jesus' favorite

11:07am

Yesterday my friend and I were doing some new age manifesting hoo-dee-doo. Some people believe in it, some don't so whatever you're preference is...it's all cool. Something that really struck a chord for me yesterday, from the things we were watching, was to feel JOY. To feel JOY in my life...in what I'm doing, in what I'm writing, in what I'm acting, in my relationship...just IN MY BEING. Only do the things that bring real JOY. I liked that. I really sat with that all night. Often I do things cuz I have to, forgetting about the JOY in life.

Okay.

So I've talked about this fancy-not-gonna-name-celeb-heavy gym I go to, right? Even with it's hillary swank-ness, it's totally lovely. Literally today after busting ass for an hour and 40 minutes, I 'cooled down' looking at the ocean. Not bad for a rat-a-tat-tat underdog from Detroit.

What I don't like about this gym is the parking. It's CRAZY CRAZY expensive if you go over your 2 hours. Today I was over. Barely, but I was. And with a wallet full of dimes and a bank account that recently got violated by some jack-ass thieves, let's just say I had no cash. So I'm rushing into the elevator behind a really fit, beautiful woman. A little frantic.

Me: 'Hey, do you know how much they charge for parking if you're over?'

Her: 'A lot.'

Me: 'Oh man! And I'm sure they only take cash.'

Her: 'Yeah.'

Silence as I rummage through my dimes hoping for a quarter.

Her: 'Here. Take this....'

Me: 'What?'

Her: 'Take this (holding cash) and this...holding a little more cash).'

Me: 'What? No. I can't. Wait. Really?'

Her: 'Yeah. Take 5 bucks. Pay me whenever.'

Me: 'No, that's too much. What? No, Oh, thank you so much!'

(for anyone that lives in Southern California, this kind of generosity is rare. This ain't no small town. There is raw selfishness lingering at every corner).

Me: 'Wait! How can I pay you back?'

Elevator door starting to open. Her stop.

Her: 'Don't worry, you'll see me around.'

She steps out.

I'm thinking...this isn't right. I should not take it and figure it out myself.

Then I get an idea.

Me: 'No! Hey, what's your name. I'll leave it at the front for you!'

The Elevator is just about closed.

Her: 'Joya'

The Elevator closes.

not first or last

Staircase to the middle of nine, originally uploaded by ToNo's world.

Well what do you know! My cousin has a blog. Milena. The younger one of the two that lost her Dad last month. It's beautifully written with poignancy and quirkiness, like I remember her to be. Beautiful, poignant, quirky.

She writes a post about her name. And a nickname I gave her. Read it.

It got me thinking about my name. My MIDDLE name actually. A name that I was afraid to share when I was a kid. Cuz it's weird. It starts with an 'L' so me and my Carebears decided it would be Lynn. ' Anne Lynn.' The name of a roller queen. Like a muse from Xanadu. (I wasn't Annie until college when someone started calling me Annie and it stuck. And now when I hear ANNE I think I'm in trouble with my older brother for touching his Atari).

Anyway, I wanted it to be Lynn sooooooooo bad!!! I begged and begged my mom who finally drown me out with her Kenny Loggins and cigarette smoke. But I wanted to be LYNN! Like my B.F.F. at the time Wendy Lynn Holden.

pause....

Ah! Sweet Wendy Lynn Holden. A girl I wanted to be like. Nice, funny, great at ballet and soccer. A girl that lived down the street in a rich house with a normal mom. She was my first B.F.F. Until in 6th grade her and Alison Gabrys made fun of me for wearing 'Treetorn high tops.' Granted, horrible shoe choice but you bitches thought I didn't know the fake story you wrote in English class was about me, huh? You girls are sneaky!!! Wendy was also the one who secretly originated the name 'Froggie' for me. Even had people sign my year book (which I still have)...'Hey Froggie. K.I.T. over summer! Ribbit Ribbit!' I was like...'Oh cool! I have a nickname' not having a clue what that meant...until later I found out she called me that 'cuz she said I had big eyes like a frog. HA! Big eyes! And to think I shed tears over that bitch. All girls can be bitchy, but THAT ONE was mean spirited to the core. I remember running into her as an adult back in Michigan. I could still see the judging vulture behind her big or small eyes. (Sorry for the side journal post but it reminds me what we hold on to. When I substitute teach off and on, my first mission is always to call out any making fun of kids I see. I really hate it. So thanks Wendy for helping me be sensitive).

un-pause...

So back to my middle name. It's a family name from my great grandmother on my Mother's side. A tiny little woman born in 1901 who lived till she was 96. A sweet woman who gave me 'bubble gum money' and a smile that made you proud to be whoever you were. Big eyes and all.

Somewhere on the internet 'Annie' means full of grace, easy to love, harmony. (sure. okay.) Biblically Ann was the name for Mary's mother so I got a few props with the big spirit. Anna is also a Hebrew name. And Annabell is latin. And feels southern.

So on account of my cousin's post, I'm inspired to tell ya'll my middle name. Something I never tell anyone!!!

I'm Annie Lamore. Yeah. Kinda like the french word for love. So if we take what the internet says about 'Annie' and put it with 'Lamore' maybe I'm really full of grace AND love.

Or maybe just full of shit. Either way, it wasn't that bad to say.

What's your middle name?

links

It's 5:27 pm and I'm taking a break from uh...cleaning the office. Amongst old scripts and 2006 receipts (yeah, yeah, I know, I know) I find myself bored out of my fucking skull!!!! Since writing has eased up and the pace of Groundlings boot camp is done, I'm finding I have to fill my day with uh, real shit. Like I gotta go to the eye doctor, clean my house, and maybe find a job. Ugh. Blaming my dirty car and dirty trunk on Sunday Company just isn't an option anymore. (I mean, it's not dirty dirty like I'm not a dirty person, it's just neglected dirty, like busy person dirty...blah blah, you get it...) Plus I'm really trying to wean back on the caff caff. So needless to say, I'm sluggish and slightly edgy.

Therefore, in true ME fashion, I want more distractions! Like reading blogs. Now, I'm gonna be super honest here...I frequent a couple...or three. I used to read more BUT someone stopped putting a list of HIS favs on HIS blog, which would then link me to MORE favs, and then MORE favs...down the favs rabbit hole I went. Literally, for the first 8 months that I had THIS blog, I would go to it from his site...cuz, uh, I didn't know the stupid boop bitty beep beep url. (yeah, yeah, I know, I know).

So. Send me some links of your favorite blogs. I like anything except celeb gossip. So if TMZ or Perez Devil Pants is your flavor that's cool, but I would rather eat scorpians.

Thanks.

beginnings

It’s Sunday. 4pm.

Normally, I would be unpacking costumes, re-brushing wigs, and muttering lines--like a homeless person mid animated conversation. With coffee in hand and ipod on head, I'd be buzzing around an excited theater ready to take the stage in 3.5 hours. Some Sundays I’d be settled, knowing I had a sketch that worked. Others I’d be shitting, knowing I had a sketch that wouldn’t...but either way I was ‘in it.’ In a pace and in a place that felt glorious.

It’s a passion that I truly stumbled upon. Bound for Law School, I took such a fucking detour, I sometimes wonder if I was the same person. Certainly I’m still a driven, sometimes asshole, that puts work first, but in many ways, I’m now a lighter soul, an easier person, an appreciator of things.

As cheesy as it is, I remember the day I walked into that Groundlings theater. 1997. Raining. January. I was living in East LA and doing a volunteer program at the time. My roommate, Patty and I, took the bus to some street called Melrose, and found a coffee shop to write dark poetry in. It was pouring so hard we needed a place to wait it out. And that's when I saw it. The pictures. The history. The life. My mind still said I was going to Georgetown, but my heart knew different. It took some 2-3 years to listen. And that's when I took the first Basic class.

So now. At 4:15. Some 10 years later I type away on a little Powerbook. I made it through the Sunday Company as my year and a half is up. I wrote through deaths and wrote through drama. I catered to buy wigs and drank 711 coffee for dinner. I spent my treasured 100 dollar bill from my grandmother that I had saved since I was 16, to have my car NOT towed, and spent wasted Sunday nights at Canters with my friend James. I laughed, I cried, I just about shit myself a few times. I was inspired by a cast of people that are some of the best talents in town and have made friends to last forever. In the end, I would never ever, ever, trade the best experience of my life. Ever.

So now we begin the Main Company. I’m truly humbled to get voted in. (and shit god damn fucking so excited!!!)

endings

With the welcome of November, there are some endings to discuss. The first one being my uncle.

He passed away on Monday. As I posted a few months ago, cancer got him. And unfortunately, didn’t let him go. He leaves behind my aunt, and his 2 daughters. 2 daughters that are lights in this world with talented gifts and vibrant souls. Girls that were sisters to Stef and I growing up. And girls that are still sisters today.

Losing a parent too soon fucking sucks. As does cancer. It’s a horrible thing to watch someone die. And then to sit in the aftermath wondering what to do. The youngest just got married and the oldest is preparing to move from Detroit to LA. A move that will begin her life in the way that she has always, always, wanted. Guilt tries to tell you to stay and fix everyone’s emotions, but it’s important to break free. And take the risk. It’s what the deceased would have wanted. It’s what Nancy wanted for me.

Having been through it, there really is never the right thing to say or do. You make food. You send flowers. You give hugs. All of that was valuable in my healing. But the one thing that SAVED me, was the words of strangers. Those comments that you all wrote. Your honesty. Your time to type a few sentences. Many late nights when I was haunted by the past, I would read your comments...over and over again. Crying, laughing, writing myself. It was a permanent way for me to remember that people were thinking of me. Becuase as the event passes, so do the calls.

I ask that now, if you have any words of support or any experiences to share, do so here. The next days are the toughest. The cleaning up of the stuff. The phone calls to make. The times when you say out loud...’my dad is gone.’ It’s gut wrenching. And paralyzing. And you wonder if you’ll even be okay again. But you will. Sasha, Milena, You will. I promise you. I remember your Dad dancing for us in the basement. His tall stance and radiant smile doing those kola kicks. He lived large. And loved you guys beyond love.

This blog started as a big ol’joke. But in the end, it really has saved me. In so many ways. I can’t fix my cousins horrible pit they feel. I can’t get to Detroit today to be with them as they shake and cry. I can’t fucking cure cancer. But I can share this. And ask you to share. Even if it's just one comment.

Thanks.