jesus' favorite

I still haven't found what I'm looking for

I haven't been blogging for some time.  Instead of thinking of something super clever to break the ice, I'm just going to blog where I'm at.  A really smart acting teacher of mine says...'take it from where you are.'  So, here is where I am.

(If you're new here...this is how this blog started.)

I've been trying to twitter.  @annieserts.  But I can't figure it out.  I can't figure out how to write snappy jokes, or tiny quips, or anything that would resemble a 'retweet.'  I do use it to share information on my shows. Or to share someone else's snappy joke, tiny quips, etc... but it feels like high school.  Like I'm trying to get popular, and I can't.  I'm standing on my own island with ratted up hair, safety pinned jeans, and a frozen coke hoping someone would red rover me over. Am I just too old? Or am I just too lazy?  Maybe the mark of a good writer is someone that can condense something down to 140 characters?  I dunno know. But I'm finding it feels yucky.

The weird thing is I'm fucking checking the stupid thing all the time.  Check. Refresh.  Check. Refresh.  The same thing with my fucking email.  As if what?  As if WHAT?  As if WHHHHATT?  *Yes! I'm shouting at myself.*  What am I looking for?  What do I think will happen in the time I'm not checking it?  What am I hoping to laugh at or find out about in the 20 minutes that I wasn't just on it? How did I become a slave to something that I can't even do?  And believe me, there are some funny ass people on twitter that are great!  Rob Delaney. Follow him if you are not.  But it's like golf.  I suck at golf.  So I don't TRY to play it.  What do I TRY to play twitter?

But maybe the real question should be, what am I running away from?  What am I using the time to not do?  What am I hoping to find in someone else's 140 comment over and over again? A once in a while check DOES makes me laugh at my funny friends and my funny NOT friends but I think I'm friends cuz I follow them celeb style.  But the re-checking and the re-checking?  What the fuck.  It's like taking 200 pregnancy tests after it told you it's negative. It makes me anxious, worried, and literally it's impossible to become prego the very day that you're not.  

I used to let myself be bored. Stand in line at the store, waiting, thinking, watching.  I used to keep a tiny notebook while I waited tables and write things down like...'weird eyes on table 5 or goats are cool.' Now I wait in line and check my email, then check my facebook, then check my twitter, then back to facebook, then to twitter, then back to email.  FUCK!  I'm hostage to my inner monologue.  Why didn't you write that? Oh fuck, that's funny.  Wait...go do that.  Go do that.  What's your point of view? How are you unique?  You couldn't think of that. That person's doing this.  That person is doing that.  What are you doing?  AHHHHHH!!

 The very thing that's suppose to connect me to others better, is making me un-connect to the very person that I am trying to get to know better, myself.

Am I alone in this?

 

 

 

 

when time stopped

Star of show: 'Whose up next?'

'Uh, me' I said shitting my pants.

Star of show: 'Okay.  Let's see if you're funny.'

Me faking a laugh because I couldn't tell if he was serious.

Oh, he was serious.

Other guest star turning to me. 

'Glad I'm not first.'

Me faking a laugh again just because I didn't know what else to do.

Lights dim, actors set.

'But is there anything you want me to do in particular or should I just...' to anyone who looked important.

ACTION.

People talking, actors moving, I'm talking, I'm moving.

CUT.

I just stand there. Star of show disappears to a vast sea of producers and moniters.

'Good.  We'll go again' says nice director.

'Wait, is there anything different you want me to...'

'Just try something else' he says and walks off.

Tiny shits of pants.

ACTION.

People talking, actors moving, I'm talking DIFFERENT TALKING, I'm moving DIFFERENT MOVING.

CUT.

Again, I stand there. Star of show disappears.

RESET.

STAND BY

Make-up touches me up.

In a whisper...'is this how it goes?'

'If you were doing it wrong honey, you already would be 'let go' you know what I mean?'

'OH! OKAY!' I say as more tiny shits shit out of my shit.

RESET.

Make-up clears frame.

I reset to first position.

ACTION.

People talking, actors moving, I'm talking DIFFERENT DIFFERENT TALKING, I'm moving DIFFERENT DIFFERENT MOVING.

CUT.

Everyone disappears again.

5 MINUTE RESET.

I stand there.

Star of show comes over.

Oh gosh, he's gonna 'let me go.'

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

He gives me the once over.

'You're funny kid.  You're real funny.'

He walks away.

'Thank you' rolls out of my mouth as if my tounge was a fruit roll up.

RESET. EVERYONE TAKE FIRST POSITIONS AGAIN.

The director approaches. 

'Good Annie. Just keep changing it up and trying new things.'

'Okay,' fruit roll up mouth says.

I improv'ed a bunch of different things, with a bunch of different endings; all drawing on my Groundlings training.  We landed on a couple things they really liked that I came up with and we did that a few more times from a few more camera angles always changing a few things.  No script.  No certian lines. Nothing forced.  I made up my name 'Krista Ferguson' since Mark Ferguson was my first boyfriend and well, I knew I wouldn't forget it.

I don't know how long I was there, what I really said, or what actually happened.  But when star of the show gave me a kudo, it made up for all the shit balls in Hollywood telling me crap after crap after crap.  Time indeed stopped and that's when I knew I was in my truth.  I went home that night and gave my Dear Journal a whole hell of gratitude.  Whatever it is you love to do in life, when time stops, you know you are suppose to be doing it.

 

 

(Season 8)

 

nerd alert

There are nerds and there are NERDS. (Not that this baby is a nerd.  In fact, I don't know this baby.  Maybe he is nerdy. Who knows).

As you may know, this blog started from a few choice nerds betting me to blog.  Yeah, yeah, I lost but I still stand by that they are uber nerd turds! They probably were first in line for the newest 10g mega version of the iphone dressed up like bitten out apples high fiving themselves for their purchase.  I bet they face-talk-time or whatever you call it across Los Angeles when they are geeking out over some beep bop bits.  Fine, I still have a lame 1999 blackberry that I barely can work and FINNNE, they have used the internet to be super successful actors, writers, producers, job hiring people WHATEVER! BUT…they are still nerds. (The nerdest thing I know how to do is 'control S' to save on my writing box.  Yeahh! Take that!)

Now, I haaavvveeee had an occasional nerd moment like when I used to build barbie towns in my basement and then invade them with stolen stormtroopers from my brother, or the now occasional Harry Potter marathon on ABC family.  However, this summer I nerded out on the set of 'The Guild' and got to partake in the nerd fest. Felicia Day is a long time improv actor friend as well as Kim Evey and they sure put on a fun show.  I have to admit I didn't understand MOST of what I was talking about.  There was one super cool costume embodied by may I say, a very cute 20 something gentleman so between takes I asked what he was dressed as.  He scoffed and said 'DUH! Assassin's Creed.' I was like..'Appolo Creed? Cuz I remember him in sexy satin shorts!' He didn't get my joke nor was he amused that this old Aunt lady was talking to him.  Anyway, Felicia and Kim are fucking pioneers in this genre and inspiring all around. Also, the guy that plays Vork is a dear pal.  In comedy and life in general.

Watch if you haven't.  I'm in episode 10, 11, and 12.  A teeny tiny part.   (I'm in process of getting the outakes). However, if you watch earlier eps…you may see one of our other 'nerd' friends.

Nerd!

Still..I have no idea what cos-play MMS hoo-dee-do is.

a very special night

Last night one of the improv groups I am part of, took the stage for the last night with one of it's members that's dying of cancer.  His name is Mike.

Before Mike gets chemo again, he wanted to really hit the stage without all the poison that may or may not kill him.  Doctors basically say this is the end. 

As I laughed and performed, I felt in a time warp. These men, that have been part of this group forever, whose only other girl member has been my friend Tanya and Lisa Kudrow,  laughed and pimped out eachother having the time of their lives. We all did. It felt surreal. 

Conan O'Brian who was part of the group years ago (I'm telling you, these men have enough hollywood talent and credits to fill a fucking stadium) showed up to support Mike.  Instead, we made him play and it wasn't anything but pure joy.  Mike was loved.  And honored.  And fully supported...like the true artform that is improv.

If I was dying, how would I want to be surrounded?  For sure with love and laughter. 

How 'bout you?

 

better

It’s raining in Los Angeles, a rare occurrence.  The drip of the non-functioning gutter reminds me of Midwest autumns that always smelled like windmill cookies and crushes on lacrosse players.

It’s been a long time since this blog and I have talked.  We parted awhile ago and only now is it something I can peek at.  To you 9 people whose link this still pops up on your RSS or whatever the fuck you call it, hi.  How’s life?  How have your 2 years been? I hope filled with babies, houses, money, schools, love, success, and go-gurt.

My 2 years? Let me use some words to describe ‘em.  Shitty.  Fucky.  Shit shitty.  Ballsy.  Smelly.  Sticky.  Tricky.  Ballchessy fucky.  Pissy.  Poopy.  Jinky.  Lousy.  Fuckville farty.  Messy.  Poopypants ballsac rotten.  Piss pour shit ball sucking rotten. And downright unfair.  Basically, my husband became my wusband without my permission, my young-ish dad suddenly dropped dead without my permission, my best friend got in a bad bike crash without my permission, my mom got sick, again, without my permission, my wusband sued me without my permission, I didn’t get to fulfill my wish to be a mom without my permission, and then some other horrible, I repeat, horrible ending that you’ll have to wait for the book to find out about, happened without my permission.  But one thing happened through all that.  Somewhere after 565 days or 790 days of waking up wishing you were in someone else’s life or wondering how you could punch every person posting pictures of their kids on facebook in the throat, it popped.  The zit of tragedy.  And I woke able to see color again.

The internet says death of a child and/or spouse, then parent, then divorce are the 3 worst losses. I went through 2 literally, and the first metaphorically.  When you get divorced while trying to have a kid, you kinda- sorta grieve that fantasy child whose pictures sat on your vision board.  You rip up baby name post-its you wrote at dinner and block out any 'my kid will one day play with your kid' conversations.  You become that single girl again amoungst a ton of non-single people wondering how to give hand jobs and if someone will like your spider veins.  It’s weird.  Grief traps you like that boulder in 127 hours leaving you to rail against your ‘shoulda/coulda/woulda’s’ yet, other times it sets you free to detox any and every expectation you’ve ever had. Life couldn’t FEEL worse than laying in week old tears that smelled like 2 buck chuck and chocolate or walking your father's casket down the aisle in safety pinned Old Navy pants. Sure, it COULD get worse.  And people told me that all the time...’it could be worse.’ Or ‘at least your not starving in Africa.’ But I’ll tell you this.  Some days I did feel like the small child with flies on his lips begging for just $.20 of my American dollars through the cherub face of Sally whatshername.  It’s so cliche.  Just one more day with my dad.  Just one more phone call with him laughing at his own jokes.  Just one more ride on the tractor singing ‘the sun will come out tomorrow’ then playing Dig Dug at the arcade.

Grief takes you down the scariest of hallways, like those abandon ones from some psy ward in the 80s, but if you can find an eyelash of light, it allows you to be reborn.  Reborn without some of the same really bad baggage (wusband) and without some of the really fucking awesome luggage (dad). Sigh.

I look forward to all 9 of you reading my book. But in the meantime, read this.  This will make you happy.  It did me.

Elbow and Send.

back

 

After a long break, I'm back.

If you're new to this blog, here's why it started

Also, it's an honor to be part of this.

Let's do this...

 

the good

My personal 2009 was full of good news, bad news, and horrible gut-wrenching soul-ripping breath- immobilizing-shit your pants-how will I ever recover-news.

Let's start with the good.

Here's a link to my current FedEx spot that's running.  Fantastic director Jim Jenkins. It was one of 6 that I shot in 2009.  I'm super grateful for those jobs.  

FedEx Spot "Coma"

Here's a link to the outtakes.  Watch closely for a special appearance...

FedEx "Outtakes"

quickie

I broke my facebook fast only to post a blurry ass picture of a fanfuckingtastic show last week.  These peeps, along with myself, did a night with Jack McBrayer from 30 Rock.  What a treat to find one of my favorite characters on TV is also extremely nice.  Beyond nice.  And a great improvisor that really listens and responds.  At one point during the show, we both cracked ourselves up on stage so hard that I forgot their was an audience.  It was like being in church with a best friend who just farted and you can't help lose it. These are the moments that remind me of why I do what I do.  

McCafe = McCrappy.  

I love that I thought for one second it wouldn't have sugar in it.  Oh, but it doesn't have ADDED sugar in it.  Full bust.

being back

I get on her orange bike. The cruser with the old school breaks. I pedal slowly down the lane.  I’m scared.  Scared to face it. I go around the corner, already the Coppertone mixing with tears.  I pass the corner mart where kid allowances bought sweet tarts and gum.  I follow behind my dad.

We enter.  Pass a grandmother, a father, a soldier. Old flowers, laminated rain proof cards, and worn stuffed animals make up tiny shrines.  The sun hits so perfectly.  A plane passes.   We get off the bikes, and look right. 

It’s the first time I’ve been back since it happened. And seeing her name brings it all back.  It’s like your hymen of grief gets ripped open and it hurts all over again. 

You look over at your Dad.  Noting the empty spot where his name will go someday.  Neither can speak.  All you can do is touch it.  Run your finger over the name, the date, the raised words and hope that you can feel something human.  Anything.  But you can’t.  Tiny words escape your chocking breath like ‘why,’ ‘how,’ ‘fuck.’ Words your heart thinks you’re saying for the first time, but ones your brain knows are answerless. So you just shut up and sob.  

She’s everywhere.  Not just in pictures lining the hurricane strong walls or the silly old timey pictures you took as a family, but in the air the minute my plane landed, in the drive past the beach where she caught us girls sneaking out with boys, in my father’s distant eyes. My brain fucks with me, thinking she’s just at the grocery store picking up garlic for her famous fish marinade.  Or in the back bedroom throwing on her shoes so we can head to the gym.  At night I lay in my twin bed, like I did as a kid, thinking I hear her laughing with my Dad through the wood walls.  But it’s not.  It’s nothing.  Just a dull void where her voice used to be.  I swear late late late last night I heard something.  A rustle around of something.  A woosh through a hallway. I don’t know.  Is it something or does my brain just want it to be something?

Key West is still my true paradise. Where this Midwestern kid got lost in coral reef explorations, baby oil, and shell jewelry. Where wine cooler sips and body glove bikinis made memories to last for memories.  I was a lucky kid with a family that played hard. Ya know, I still am a lucky kid.  And cancer can’t take any of it.

So I sit here now.  This time without any buffers.  Alone. Feeling every bit of pain deep in my bones.  All the times you wished you called more, or went to visit, or weren’t a moody fuck, just circles around your head like cartoon stars and zigzags. The anger, the rage, the injustice of losing people too soon is a sickening pit that nighttime makes worse. I think back for a second to an old friendship I had with someone where recently I heard she talked shit about me.  It's so funny how mad you can get about all that stuff.  How it feels so real.  How much time spent rolling in the details of it all.  

But right now, as I type and tear, I realize THESE moments, THESE raw fucking sad moments, are what builds true grit.  It makes you stand straight in auditions when a producer won’t look your way or when some ‘somebody’ makes you feel like a no ‘nobody.’ When someone passes on your script or someone else doesn't like your eye color, you can shrug it off and walk out head high.  This grief, this REAL shit, is like a trump card that you throw down in the chaos of everyday life and say ‘Ha ha. See life? I know the secret. And none of this shit matters.’  Because what really matters, at least today, late at night, tucked away in the Southern most part of The United States, with her expired face cream on, a Harry Potter notebook and a crumbled yoga schedule from the local place on my bedside, and some beat up flip flops tossed about---for ME---is human relationships.  Building and cherishing the ones I do have and not chasing the ones I don’t.  

Call your parents.  Ask them how they are.  Tell them you like them a lot. 

They really aren’t here forever.

Elbow and Send. 

 

crackberry

I admit it.  I've been weary of giving in to the blackberry, iphone phenomenon.  In some cases, I just have bad luck with phones. I dropped one cell in a salad, then had no cash for a new one, then used a friends free one that he so sweetly gave me but then threw it out in an alley recycle trash can on accident.  (You ever have that fear like you're throwing a bottle away with your phone and keys in the same hand and it all drops in? Yeah.  Good times. Literally I tipped the can over and then crawled into it to try and retrieve it, however, it didn't work.  Go figure it was covered in homeless piss).  

Anyway, I got a blackberry curve and I kinda love it.  Like kinda love checking email and sending texts. The coolest part is having a camera that actually takes decent pictures. I shot some last week while filming a commercial.  It was with a director that does the American Express Tina Fey, Ellen spots to name a few.  He was amazing.  So calm, so good, so spot on with direction.  It reminds me that people that are great at what they do don't have to be dicks.  They have nothing to prove.

Here are a few shots from my fancy 'dressing and piss free' phone.  We'll see if the commercial makes air. It's never a given till you actually see it.  

Not bad picture quality for a phone, right?

 

.