Out of the frying pan, into the fire, I suppose: we went straight from the bucolic, verdant greenery of Columbia County to the sinus-closing congestion of LaGuardia Airport to drop off Chip, then across the Queensboro Bridge (which I find quite dramatic) to the City. At Asset, we met with Peter Coleman and another illustrator from Morocco who was actually quite brilliant – and whose name I won’t reproduce here because I’ll get it wrong. Like Dumas in “The Three Musketeers,” I’ll just call him “Monsieur T_______.”
Later tonight, Stasia Droze came to Brooklyn with her boyfriend Jim, and she interviewed me for a documentary she’s been making since about 1996. It’s a study of several different people in the entertainment industry, and she checks in on them every year or so to see where they are, both career-wise and emotionally. I’ve been a subject of the film since the beginning, and I think it might run a little like this:
1997: trepidation, unsure of Los Angeles
1998: depression, deep mistrust of Los Angeles
1999: rage-filled, violent loathing of Los Angeles
2000: relief at having finally made it to New York
2002: trepidation, unsure of anything
What Stasia’s little doc has forced me to do is take stock of my situation, especially as the biorhythms yaw and flutter in opposing angles; the last time I was interviewed, I had a ton of money in the bank, but my back hurt so bad I could barely speak – this time, I’m on unemployment, but I’m engaged to the greatest chick on earth, and we have stunning places in which to live.
Oh, and I’d made a movie. Just thinking about the interview she made with Peeler and I at the Game Show Network in ’98 riddles me with Stupid Feeling. I know I’ve whined about this until friends and family daydream of restraining orders, but O! the unreturned phone calls, the wasted time going out to “network,” the failed and dopey screenplay ideas, the humiliation, the humiliation of being in that place.
Strange, then, that I want to visit LA again. Perhaps I just needed my pool table back in New York, and now I can approach Los Angeles without feeling like a primal piece of my liver was being held hostage there.
Anyway, I felt like tonight’s interviewed lacked the verve and fire of my previous endeavors, most likely because I’m tired. Or was it
The Celextant, May 28, 2002
Thank god I have the foresight to keep shoving the pills into my wallet, since I seem to be hellbent on leaving my dopt kit everywhere I’m not. On the emotional front, I feel like I’m still ingesting a lot of anxiety and obsession, even if it is toned down about two notches. The problem is, I’m not sure if I want to go on a higher dose. I’m just getting my sexual innuendo back, and I don’t feel like being a zombie. I mean, I went to “About a Boy” yesterday, and I wanted Hugh Grant to fall in love, something that would have never happened on Prozac. I also wonder about the “lack of intensity” thing. What am I if I’m not a fireball of zany idiocy? Happier?