humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • Let’s talk about death, baby.

    Saturday was the 13th Annual International Survivors of Suicide Day.

    “Survivors?” My friend asked. “That’s the wrong word.”

    But it isn’t. Every 40 seconds someone takes his own life. And every 41 seconds, someone is left to make sense of it. That’s what the ads for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention say. That one second is a war. Everything that follows is a tsunami. There can only be survivors. There are questions. There is reasoning and rationalizing. There are thousands of ‘whys’. There are a million ‘what if’s. What if I had called more often? What if I had gone over there? What if I had never said that? Those left after a suicide drown in questions. Sometimes it takes years to figure out how to tread through them. We eventually figure it out. We never go back to normal, but we survive. ———–> The rest of this is on the Huffington Post! Check it out and spread the word. 

    And if you want to hear more about my story, it’s HERE. But please don’t feel bad for me. I’m telling it because I want people to know what suicide is really like. If the knew, they wouldn’t do it.

  • Home is where the LA is.

    I’ve lived in LA for almost 14 years now. I’ve left to go try other places during those 14 years, but I always come back. I never mean to come back, but I do. Here I am.

    Hi!

    Since I’ve been here for so long, I have grown accustomed to my environs. I can easily walk by a pantsless homeless man on Venice Beach or a hooker on Hollywood Blvd and not blink an eye (unless it’s a regularly scheduled eye blink.). Converting to full Angeleno was a big step. I arrived having never seen flip-flops. Now I live steps from the beach. I arrived not knowing what I wanted to do with my life. Now, I totally know (kinda). I arrived when I had just lost my virginity. Now, I’ve fucked {{This sentence has been interrupted by the emergency broadcast system. This is only a test.}}. Since my transition has been so gradual, I haven’t really noticed it. But something happened the other day that pulled the wool off of my unblinking eyes.

    My friend came over with a bag from Whole Foods. She pulled out her carton of sushi and screamed. I thought there was a mouse in the bag.

    “Oh my god.” She exclaimed. “I forgot to get brown rice!”

    She forgot to get brown rice.
    In her sushi.

    The. Horror.

    The starch!

    O. M. G.

    It took 14 years, but now I realize: I AM IN LA. Holy mackerel, am I in LA. (I obviously knew I was geographically located in LA since I see the street signs, but I didn’t realize how unique it really is until lately.) Such an event would not have been a tragedy or even a possibility in the city where I grew up (Addison, IL, a blend of Jersery Shore and My Big Fat Greek Wedding.).

    Since the rice catastrophe, I have been hyper aware of my surroundings. For example:

    I stumbled across these screenplays in a bar bathroom garbage can. What? How? How did those get there? “Oh, Larry. I’m sick of lugging around all your screenplays. You’re never gonna sell ’em. I need to find a bar bathroom to throw them out.”  “Miranda! You go throw out all my screenplays. I don’t even want them anymore. Did you see that they’re not printed on brown recyclable paper? The. Horror.”

    Oh, LA, you are so mysterious.

    And then there’s the food. When I go back to Addison, I say I’m a vegetarian, and the waitress says, “Okay, you want chicken or fish?” Sometimes in LA you have to ask a restaurant if they serve any meat at all. Here people eat seaweed chips. And I walk to get wheat grass shots in the morning.

    It must work because there are no fat people here. It’s a cliche, but so true. I stood on my corner the other day and looked for some for an hour (read: three minutes). Okay, there are two. But one has a thyroid problem and one is Tyra Banks wearing a fat suit.

    You think maybe someone thought they’d get discovered if they threw their screenplays into a bar garbage? Or maybe it was a trick, and I would have won a prize if I had pulled one out? Dammit, I always miss out on prizes.

    My friend got married in Malibu last week. He said it was great except for the stunt man who was practicing diving off the cliffs right behind them. Over and over again, he plunged to the ground, suspended by ropes. He’s right behind the happy couple in their wedding pictures. I should make a joke here about taking a plunge, but instead I’ll make one about lamps: Lamps are so skinny. They belong in LA. (Nah. Plunge would have been better.)

    And isn’t this the thinnest grilled cheese? LA, not EVERYTHING must be thin.

    And the namedropping. I’ve realized it’s unavoidable in LA. Even though it’s sometimes a necessity, it doesn’t lose its douche factor. I mean, there are helicopters because Lindsay Lohan lives next to me. And I locked eyes with Jake Gyllenhaal. I cannot help drop some names once in a while. (ahem, I also saw Arnold while eating that skinny grilled cheese.) (Please note: it was still a good grilled cheese. Gone in aprox 4.3 bites).

    And the laptops. In any LA cafe on any given day, you can find a smattering of writers pecking away at their laptops.They are the people who will spend hours perfecting some blog that won’t even earn them a penny. There’s so much hope and opportunity in those people. You can’t spend your days wilting atop your laptop if you don’t believe in possibility. I bet if we took the amount of ambition and hope in LA and tied it all together, it would go around the world twelve times. Or Maybe thirteen. I don’t know. I’m not a scientist.

    That doesn’t happen in too many other places.

    So, yeah, I’m in LA.

    And it’s a weird place. But I love it anyway. Did you see how skinny that grilled cheese was? Why do they even slice bread that thin? Such a travesty. Bread! I sometimes have to drive two hours outside of LA to get bread. Not really. That would be weird. But I do walk to get wheat grass, which is a bunch of grass they grow inside the restaurant. And then they mow it down right in front of me, squeeze it until green water comes out. And then I drink that water. And then my burps smell like summer all day long. That’s LA, baby.

    Please, come visit. Or don’t.

  • A year! I could have been pregnant 1.3333 times.

    Last week was the year anniversary of Taboo Tales. Years really sneak up on you. One day you’re seven and teaching your Barbies how to have sex in the back of their Ferrari. And the next day you’re twenty-seven and wondering how come you’ve never had sex in the back of a Ferrari.

    Last October 28th, my friend Corey and I got on a stage and hosted a show in front of 90 people. I don’t even know how we got 90 people to come to a show we didn’t even know would be good. I was, of course, filled to the brim with anxiety. If you trip on a sidewalk in front of some people, it’s not really that big of a deal. You weren’t asking them to look at you. This was to be different. This would be people coming to see us because we asked them to. And if we tripped, they might be pissed and annoyed they drove through LA traffic (which, as we know, can be downright depressing) for something that was a mess. The PRESSURE!

    During that first show, we learned a lot. We learned that even D-list actresses don’t show up on time. We learned that projector remotes only work when they’re right next to the projector. We also learned from our audience that most people don’t mind the LA traffic because they’re masturbating all the while. Yeah. They are. Who knew?

    And then a year passed (I’m still not having sex in the back of a Ferrari). There are as many storytelling shows in LA as there are struggling actors, so we weren’t sure how it would fare. But dare I say that our show is more than a storytelling show? We ask humans (any humans) to tell us a comedic version of their taboo story. All we ask is that it be a personal story that they would not normally feel comfortable telling in public. It must make the storyteller completely vulnerable. On stage. In front of 100 people (now 120. That’s right– more people. Huzzzah.).

    The vulnerability is not just for the enjoyment of the audience though. No way. That’s a side product. Getting vulnerable on stage is rewarding for the storyteller. Letting out their stories to an accepting audience who laughs with them in the right places and cries with them in the right places is pretty freeing.

    My friend was scared to tell his story about how he contracted HIV. That’s the kind of secret that sticks with you just below the surface all the time. You’re reminded of it when you take your pills every day. But it’s so ‘taboo’ that it doesn’t easily roll off the tongue. So when he read his story out loud on stage, that vulnerability was for him. And the best part were the hugs that followed. People heard his story, and they lined up to hug him. They weren’t scared of him.

    That’s usually why we don’t tell our stories. We’re scared of being judged. We’re scared of the labels. But Taboo Tales is not ‘just a storytelling show.’ It’s a place where people can tell their secrets and then get hugs. Lots of hugs. And new friends. My favorite part of the experience is going on Facebook the day after. I can see the threads of all the new friendships made in our theater. It’s proof of acceptance. And proof that humans are capable of loving each other even though the news makes us feel sometimes like that doesn’t happen anymore.

    There have been stories of hemorrhoids, breast cancer, blindness, fat fetishes, eating disorders, OCD, vaginal paranoia (that one was mine), butt licking, low self-confidence, and plenty of rapes. Lots of rapes. One of the biggest lessons I learned was how to spell hemorrhoids. Try it. That’s a painful one. to spell. sorry.

    Now it’s been a year and a few days (still no sex in a Ferrari). I’m so grateful for all the new relationships I have, all the stage confidence I gained, all the lessons about humans and acceptance and love and judgments, and all the people who now see me as a safe sounding board for their secrets. Really, people tell me everything now. EVERYTHING! I love it. I’ll admit that once in a while I find myself judging someone for playing a nine-point word in Scrabble, but that’s the extent of my judging! It’s impossible to judge anyone now that I know that most of my friends shit their pants in Walgreens or think their sons are hot. For this, I’m so lucky. I accept this position.

    Thanks for all the support and for coming to the shows and for encouraging us and for sharing your secrets. Next time I see you in traffic, I won’t be so mad when you’re stopped at a green light for too long.

    Also, if you have a Ferrari: Call me!

  • Richard Simmons is not a whore

    Many times I’ve questioned my status as an adult. My ability to continuously lapse my health insurance serves as a frequent reminder that being in my thirties could possibly be an adulthood facade.

    However, that all went out the window this weekend.
    Now I know I am adult. For sure.

    I went to a Halloween party. And I did not dress in a slutty costume.
    Whhaaaat?
    I know. Can you believe it?

    I have always been a fan of slut costumes on Halloween. I don’t enjoy other’s slut costumes but mine have been creative. A slutty clown! A slutty postwoman! They’re original. Right? I mean, RIGHT? (There might have been a slutty ladybug in there one year, but that was in an emergency.)

    I have supported fishnets and mini cop uniforms on hallow’s eve because Americans are repressed sexually. Admit it. We are. In order to cave into their desires, congressmen have to sneak into public bathrooms and do a little tappy tap to find what they want. And vibrator is a dirty word. And when Janet Jackson shows her nipple on TV, people talk about it for YEARS. The. Horror.

    But we’re animals. We’re supposed to fuck all the time. That’s what we were originally programmed to do. And we are doing it. Population is about to hit 7 billion. We’re definitely doing it. But it’s mostly in private and it’s not really talked about that much. So, I’ve always thought Halloween was a holiday that allowed us to finally be the sexy bitches we were born to be. Slut Clown– yeah baby.

    But now, with the popularity of sex tapes and the epidemic of short skirts that barely cover vaginas, my theory of Halloween as a day of sexuality release has been negated. Girls are dressing like street walkers on a regular basis (I know this because I visited a Forever 21 this weekend and got lost in the ‘dress’ section that I was sure was the shirt section.) Yet, we are still repressed. Congressmen are still meeting in bathrooms. And the media goes haywire when a famous person texts a penis picture.

    Just your average precarious labia coverage on an average day in Hollywood. 

    I admit when I’m wrong. So my slutty Halloween days are over. This year I dressed as Richard Simmons. I have been in love with him since I sat on the couch watching my mom Sweat to the Oldies. He’s fun. He’s peppy. He’s not slutty (that I know of.).

    I had the best time. I could dance without worrying about my labia sliding out. I ended the night without sore feet. I was able to wear some sort of boob support under my shirt. I would say my fun quotient increased as my slut factor decreased. Imagine a graph, if you will. When you dress as a whore, people stare at your assets. And you’re dressed as a whore. So, you’re very aware of people staring at your assets. Even if  you’re just a moderate whore and not a real one, there’s still a lot of eye-fucking going on at a Halloween party.

    But as Richard Simmons, I felt invisible next to all the whores! I danced how I wanted. I boogalooed. I made loud jokes. I stood with bad posture. No one eye-fucked me. No slimy guys tried to venture into my gym shorts. Only old ladies who remember the Deal-a-Meal cards tried to take my picture. I was just myself (dressed as Richard Simmons, but acting like myself.) And I had so much more fun!

    I had more fun acting like myself. What a concept.

    I say this is a win. Congressmen, please, learn something from this and just go to a gay bar. Thanks.

     

     

     

     

  • Douchebag Robot

     

    I had a realization the other day:
    I’m a douche bag.

    I don’t use that term lightly. I don’t really even like that term. But, in this particular case, it was the only way I could describe myself. Douchey.

    I’m not the stereotypical douche bag. I don’t wear Ed Hardy shirts or pump house music from my Iroc Z and/or Beemer (although I would if I could).

    No. In this instance, I went to Palm Springs for my wonderful friends’ wedding. It was one of those weddings you don’t want to leave, the kind where everyone knows each other and meets up the day before and the day after to talk about old times. The kind of wedding that brings you back to grad school when you all met and when responsibilities seemed huge but really weren’t. The kind of wedding nobody wants to leave.

    I did not want to leave.

    We rented a house and spent a significant amount of time cannonballing, brunching on elaborate egg dishes outside, solving jigsaw puzzles, savoring wine, and not thinking about anything else but where we were right then. For someone who’s always thinking about everything everywhere else, it was magical.

    When it was time to leave, we clung to our pool noodles and begged the owner to let us stay longer. Pleeeease, just a little bit longer? On the road back to LA, we stopped for dinner outside the city to extend our vacation. Pleeeeaaaase, make it last a little longer.

    I did not want to go back to my regular life.
    Anything but that.

    Before we crossed into LA County, I was already steeped in a big vat of Post Palm Springs Depression: PPSD.

    I told my friend.
    She said: You live by the beach and work from home. What the fuck are you complaining about?

    She didn’t understand. Palm Springs had houses and friends from long ago and lots of room and privacy and washers and dryers and silence and puzzles. Venice is crowded and filled with police sirens and assignments I have to hand in.

    Then I told my friend that I didn’t want to go back home because I had an interview at an ad agency.
    She reminded me that a lot of people would want to work at that ad agency and that lots of people in the world don’t have jobs.

    That’s when it hit me: I’m a real douche bag.
    Because somewhere along the way I lost my gratitude.

    I’ve never been a fan of comparing bad things to worse things to make someone feel better. To me that never works. “Sorry your entire family died in that bus accident. At least you’re not in Ethiopia where you can’t even get fresh water.”

    Nope.

    But in my case, it wasn’t the the other people needing jobs that made me feel bad. It was simply the realization that I was complaining about a life I’m choosing to live.

    Hogwash!

    I do live by the beach, something I’ve always wanted to do. I haven’t had a boss since March, a goal I’ve always wanted to reach! My family is full of beautiful creative people who love me. I have lovely girlfriends on whom I can count. I laugh a lot. I have everything I need. I was able to afford a trip to Palm Springs. I can balance a fork on my head. I am free to have opinions on religion and gun control (no, yes).

    It wasn’t long ago that I was happy living out of a backpack in a rat-infested room in India. When I first got this apartment, I was so grateful for having plates. Hello! Where did that go?

    I have nothing to complain about!

    BUT…

    I have created this belief that tells me I’m not a ‘real writer’ unless I’m making a certain amount of money through writing. So, I wake up every morning and feel like my goal has not yet been met. Every day, I’m failing. And so I work fourteen hours a day because I’m trying to make it make it make it. And sometimes I don’t go outside to even see the beach because I’m writing writing writing. And sometimes I only eat rice because I can’t take a break from my doing doing doing. And sometimes I don’t see those great friends because I can’t stop stop stop. And sometimes I skip out on phone calls because I’m busy busy busy.

    Of course I’m not grateful. I’m not looking around.

    I’m a douche bag.

    I think there’s a line between being driven and being a robot. I’m pretty sure I crossed into robot a while ago. A douchebag robot. Also the name of my band.

    All I can do is open my eyes. So, I’m declaring it here: I will walk to the beach every single morning and treat myself to some sunshine and coffee and real life before I go back to doing. And during those walks I will phone a friend or tell myself how grateful I am for what I have. Because I am! When I stop to think about it, I really am! I just need to stop more often. Like, every five minutes. Maybe I should also douche, just to keep up with my name.