Laurie Perry's Blog, page 4

The real deal (with bullet points! for awesomeness!)

The biggest issue is that I don't want to write this exact blog anymore.

Actually that isn't the biggest issue, I'm pretty sure I have mommy issues and let's not forget about the OCD and handwashing and how all the spoons have to be in their special spoon place. And that whole thing with my personal life.

But there's a limitation to what you can say and express online and still have a real offline life. No one tells you this because no one wants to be the dumbass putz complaining about the downside of what everypersonemailing me wants.

I'm going to tell you the truth.

There is a real downside to sharing a lot of your life in the world.

If you decide to do it, think carefully about what it will mean every time someone Googles you for a job, after meeting at a social event, after a date.

For one thing, while I hope and believe that this novel thing will work out and I will one day be living a mashup fantasy of J.K. Rowling-style success in an Indecent Proposal moment, rolling buck nekkid on a bed of pure gold publishing money, the truth is that until my mashup fantasy day arrives I have to work. And people who interview you Google you.

Getting in the door isn't the issue, I am great at what I do, there are maybe eleventeen people on planet earth who do this specific kind of design and this fast. I'm also ridiculously dependable in a city of pure flakes. BUT. BUT you get hired and you work your butt off to be taken seriously and one day unsuspecting coworkers get a whiff of bookdom and they Google you and that makes things ... weird. It's not like I am publishing sonnets here.

People get weird about it. They treat you differently from many angles.

There are years here of reading material, years where I was so see-through and real and honest and it made sense, that is who I am, and yet it isn't who you stay in the future. You become a newer version of you, one who doesn't care so much about your divorce but is pretty freaked out about your second chapter.

So it is fair to say that this site is my online snapshot and it is all true but it doesn't feel accurate anymore.

Then there is another issue, which is dating. And let me tell you how freakydeaky that is. You go out with a man and that in itself is a bag of tricks but imagine if that man -- good or bad -- could go home later that evening and Google you and read literally YEARS of your shit. YEARS of it. And I write for an audience, it's a persona, that is what I try to tell men.

I have lots of versions of this conversation, practiced over years.

"It's a fictional character loosely based on my life..." "It's a persona, think of it as a comedy character who just has some cats..." but they read it like it is the User's Guide to Me and we're done. The moment they find me online it ends. They think they know me and they don't know anything. They think they get me and so they tailor their personality to "me" but it's all wrong, I liked them before, back when we were just people getting to know each other like normal humans. Sometimes they ask for my agent's contact info (barf.) Or they start tracking me online. They want to know why I could tweet but not respond to their text. They want to know why I wrote about going out to dinner but I was too busy that weekend for dinner with them.

People! It is a blog! Not a crime blotter!

So that commences the explanation (read: complaining.) You know where I am. You don't have to get it or agree with it but it's always good to know what's happening on crazystreet.

I think there is a (possible) good new middle place for me, one that involves bullet points:

1) Editing

Editing and deciding what from the past should move forward with me. Making something newish out of it. Moving forward instead of looking back.

2) Re-framing

That is a term I learned in therapy, the same therapy I just quit because I am so tired of talking about My Issues. But apparently you just do a lot of editing to make stuff sound more accurate. Kind of like #1 but more psychological sounding.

3) Figuring out boundaries

Again, thanks therapy. I want to be honest about where I am now, which is a middle place that is kind of FUNKY. I have no idea where I am going. I want to be headed to a good place, but I am scared sometimes. A lot scared. This is just normal human stuff and I want to write about it because this is how I am wired, I write this stuff. I am good at writing it. I love writing it. But there's a personal cost to public sharing. I'm more lonely now that I have ever been, largely because people go online and have an idea of me that doesn't match up with real me. It's hard to meet anyone anymore who is willing to just be with in-person me and not internet me. I started this site long before Facebook became a thing, so I had no idea this would happen. It's an unexpected consequence I have yet to figure out. And, like, I have had a few years to figure this out! So why haven't I got it under control yet? I think I can figure this out but it will require #1) editing and #2) reframing.

4) Nuking it all

I could delete everything and start fresh. Not my favorite idea since I am a big fan of maudlin drunken loving lookbacks. See why I do not want coworkers googling me? Forget about the drunken, I use the word maudlin way too much!

5) Some solution I haven't landed on yet

Best thing I have learned through my current project is that sometimes I land upon wonderful solutions that did not present themselves at the beginning. I am open to some hybrid-new-old-same-online me. With better email. Fo reals.

SO PEOPLE. That is where I am. Why lie? If you are bothering to read today it's because you know me in that way we know people we have read for so long and you are one of the few who have not given up in a huff and fit of irritation. I love you for that, you have sometimes been my only connection to the human world and I feel grateful to you in a way I can't express without going Tony Robbins on this page.

There was one day a few years ago when I was working in a high rise downtown and we had an earthquake. It wasn't a crazy deal in L.A., people here treat earthquakes like celebrity ("I didn't even notice because I am so cool...")

But I noticed, I was freaked out. No one from my family called me. My friends didn't text or phone. No one even noticed in my life that I was in a high rise in downtown and stuff was moving!

It was the flood of emails I got from total strangers that got me. You made me feel like someone would notice my absence, even if that someone was as far away as India or Ohio or Maine or Newfoundland. On that day I closed my office door and had a moment at my desk, realizing the vast gulf between who I am online and who I am in real life. You checked in on me, no one else did. I was grateful and at the same time I wondered where the heck I had gone wrong in real life to have this disconnect? That still exists.

I want to figure out my next chapter but I am not sure what that means.

For the past few months it has meant almost sullen silence. But that can't carry on, I am not a sullen silence person. For the next few weeks it may mean: chatty posts about fingernail polish, pictures of cats, my constant and boring dialogue about knitted armwarmers. It may be superficial. I have some stuff to figure out.

But whatever, I will figure it out, we always do. And it's how we get to where we go, right? I like this idea of my next chapter, my second chapter in life. So I will figure it out, but it may take some time.

And I appreciate you for still being here with me, more than I can say.

Red Vines art

On display in the Arclight Sherman Oaks:

Valley on a Friday

It's Friday night in the Valley and I just had the worst date of my entire life.

He drops me off in his new Mercedes -- it still has the new car smell -- and all I want to do is melt into my front door, die, unexist. But I'm not ready just yet to be bitter and hateful. Bitter people frighten me. I'm not even ready to give up completely, get a new cat, call it a day.

What I am ready for is some cheap pinot and a lotto ticket. Later I could cry about this thing OR I could indulge in some semi-tipsy online shopping that may or may not include six new shades of Zoya nailpolish.

I step out of my dress and leave it in a pile on the floor. Fuck you, Trina Turk and your ponte knit black dress of bad dateness. With my big toe I skootch out of my gold strappy sandals, bought them just for this date. Dumb. Waste of money.

Remove all the ornaments of the date: earrings, bracelet, spanx, you are off me. Off like a dirty shirt! Suddenly I am a fireman in reverse, suited up in yoga pants and Uggs and I walk down to the corner market for a tipple. I bring my own bags, the way Al Gore would like. Based on tonight's date, Al Gore is back in Fantasy Number One. Vincent D'Onofrio close second.

None of it matters. Wow, this was a night.

Sean the comic book artist is out with his Large Dog Seth and we say hey and the dog gives me a face wash. I freaking love Large Dog Seth. Sean, his owner, is soft and polite and shy but Seth is my go-to-guy. I have just been on the worst date of my life and I am sitting ass-planted on sidewalk with Large Dog Seth, and Seth is wagging his tail so hard I think his butt might cramp, and we are smoothing out each other's rough spots and he is giving me a doggie tongue bath and mon dieu, I need it.

Sean the comic book artist gets bored with my neediness, he and Seth The Big Dog need to go inside and watch porn. I walk down to the corner market, get my pinot, and walk back home.

The ghetto birds start about then, LAPD helicopters flying so low the buildings shake. I open the gate to my building and climb the stairs to my landing and everyone is out, staring up, waving at each other.

The screenwriter across the way pulls out his very thick fake British accent and yells, "Lock up your jewels, lassies! A manhunt is afoot!" We all know his accent is a put-on. Los Angeles.

People groan. The helicopter keeps circling, then suddenly it's gone. Everyone goes inside, it's just me and the felines and the wine left.

Blonde moment

My summer contract is with a movie studio. It's been a long time since I last stepped foot on a lot and I forget how much I missed it, missed being around people (mostly dudes) who love their gadgets and talk about books and comics and dubstep and sports and movies. Especially movies.

My project is a movie project, and I love it. Part of my competitor research involves downloading movies. I know, I know, don't cry for me, Argentina. Sometimes you walk into the break room in the office and there's a big pile of DVDs for everyone, or posters. The entire floor I'm on is papered in movie posters.

One of those posters was for Chernobyl Diaries, and when I first say it a few weeks ago -- or has it been two months? I'm behind, I have so many stories to tell you -- anyway, I was intrigued. And two of the designers are talking about it one day, or maybe I brought it up, but I was up ON IT.

"I really want to see that film," I said. "Like, are they going into the exclusion zone? Is there re-population?"

"Uh, what?" said Jeremy.

"Huh?" said Remco.

"The exclusion zone!" I said. "You know, tree kill and contamination area. And will they be interviewing survivors? For long-term effects? Are there any this much time later?"

There is silence. Then,

"YEAH, IF BY SURVIVORS YOU MEAN ZOMBIES," says Remco.

It takes me a moment. Then:

"They made a fucking zombie movie out of Chernobyl?" I am fairly beside myself. "You mean it's not a documentary?"

"Uh, no," says Remco, "Chernobyl Diaries is not a documentary!"

"And the blonde is probably the first to go," says Jeremy.

There was much laughing across the land, and the land was amused. The land thinks it is funny when I am a dumbass.

So that is my tip for you today, Chernobyl Diaries -- not a documentary!

Bob knows everyone has blonde moments.

Entrelacking

Over the weekend I found this semi-completed project:

This tangle of color is a half-completed entrelac scarf made from Noro Furisode in a wacky color combination that if I were naming colorways would be called, "Acid trip vomit dream colorway #1969." I realize it is not everyone's taste, though I happen to like it. I prefer my yarn weird and big. Insert vaguely smutty joke about men here.

It has been so long since I knitted anything other than simple armwarmers and hats that I had forgotten how to make entrelac. Out of sight, out of skill level.

Luckily entrelac isn't too hard to extract from the grey matter, turns out it is a lot like riding a bike. Except of course it is nothing like riding a bike and you can do it indoors with wine. Once I got back into the groove of knitting this scarf I remembered why I love entrelac so much ... it's supremely cool! From a series of fairly simple knits, purls, increases and decreases you get a fantastic fabric that looks truly impressive.

While knitting entrelac I spend most of my time congratulating myself on how awesome I am, with only an intermittent burst of the Oh Fuck! stitch, which seems to happen when I am basking in my greatness and drop something accidentally. This move is also known as the Humbling stitch.

If you haven't tried entrelac before, I highly recommend it. It looks complicated and impossible but once you accept that it is the most insane thing you will ever knit then it's all zen and fun. There's a nice leap of faith at the beginning of the process when your mind can't quite figure out how all the stitches will come together.

The best part of entrelac is when people say things like, "WOW, you MADE that?" -- a comment which never ceases to make me feel taller.

It's not who gets there first that matters.

Facebook is going public today. While I am not a Facebook aficionado (yes, I read your notes, no I will not set up a profile anytime soon) I do appreciate the concept from a purely optimistic viewpoint: Facebook did not arrive first but still dominated.

Remember MySpace? Classmates.com? Reunion.com? All existed prior to Facebook, and all have been made obsolete since the "like" button.

How is that optimistic? It proves that you do not have to be the first one with the idea, the first one to invent a thing, the first one to walk on the moon. All you have to do is walk on the moon best, or most interestingly, or most inventively. Or do it most relentlessly or with panache.

Recently Jen came up with the coolest idea I have seen in a long time and I can't tell you the details yet, but wow, it is a good one. Maybe it's not the first of this concept on earth, but it's the funniest and the best. When she is ready to release it to the world I will tell you all about it. I love it. You will love it. When she first told me her idea I didn't know how she would even begin to implement it. How would someone create that? It boggled my mind. I moved on to to think about other things such as shoes and how I will ever fit into those pants I have, you know the ones, you have them and also cannot figure out how to get back into them. But she kept slogging on with her project, she did the work, she had moments of doubt and pushed past them. She didn't get discouraged along the way just because someone else had once had a similar idea a few years back or because maybe someone else may do it in the future. (How many times have we all used that as reasons to quit an idea?) She did the work.

Last night before I went to bed she texted me an image of the prototype. This morning I woke up thinking about her cool project. It inspired me. Listen, I know other people have written amazing, bestseller spy novels and other people have led great lives and other people speak fluent French and have thin thighs. Just because someone else did it already does not mean my shot at the ball has vanished. Just because someone else already wrote the Great American Novel does not mean there are not more, better Great American Novels to come.

Here is what I am thinking: when someone has a similar idea or style or concept to yours and they succeed, it does not diminish your chance at success. It just means it's possible for someone like you to make it.

HAPPY FRIDAY!!! Have a fabulous weekend. Go forth and make your idea come to life! I will do the same. Pinkie swear, innernets style.

Stuff we said that time

"So has it improved or is it still weird?" Jen asked.

"I can't tell," I said. "It's like being trapped inside a black and white farce movie where everything is -- oddly enough -- subtitled in porn Ukranian with typos."

She paused for a moment.

"I have no idea what that meant," she said, "and yet I know EXACTLY what that meant."

- - -

"That's right, boys and girls. Misspelled porn Ukranian is a problem. Give to the Meow Mix Fund and eradicate this scourge. I am Bob T. Cat and I approve this message."

< outtake >

Did I do it right? Do I get Meow Mix? What is You Kranian? Can I stop posing like this now? Is the teddy bear here?

City of Studio keeps me rockin' knows how to party

The leader of the free world came to Studio City yesterday for a dinner event at George Clooney's house. There were Secret Service people all over the Boulevard and surrounding side streets, police were everywhere, news and paparazzi helicopters began flying overhead at dawn and everything south of the boulevard was locked down after rush hour.

All day there was Obama Traffic -- a Los Angeles situation that involves citywide gridlock, mass complaining (also, coincidentally, the only real bonding experience we have in this city: "Were you stuck in Obama traffic?" "Like, totally!") plus protestors, weird off-ramp closures and minute-by-minute breaking news coverage. There were urgent messages from our City Council representatives to stay home and lock down. At about 7 p.m. I actually saw Marine One fly over accompanied by a massive convoy of military helicopters and that was cool and everything.

But the only important detail here is:

GEORGE CLOONEY LIVES IN STUDIO CITY!!!!!!!!!!!!

How have I lived in Studio City for twelve years (minus the Encino-Adjacent period, "Divorce Blue") and not known that GEORGE MUTHALOVIN CLOONEY is my neighbor-adjacent?

If George lives here, can Al Gore be far behind?

I did just write that whole selfhelpy crap about "... some dawns wait." I'm just saying is all.

Hey, baby, what's your sign?

Do you come here often?

What, can't a brother get some love?

Some dawns wait

If we are being honest and not-smartypants I did not think of that title. Probably it is a line from another Langston Hughes poem since that is all I am reading in the bathroom while being literary fancy with expensive tea in a Beverly Hills chair.

But you know what? Some dawns wait.

Not everything you want happens right now.

Not every plan you make gets put into action today.

Not every list you make gets checked off one by one today.

You may not get it all done.

You will never get it perfect.

You do not have to finish life to get good at it.

You may not get it today, but tomorrow is a whole new dawn.

Maybe tomorrow it will work out.

You never know.

The living experience is the one where we mess up. Others mess up. We figure out what we will and will not accept. Today someone treated me horribly and I said to myself, first: "WOW! I cannot believe you did that! It is kind of stunning how much you suck." (Oh, I used more colorful words.)

And later I said: "I will never treat another human being that way." This is why the dawn waits. So you can decide who you will be when it comes.

I do not yet know the outcome, the dawning realization that will come with time, the dawning knowledge that will make this small little blip fit into my life. Some dawns just take time. We do not get the download in one day.

Oh! Here it is, I found it, the Hughes piece I ingested whole. I cannot explain why he is my daily devotional right now. This is a black man born in 1902 who came of age at a time when there were no civil rights. How do we connect? Words, that's how. The longing, the want, the aspiration, it's so resonant.

TOMORROW

Tomorrow may be

a thousand years off:

TWO DIMES AND A NICKEL ONLY

says this particular

cigarette machine.

Others take a quarter straight.

Some dawns

wait.

Write what you must, say what you can, be who you are. You never know who it touches. Dude was writing about a cigarette machine and I extrapolated it into my LIFE.

You can do this.

Me, too.

Dawns wait.