Spin Cycle: A Different Celebrity!

I know, I know.. all of you Spin Cyclists that read my blog are justifiably expecting the Kevin Costner story. But I tried that once, remember? Yes, I had the chance to go out to his place in Colorado, twice, yes it was fabulous, yes I loved it, yes he's fabulous for letting us, no he was not there, blah blah blah. Let's not go there (again.)

BUT! Casey reminded me, I did have a brush with celebrity prior to this. In college. And it was WAY cooler because I actually met the celebrity. As opposed to just staying in his house, using his kick-ass Keurig Coffee (I met my) Maker and his snowmobiles and sledding hill.

This is a little less glamorous: I was invited to a friend's wedding her Senior year in college. They'd been dating since High School, he went to Duke (blech) and she went to Carolina (yay) and got married in Duke Gardens (blech) and had the reception at an old historic Inn in historic Hillsbrough (closer to Chapel Hill..yay!) I rode on the Equestrian team with her, and she was a very cool chick.. pretty laid back, concomitantly ditzy and smart, and hilarious.

I didn't know her well enough for her to break out with, "So my aunt married Michael Mann."

Let me pause here and give you Michael Mann's filmography:

Frankie Machine (2010) (in production) (rumored)

Public Enemies (2009) (completed)

1. Miami Vice (2006)
   
2. Collateral (2004)
3. Ali (2001)
   
4. The Insider (1999)
5. Heat (1995)
6. The Last of the Mohicans (1992)
7. L.A. Takedown (1989) (TV)
   
8. "Crime Story" (1 episode, 1987)
   - Top of the World (1987) TV episode
9. Manhunter (1986)
   ... aka Red Dragon: The Curse of Hannibal Lecter (USA: TV title)
10. The Keep (1983)
11. Thief (1981)
    
12. The Jericho Mile (1979) (TV)
13. "Police Woman" (1 episode, 1977)
    - The Buttercup Killer (1977) TV episode
14. 17 Days Down the Line (1972)
15. Jaunpuri (1971)
16. Insurrection (1968)

I'm standing in the historic grass, in the beautiful May sunshine, and someone casually mentions there's a major Hollywood producer/director/writer standing over yonder. I was a flim major, so my heart missed a few beats. We all wound up surrounding him, like a gaggle of eager boarding school girls around the sole male, but only one guy could think of a brainy question to ask him.. about the sub-plot of the driver in Heat (1995).

Mr. Mann was intrigued, and took his time answering. I was so insanely jealous of that question. All I could stammer out was, "I'm a film major! But oh well. We are in North Carolina."

He corrected my assumption and said North Carolina's film industry was really ramping up. Not to count it out. Pursue all projects.

(Well, if I HAD taken his advice, do you really think I'd be writing this blog right now as opposed to the next screenplay he directs?! )

Michael Mann was one cool cat. Married to an aunt of a friend of mine. They go to family weddings. I met him once, had casual conversation. And he has every Hollywood A-list actor on speed dial.

This was years before the Kevin Costner "event". Is God trying to tell me something?

Read more...

Writer's Workshop: Horrid Tastes from my 20s

From MamaKat's Writing Workshop, my chosen prompt: 5.) What is an unpleasant experience you had eating? Write a poem, paragraph, or something else about the experience.

How 'bout a novella? I'm going to share this story with everyone, in the hopes that I might save someone else the horribleness of it. And if you're reading this on Facebook, there is a minute chance you are in this story. Minute.. say.. one-half of one percent. 50 bps for you finance folks. 50 pts if you figure out who you are.

My first job out of college. Ah, what an adventure. I was recruited by a large wholesale plumbing distributor for their "Management Trainee" program, which is a pseudonym for "bitch" and "do whatever anyone tells you to do" and ridiculous crazy things like lift 135-lb Kohler sinks and drive forklifts (withOUT knocking down a pallet of bathtubs.) What I struggled, whined, got dirty and foul-mouthed from did at this job is irrelevant, the important point is it was nearly 99% MALE. Men in the warehouse, men in inside sales, men in outside sales, men in management. This was good training for later in my career, when I'd work on a testosterone-crazed trading floor.

We'd all hang out a lot, the trainee guys and me. We'd have little happy hours with the ONE or two other ladies and all the guys.. going to relatively nice places with pool tables and quality beer. At one relatively nice place that we frequented, one night I was surrounded by a bunch of my male colleagues, and shots were ordered. No, I didn't become the drunk victim of shots.. it's so much worse than that.

There is a shot called a "Cement Mixer." Have you heard of this? I had never heard of this. One was ordered, a challenge was presented, and attention was being paid. And, since I'll do anything for attention (see: blog creation), I was game.

This particular shot is two shots.. (Bailey's Irish Cream and lime juice); you take one just after the other. Then, in some nightmarish scene out of a horror chemistry experiment, the liquid solidifies in your mouth.. .curdled Bailey's. All eyes were on me as I choked, struggled, became increasingly confused, and then... yep. Shot it back like a pro. Swallowed.

HUGE cheers erupted. "You guys suck," and "what a horrible prank," and "never coming out with you guys again", were barely audible. I think I actually got slapped on the back, like this was some sick, twisted initiation rite for being able to sell plumbing equipment.

So, my 20s were filled with learning experiences. No matter how much someone bets, cons, pays or bribes you, under no circumstances do you EVER do a Cement Mixer shot.

Read more...

Speed of Light and Other Constants

First, I must apologize for the SNAFU with my 100th post; somehow, it's fitting, for me, to have such a dramatic 100th. Nothing I do is short in the drama department, I'm not exactly where this originates.. probably from my being very dramatic. Anyhoo, when I initially posted the Kevin Costner post, it was picked up by a couple fan sites that have major worldwide exposure and it quickly overwhelmed my sense of a 'private showing' to my loyal blog readers. Naive? Sure.

But the more important moment of clarity I experienced was the why. Why in the world was I prompted to post something I knew, deep down, would generate some attention? Even if I promised some readers, (so many posts back that there was no hope they'd remember) that I'd tell that story?

Because I'm an attention hound, always have been, and always working on counteracting this. I'm the youngest of three children, in fact..my siblings are seven and ten years my senior. Making me the doted-upon, attention-lavished, never taken seriously child that has always been viewed as "the baby" in my family.

Ever since I could remember, I would struggle to get a word in edgewise, in heated family dinner table debates (normally centered on physics, quantum mechanics, and other useless useful Laws of the Universe. I appreciate my Dad making us think. I really do, especially since he'd never give us the answer. He made you think.

If you're standing on the end of an accelerating train, and you have a flashlight, and there is someone out in space with another flashlight, shining the light towards you, and you both have a clock, and you look down and read the clock at the same time...

When I was mostly concerned with getting a boy to notice me, or keeping all my friends in middle school, I was hardly worried about what Einstein thought, or how he proved light as a constant. But that is what we talked about. Ideas. Theories. Everything is relative. It's hard to get attention as the youngest in that mix.

Even now, as a 30-something adult, lavishing my own attention upon my firstborn, my beloved mini-masterpiece of a Toddler, I see him hamming it up for the crowd when we're out to lunch. Or showing off in Hola Baby spanish class. Or parading around with the drum in music class. I see the twinkle in his baby eye when he gets the teacher to notice him, flashes his toothy grin for the camera.

I was the star in the school's 2nd-grade play, Peter Pan, when I was too little to understand showmanship (or, was I?) The entire family went berserk with the idea that I was bound to be an actress after that performance. And maybe I've been playing that role ever since.

Read more...

Ricki, Don't Use My Number!

Our limo guy in the airport.

Catch up here. Ok, enough of this. It's not even that great of a story. But it does have an end.

They took us right into Makeup. I capitalized "Makeup" because that was the attitude of the Makeup People. That they should be capitalized, at all times, since it was they who decided who looked good, who looked great, and who should go home and crawl under a rock. And stay there. I wanted to know if my Makeup Lady did Ricki's makeup, too. She laughed. "Ricki has her own Makeup artist." In my mind, I slapped my own head. How could I be so stupid? In front of Makeup people? My Hollywood hopes of being discovered, possibly by this very Makeup person, were being dashed right before my carefully lined eyes.

"They" put us into a special room for all the "ex's." We were all separated into different rooms. The show was entitled "My Ex is Sexier Than My Current [Girl/Boyfriend]", and it was divided up into about 4 different 7-8 minute segments. Not quite my 15-minutes of fame. Thank you, God.

It was a large room, with a giant conference table, and "they" brought us, the special, made-up Sexier Ex's, whatever we wanted. Someone ordered Chinese food, so they got enough for 100 people. One person required Tex-Mex, done for 100 people. Someone was thirsty, drinks for 100 people. Ah, to be an over consuming American in the trash-tv heyday.

What am I doing here? Who are these people? No, I don't want $100 and Chinese Food! How would I escape, if I really wanted to? Would they chase me? That was a pretty maze-y hallway.

After what seemed an eternity, the show started, and we could watch it on a close-captioned TV. In the room with me, was a dude with a guitar, who had composed a love song to his long-lost love, with whom he was still in love. There was a feisty African-American girl who was sure she was gettin' her man back, and had a recent picture with him to prove his recent disloyalty to Current.

Seriously, where was the elevator? Would they really cancel my flight home, if I ditched?

My segment began, and as I was entering the door onto Stage Left (which I desperately wanted to Exit.. great album, but I wanted to do it for real), the producer told me to blow a kiss to the audience.

Um... NO.

I sat in the chair left of "J". On his right, was an empty chair. As I sat down, I realized I was PISSED OFF that I was in this situation. I nudged him, hard, with my elbow, as I sat down. The audience went crazy. We sit there, go through required chit-chat with Ricki, who is gorgeously made up. Her Makeup Artist and producer husband are, no doubt, glowing. My best friend comes out after a (3-minute) eternity, probably since the producers were glaring at me for being so "normal" and "quiet" and "not trashy enough."

My friend is a little feistier than me. She spices things up. Some dude in the audience stands up and points out that it seems as if "J" is still "sweating" me. I chuckle. This is kinda fun. As dumb decisions go.

Then, the Current (we can call her "Lucy") comes out. She sits down, makes herself comfortable. She's cute. (Not me, but cute.) Then Ricki comes out with it. "He's up here saying she's sexier than you are. What do you make of this?"

I then realize, all of a sudden, that "Lucy" is just finding out what this show is about. Nobody has told her why she was on the show. She was probably told she was winning an Oscar, and the limo was picking her up at 8:00 AM sharp. I'm disgusted, suddenly. But Lucy is a winner. Her response:

"Well, my Ex is a lot sexier than you are, but you don't see me going on a talk show to say that."

Audience goes WILD.

And that, my beloved bloggy friends, is pretty much the bitter end. A little more bickering, some stupid/silly "Sexymeter" at the end where the audience compares the two. They load us on the elevator, someone absent-mindedly asks when we're going to meet Ricki. The large bouncer security man who makes eight bucks an hour but gets to be The Man twice a day shuffling guests in and out answers in his gruffly NY accent, "we're taking you to her right now!" The elevator doors open, we're taken to the exit where our limos are waiting. Classy, Big Man. Classy.

And that's it. End of show, end of story, the flights were a little delayed and my sorority sisters were embarrassed. Was it worth it? It made a good blog story, right?

And, just because Steely Dan is in our heads anyways;

Rikki Don't Lose That Number

You don't wanna call nobody else

Send it off in a letter to yourself

Rikki don't lose that number

It's the only one you own

You might use it if you feel better

When you get home

Read more...

Ricki, Don't Lose That Number

And now we're back with our regularly scheduled programming. Already in progress. So that we're all caught up, we're in the process of hearing my very long, unnecessarily and overly dramatized story about how and why (on Earth) I was on the Ricki Lake Show. We've established that I was young.

What we haven't covered yet, was that my best friend in college was an adventurer, a regular mountain climber of excitement, a smart and brazen combination of youthful spirit and capriciousness. It would be immature and lame to forgo all responsibility for my actions and blame someone else.

It was all her fault. She found out about the call from the Ricki Lake producer, and, since I hadn't even mentioned this dude to her as yet, the dude from the camp. Whom we are calling "J." And she was R-E-L-E-N-T-L-E-S-S.

Her: "Let's go! Let's go gallivanting around New York City!"
Me: "'We?' They called me."
Her: "Well, just tell them that I'm coming too!"
Me: "I should just inform them who is coming onto their show?"
Her: "Yes! Free ticket to New York! We'll skip the show!"
Me: "Hm.. That is a good idea."
Her: "Let's go! We'll just gallivant around the city for a while, then fly home!"
Me: "So what if they cancel our return flights?"
Her: "Who cares? We'll get home! I have a final that day though."
Me: "Well, you have to skip it. And when did you start saying 'gallivanting'?"

So, I call the show back, or, more accurately, they call me back to follow up. Again. And I tell them I have this friend. They tell me to bring her on the show, too. They tell me a bunch of stuff that I need to hear to be even remotely interested in following through with this. Meanwhile, I have NOT spoken to 'J' about any of this. In fact, I haven't talked to him in a few months. I'm not sure I could recognize him right now.

Another extremely important piece of information: I call my Mom, to tell her about all of this. The extreme excitement of it all. She listens. She sighs. She absolutely forbids me from going on a show such as this one. Done, and done! (And now-poof! I have a child as stubborn and rebellious as I was. Karma. Arrgh.)

Long story short (too late!) the Pope is in town. At the exact same time. All hotels are sold out, booked, or we are gravely lied to and naive. Probably both. In any case, we are booked into a hotel in New Jersey. Told the times to appear for the limo to pick us up.

The limo does, in fact show up at the airport. It also shows up at the hotel, and we.. looking around at our various options of Waffle Houses and 7-Elevens in New Jersey, decide to get in. It does, in fact, take us directly to the Ricki Lake show, where, surprisingly, there is a line around the building to get in. (This is the 90s, remember.) We, in possession of all our faculties and stepping out of a limo in New York, feeling like the rock stars we believe ourselves to be, are escorted into a special door to a special elevator to a special private room.

Gallivanting plot is FOILED. Damn you, Ricki.

I haven't told anyone this story in a long time (like, since college) and it's taking all my faculties now to remember how this went. ERGO, part three, the final chapter, will resume tomorrow. Avec les pictures (no screen shots, sorry).

Read more...

Ricki, I've Got Your Number

Some bloggers have giveaways. Some bloggers review things. I have none of those things. I just have a post title that sings.

So, the Ricki Lake Story. Next on FOX. No, but I did get into a big contentious fight with a FOX personality on BlogHer yesterday. A good discussion of Keynesian economics, stimulus, fiscal responsibility. Fun stuff. I dig economics, always have. So, right now, it's like Britney [accidentally] getting married in Vegas to a pop culture junkie. Every headline has "read me" written all over it.

Enough of the thinking. Back to Ricki Lake. This is a LONGGGGG story. So, what better way to skip a lot of you hearing it but to blog about it on the weekend, when blog-land is deserted. The story begins back in 1995, when I was a camp counselor during the summer after my Freshman year in college. That, right there, should explain a lot. A freshman. What did I care about the future, or whether the name "Ricki Lake" was in my past? I went off to be a water-ski camp counselor at a [very expensive, exclusive] girls' sleep-away camp in the Adirondacks of Upstate NY. Literally, one of my campers' families endowed a major Washington DC university. Uh-huh. There was also a boys' camp, and it was on an island, far removed from the girls' camp.

However! There were plenty of little mixers. Especially for the counselors, whom I remember as some of the coolest, most interesting, most educated colleagues I had. The weekend routine became for a whole bunch of us to hang out off-"camp"us. You know, someone would get beer and we'd all hang out in a big parking lot, with a campfire. Exciting stuff, when you're not of age! So.... there was this guy. We'll call him "J" to protect the guilty. He was pretty much the life of the party.. Division I (Ivy League) basketball player, outgoing, etc. So, we hung out for the summer (really, I hung out with everyone.) But yes, we hung out a lot. My campers giggled, and to this day I do not know how they found out we were hanging out.

The summer ended, the way summers commonly end. Everyone went home and forgot all about all the people they'd met over the summer. I was a college Sophomore, that meant I was a Bigger Deal than the year before, I had a new apartment, I had an ID. It was awesome to be me. I was loving college life, my sorority, my friends, all my myriad activities that kept me from reading and writing papers.

Then I got the call. It was a producer from the Ricki Lake show.
"What?"
"Yes, I'm serious! I'm one of the producers from the show, and we got a call from your old boyfriend, 'J'!"
"My.. what? Oh, he wasn't my boyfriend."
"Oh, THAT'S ok. We'll just call him that. He says you're sexier than his 'ex."
"Um. Heh. What?"
"So 'J' is now dating this other girl, and he says you're sexier than she is. We'd like you to come onto the show to talk about it. She'll be there too. It's just a light, fun show. You know, fun and light."
"Hm. Can I think about it?"
"What's there to think about? We'll fly you up to New York, tape the show, you'll get to meet Ricki, we'll feed you, put you up in a nice hotel, provide all the transportation you need. It's fun! So, can I send you over to travel?"
"Hm. Wow. Hm. Let me think about this.."

Read more...