indiscriminately searching for a Westwood In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out period. Something must be coming. When we got to her place, we allowed our lips a cheek and said goodbye through eyes and smiles.
That was a day…
Every now and then, one comes. Los Angeles has the power to be magic like that. Perhaps in greater frequency than any other crack in this world.
Now, it’s a part of me…that January 6th, 2006.
Step back. Let me re-phrase. It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m full of soul-lifting, pull masses out of the gutter, tales. It’s just that I’m not ready for them.
Nothing forced will ever be good. Trying to hit my loose deadline next week would at this moment…seem forceful. Until my pitches are hotter than video-phone sex, she wont be hearing my rings. Then again, who’s to say a storm of brilliance doesn’t roll in tonight…in bed…while I fail to sleep.
This week in the trades, Disney got in on some action. It went a little something like…
'Chicken' pair sell Disney on 'Missing' pitch
6 Jan 2006 3:27am EST - By Tatiana Siegel
Chicken Little scribes Ron Friedman and Steve Bencich are reteaming with Walt Disney Pictures for the live-action family comedy The Missing Link. Disney paid mid-six figures for Friedman and Bencich's pitch, which is described as a monkey spy adventure in the vein of The Bourne Identity. Beau Flynn and Tripp Vinson of ContraFilm are producing along with Bryan Brucks, who brought the idea to Flynn and ContraFilm creative executive Gitty Daneshvari. Disney's Karen Glass and Casey Wolfe will oversee for the studio.
…
Did your eyes hear that? A “monkey spy adventure in the vein of Bourne Identity.” That’s what I’m up against. You might say it’s nowhere even in the realm of being up my alley. Or…how perfect?
It’s likely you know me better than I know myself…in THAT sense. Honest.
I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. But lately, I’ve been deep into finishing my “soul searching angels in New York,” piece. At this very moment…my desktop is a digital picture from my last NYC jaunt. Battery Park. Taken from the hurricane deck on the Staten Island Ferry. I’ll never forget the feeling of a city so beautifully bitter.
One of these days, when I’m everything I promised I would be, you’ll look back with a certainty in your whisper and say…of course.
…
Did I mention that it’s Lingerie Bowl season? Yeah…it is. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I added a link from this site on the sidebar. I’ve pretty much been working with them since the day I set foot in this town. All of your questions regarding my work can be answered by one of the following responses…
1. Of course.
2. Worse.
It goes down on Pay-Per View at halftime of the Super Bowl. When the Director of Operations takes off for the 14-city bus tour in a week, I have to keep everything in Los Angeles running smooth…whatever that means.
My title for the company has spanned the board. When I first got into town, I straightened the Producer’s garage for a Benny. This summer, I wrote and floor directed their 50k television pilot that got a small offer from E!.
But really, my title should be Human Mapquest. We have 60 girls. Very beautiful. Very self-conscious. Very have lived in LA for much longer than I have and have no idea how to find ANYTHING. When we do photo shoots, hold events or have production days, they all seem to wind up with my cell number. Not funny. After the third pick up, I become quite swift in dropping, “I’m from Chicago…find you a gas station, Smith out.”
And here’s another thing. This town is all about chewing these girls up and spitting ‘em out. There will always be someone to come along that’s more beautiful…or exotic…or younger. Usually, all of the above.
It’s cruel and terrible, but it’s the nature of the beast in this town and in this life. Naturally, the process will break them down in bits and pieces. Over time, it adds up.
Since I’m not a pig, I can say this to you. Or perhaps the “pig” qualifier is that I am saying this to you. But 35 of the 60 girls want to have my children. The rest, I haven’t met. There’s something in my appearance that screams, “life/soul band aid.” Girls looking for that sort of healing usually turn out to be a little fucking bit out of their chain him down and cling, minds.
I got over certain things in this town real quick…real quick. Beautifully flaunting women was one of them. Now, around Lingerie Bowlers…I just pretend like I’m gay. Or, that I have a very serious girlfriend. Of course, in this town…nobody believes the latter.
…
Chronicles of the Sweet Life. That’s what I call these posts, correct? Sometimes, my worries stem from a failure to live up to my end of the deal. This past Friday served as a reminder to my initial reference.
I didn’t “work.” Technically. I woke up at 8 to polish a scene before heading to my cult spin class. Already rough, I know. Did I mention it was sunny and an unseasonably warm 80 degrees? Well, it was. I have a handful of friends in MWF noon spin. It’s like a family. Two of them were going to spend the afternoon by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I agreed to wingman. Now, I can’t really paint the picture of this place to you, but take my word that it’s exquisitely beautiful…elegant, sweet, wonderful. For reasons we don’t need to spend time on, they’re treated like King and Queen every time they go. Though, they’re not together. This will be important later.
Did I mention the entire place is painted pink?
We sat under the sun and drank champagne until the glowing rays cooled. After moving to the Jacuzzi, we ate Fruit Stripe and drank a toast to all our lovelies in the cold Midwest and on the East coast.
I met the Queen out that night in Santa Monica. We left…indiscriminately searching for a Westwood In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out period. Something must be coming. When we got to her place, we allowed our lips a cheek and said goodbye through eyes and smiles.
That was a day…
Every now and then, one comes. Los Angeles has the power to be magic like that. Perhaps in greater frequency than any other crack in this world.
Now, it’s a part of me…that January 6th, 2006.
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