All I can say is this: those of you addicted to Xanax, I pity you poor bastards. How can you get anything done? My brain feels like it has turned into a post-fishing-expedition wool sock thanks to the Xanaxes I slipped into my bourbon, making for a delightfully uneventful flight from Long Beach, CA to New York City. Or at least I’m told it was uneventful.
Y’see, the Fox party had lasted until 3am, and I had to get up at 4:45am. Several missed flights later, I popped the pills and was suddenly at JFK at 10:30pm (Eastern time) Saturday night, then cabbed into the city, got ol’ Bessie the Land Rover from Laurie, fought traffic all the way up the West Side Highway, and made it to my brother’s bachelor party upstate at 3 am.
Fortunately, Sean has the same caliber of dedicated friends that I do, and everyone was still up, playing pool, darts, talking shit and being exceptionally funny. That kind of culture shock – from Venice Beach to my upstate NY barn – is quite profound. It took me a few hours to regain my witty repartee (poor Tessa is stuck in Santa Monica, and fears that her brain is atrophying).
Reports of the death of winter here in New England are woefully premature. It is fucking freezing here, miserable, rainy and 40 degrees. I can’t imagine how you, my fellow New Yorkers, have suffered through the last two months. I’ve been here for 24 hours and I already want to stick a fork into my neck.
But the change of pace is utterly arresting: in the matter of hours, I went from shaking hands with some of the most important decision makers in Hollywood to gardening flower bulbs 3000 miles away. At some point, you just have to be a Buddhist about everything, because “relinquishing control” isn’t a choice, it’s an order. And as my and Tessa’s career rests in the jotted notes of the young execs on Pico Blvd, all I can do is shoot foul shots in the barn and pretend I’m 12.