You make me feel guilty when I take so long to post. Please know I’m just trying to make sure my writings are inspired and not strained. I have one for tomorrow.

In the meantime, did anyone else have this?!

Sooo good.

Delicious photos by Mariano Vivanco

by Stefania Paparelli

Only in LA could a trailer actually symbolize luxury and success, and that is exactly what I told my actor boss that I longed for as my face scrunched up and tears unwittingly trailed down my cheeks. I quickly wiped the very bottom of my eyes, attempted to catch the droplets before they arrived in his view. Inevitably he noticed as he spun from the mirror and furrowed his brows in sympathy. “Whatchu need? You need some food? Some dessert? You’re officially on break, so…” 

I shook my head and apologized, “I feel like you’ve seen me cry so many times!”

“But it’s for good stuff,” he countered, “You don’t cry over any bullshit. If you did I’d think, this girl’s crazy; it’s cool but she’s damn crazy.” 

I smiled sadly, “I just… I just really thought it was mine. I let myself really imagine it and…I don’t like fantasizing. It’s too painful…not worth feeling like this. Please don’t make me come on set when she’s here.”

“Feel that wrath! Feel that envy!” he joked, “I’ll have you here everyday she’s on set!” 

I shot him a look of mocked horror. “I know the shoot dates. I will call out sick.”

It all began two days prior to this conversation. My agent called me about an audition for a great role on my boss’ show. It sounded perfect for me and the major highlights including being in a shootout with my boss himself! I couldn’t help but endeavor the role was mine; after all, what could be more perfect than making my television debut on a set where I have so much support? I know the entire cast, most of the crew, and my boss “David” is an enormous supporter of my career. 

I dressed my best and drove to the studio with more than a hint of glee about my life. The day had finally come: after 2 years, I was driving onto the studio lot as an actress. I arrived at the casting office with ten minutes to spare and was so determined to remain focused I deflected any of my “competition’s” attempts at conversation. “Thank you, these boots were 5 dollars.” Smile. Eyes immediately back to my lines. 

by Solve Sundsbo

“Brenda?” the assistant called. 

I scooped up my belongings and entered the audition room with a skip in my step. “I’m here!” I kept thinking.

The casting director smiled, gave me the basic direction, and prompted me, “Whenever you’re ready.” I performed the scene with the reader and looked back to the CD when I was finished. “Great! Now more laid back; even sarcastic.”

“Ok. Cool,” I smiled and proceeded to do so.

After this we moved on to the second scene which included a frantic declaration that my best friend had been killed. I went to the corner of the room, chest to the wall, and took a moment to become alive with such a wild emotion. I ran to the reader pronouncing the news. “Again,” said the casting director, then, “Again.” 

The reader smiled and whispered, “Great job” as the casting director held out my picture.

“Give this to the receptionist. See you at 4 for your callback. It was excellent.”

I couldn’t help but jump (one understated jump) and grab my picture. “I will be there!”

The hours between that moment and my callback were one third parts agony and two third parts amazing. I remained focused and even refrained from telling mom and dad what was happening. When I went back to the studio it seemed they narrowed down the actresses to 15 or so. I popped on my headphones, and zoned out on this role. I couldn’t believe how badly I wanted it. Every now and again I glanced to the trailers in the alley, hoping to see David. After all, I wouldn’t be the least bit ashamed if favoritism got me the role: bring on the unfair privilege!

Finally I was called in and found the producer, director, and casting director seated on the other side of a huge conference table. “So, how is it you know [David]?” the casting director inquired.

“I’m his personal assistant.”

“Ah, ok when your picture came in I thought it looked familiar. I finally put that together.” Cool. It seemed I’d gotten in the room with no favoritism at all. 

I read, the producer gave me a new direction and I did the best I could. My one sore regret is that I haven’t studied up on how to replicate being on drugs. His note was “more drugged out” and I’m really not sure I pulled that off the best I could have. Regardless, I held onto quite a bit of faith that the part had to be mine. 

Unfortunately my agent called me the next afternoon to announce some other girl would be living out my fantasy. I really hated her. I wish she had stayed home sick. I wasn’t the least bit into considering she deserved it more than I, or that the timing was simply hers. I actually cried. This isn’t the usual because you gain and lose roles all the time; this opportunity was just closer to my heart due to the circumstances.

Anway, back in David’s trailer, moments after I got the news, I embarrassedly wiped tears from my face and stated, “I just want a trailer, ya know? Of my own.”

David leaned forward in his chair, “You think that’s all you want? You think you’d be happy in a trailer? You think I’m happy just because I’m in one?” I nodded with the knowing of what was coming next. “You have to remember to be grateful or you will never be. We always want the next thing. I star on a show but now I wanna be an action star; I want people to know my name. You need to celebrate this as a victory. You kicked ass. You got the callback. You are obviously a great actress. You kicked ass! You did great! You are never satisfied. I know you, I know you well.” He was completely right. 

I still went through the phases of light grief: sadness to envy to bitterness to acceptance. And today I feel really good. I am so blessed that I continually get callbacks, and I need to revel in each victory. If not, one day soon I will be sitting in a trailer with my name on it, pissed off that the brunette on the show has more lines than me. I’d much prefer walking the route of gratitude and peace in every moment of life, for better or worse, in someone else’s trailer or my own.

The old man’s hands shook as he held the papers uncommonly close to his face. He had that sweet, almost forfeited depth in his eyes that many older people seem to have; as though he’d gained peace with the up and down roller coaster of life after 70 some years of riding it.

He looked to me with his watery eyes and managed a half smile despite his apparent nerves. The casting director called his name and he slowly stood from his chair and climbed onto the small stage before us. The room shared a collective hush of breath held and I pondered being that age, what he must have seen, wondered if he was a good man all along. I sighed out in gratitude as I looked to the gold band on his left hand; I hate to picture old people all alone in the end.

He swayed and had trouble on his feet as many old men do to which the casting director asked, “Are you drunk?” This was intended to be a joke, but we all seemed to imagine it hit too low. It must be quite difficult to go from agile to faltering. 

The man answered, a bit offended though trying to mask it, “Haven’t had a drop in twenty two years.” We all smiled and he proceeded to read the scene. There were some misplaced words, but everyone could tell he was a wonderful actor. In the end it felt natural to applaud him after such a laborious undertaking. He retreated back to his chair and when I smiled he voiced disgust. “That was terrible. Just terrible.” I argued, of course, but he had already resolved it in his mind. 

I discovered later that he had a very prosperous and successful career in the 1950’s and beyond. He starred with some of the greats and, well, it made me sad that later in life we’d find ourselves in the same room. I, at the beginning of my journey with prayers to be discovered and he, at the end of his life, sharing my same prayers. It begged the question, when is enough enough?

When a hopeful actor touches down in Hollywood they imagine that there are hundreds of thousands of pathetic people chasing similar desires who will never be as good as they. However, although there may be 99,999 terrible actors, the rest are pretty good. Great even. There truly is a ton of tough, substantial competition. So, when one is talented, prepared, and well-studied it simply comes down to playing roulette: whose space will the ball land on next?Of course I believe that God destines us for things, but I suppose that’s the point. I wonder how many people just desperately want this, and are even fully skilled to have it, compared to those who have really sought their hearts and found, “this is the only thing for me.”

I’ve had the privilege of experimenting and enjoyed a wide array of careers. I helped produce a show for New York fashion week, worked as a celebrity stylist, wrote for a nationwide publication, did music reviews for Universal, and even had a stint at a talent agency. All in all, my heart consistently draws me back to “actress,” but I love not limiting myself to that alone. 

Recently a fear has even grown inside of me, on behalf of myself and those around me. I’ve wondered, which of us is missing, or has missed the boat? So many gifted people strive an entire lifetime to act and, even if they’ve been guest stars on an a host of television shows, sometimes it only adds up to maybe one year of solid acting work. It’s quite heartbreaking, actually.

They call my home “the city of broken dreams,” but whose dreams? Who is living out a dead childhood fantasy or feeding off a pressure not to fail, all the while losing sight, or even being incapable to see, the extent of their true desires? Sometimes I wonder if the cure to cancer or the next Nobel Peace Prize recipient isn’t just sitting in a Colgate audition. 

In the end, I will always be an avid and fierce advocate of never giving up. But, without open eyes and a true sense of self there’s no way to be sure one is refusing to abandon the correct thing. It’s OK, wonderful even, to want to be an actor. Just be sure that it is your love and not your fear that is driving you. And not because, “geez, you’re never gonna make it” but because the peace of doing what one is born to do must be the most exhilarating, beautiful thing imaginable. 

<3

Drew and I saw Watchmen last night. I am a total dude and nerd when it comes to action movies, so I really loved it. (No one will contend with Batman, regardless.) I didn’t realize this guy I once knew starred until a few scenes in and… it kind of tripped me out (in a good way).

When I first got to LA I was required to take an “industry” internship for USC credits. I was brought on as a receptionist at a boutique talent agency in West Hollywood. Masi Oka (pre-Heroes) and Jeffrey Dean Morgan (pre-Watchman) used to come in all the time for meetings and to refill pictures. However, the most thrilling client I perceived they had was Jennifer Aniston’s dad. At the time I was all, “Oooo I’m in Hollywood now! Oh yeah!”

Masi was so adorably sweet, always making a point to remember us receptionists’ names, while Jeffrey may have come in soley to harass Julie, the jet-black haired, sparkling blue-eyed Southern belle in the office. If the door opened and Julie darting a look at me and rolled her eyes, I knew it was Jeffrey at the threshold. He was so much of what I saw in “The Comedian” last night, minus the heartless murderer bit. More like the aspect of his rugged look, and somewhat overwhelming in his advances… I wonder if they ever hooked up. I know I would have fallen for that kind of forward confidence in those days. 

The point is, meeting people after they’ve starred in many-a-movies is pretty interesting and encouraging. But it’s also been fun to see Masi hit red carpets all over the world and Jeffrey now brandishing an enormous flame thrower, in slow-mo. It just really goes to show, one never knows who will have the next wild success and who will have the next chance to be a larger-than-life superhero.

It really could be anyone. I dare say, it could be me. Or, if it’s what you too dream of, you.

Hillary Rhoda

Yesterday I had to drop off my amazing boss’ press package to an enormously powerful production company at WB studios. 

Can I just say, I LOVE being at movie studios. I can’t believe it’s been so many years and I’ve had so many experiences driving onto them and yet my heart still skips a few beats and the butterflies rumble in my tummy. I suppose it’s the exhilaration of knowing how many people are living out their dreams on them and how much potential they hold. To me, they are the heartbeat of this city. 

So, I drove to my assigned spot knowing the clout of the woman I was about to meet. I walked up to the production company’s double doors and was taken aback by the waiting room. The walls were covered from top to bottom in dozens of illuminated movie posters, all recognizable and epic. And there were props and body double life-size castings from movies we all would know. I mean, aliens and modern movie star replicas, and giant futuristic guns, all used in the films. Apologies for being such a freakin’ dork, but I totally am. I couldn’t hold myself back and practically shouted to the receptionist, while falling over and subsequently catching myself, “Wow! This is totally amazing!” He cocked his head and looked at me with scornful loftiness. I quieted down, “I mean. Yeah. This stuff. So…cool.”

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to see [Blankity Blank]?”

“And youuu are?”

“Brenda. King.”

“I’ll go and see. Would you like a beverage?”

“Water!…water, please.”

He excused himself for a bit and left me to gaping in awe at the props until I was interrupted by the major producer I awaited. “Oh, darrrrling, hellllo!” With arms outstretched, “Do you have everything I need?” I handed over my boss’ package, quite a bit loving how awesome and friendly she was. “Oh, thank you sooo much. Give [boss] my hellos. Kisses, darling!” And she threw her arms around me. I really didn’t want to let go or leave that office. Ever.

I gliding out with such joy. My boss is in talks to be a star in this enormous action film and I couldn’t want something for anyone much more than I want this for him. It felt great just to know that I could help, even a hint in the process.

As I left, my own desires crept up and I felt like Lindsay Bluth when she visited prison.  Just looking around, walking a turtle pace to my car, begging to be noticed. I know how silly it is to hope it would happen that way, but a girl can dream right?

When I drove out I texted my boss, “I hate leaving!”

He responded, “Focus. Visualize. Watch it happen. See it for yourself just as you want it. As if you have it RIGHT NOW!!! And you’ll wake up in it. :)” 

I know things won’t happen verbatim to the way I imagine, but I know I’m on the path towards my desires. As difficult as this “stand firm and hold your ground” part may be, I believe he’s right. One day, I will just be living a dream and I’m sure it will feel normal and extraordinary all at once (much like my dream-come-true marriage. So real, and yet such a fantasy.)

Until then…

As many know by now, I like having complete transparency in my writing. When I’m up, it’s known, when I’m down, it’s clear. That being said, I’ve been struggling with the idea of “success” for a while…uh, I mean forever. And lately, it’s rearing its ugly six headed being in a more full force. It would seem that, as honored as I may be to work for successful people, my supposed lack of accomplishment keeps nawing at my feet, begging the question, “Brenda, are you really on the right path? Are you actually walking in the right direction?” For some clarity, here is my story.

In elementary school I was exceedingly quiet. I don’t recall being shy, but more so, observant. I used to sing, loudly and proudly, in the privacy of my bedroom constantly so when the teacher announced auditions for the “head ringmaster” of our circus concert, it seemed natural that I audition. It never occurred to me how astonished Mrs. Dash and her class would be when I opened my mouth and allowed that loud, belty voice to escape. All my classmates’ teeny mouths lay agape as Mrs. Dash uttered several surprised adjectives, staccato.

I remember just how I felt to this day. There was a flush in my cheeks and a gentle roll butterflies breaking through their cocoons in my tummy. I gazed out into the bleachers ahead and knew I had stumbled upon something incredible. The passion I uncovered that day has never left.

In the beginning, I did all I could to move forward. I auditioned for plays in middle school and in between seasons I sought opportunities in the paper for community theater. Not long after I educated myself on local talent agencies and decided to meet with the only “bigwig” I could find: Edie Rob of Talentworks, renown for discovering the 3 Lawrence brothers.

My rejection letter from Edie Robb.

As you can see, it was a disaster. Well, she didn’t type “humiliating failure” in the letter but, believe, it was! My lack of confidence held me back worse than a bouncer would in a bar fight. I couldn’t deliver amidst my fear. Thankfully, local theater kept up my resolve and an understanding that I was talented, just lacking a strong sense of self with the New York or Philadelphia types of industry folk.

However, I never ceased to dream. I spent countless hours in my room creating monologues, rearranging my furniture to resemble a set, teaching myself to cry in the mirror, and staring in awe at the huge screens in local movie theaters. I imagined my life as a pint-sized starlett and even cried in misery over Anna Chlumsky’s role in My Girl. “Why wasn’t I in that movie,” I begged my mom, “Why didn’t I audition?” After I wiped my tears I just imagined myself as her instead, with pretend cameras capturing my Oscar-worthy reaction to Macaulay’s bee death in the back yard.

by Bruce Weber

Fast-forward to today and it’s hard to figure out who I’m “supposed” to be. I have friends my age with Oscar nods, others with starring roles in motion pictures, more who audition constantly, and a few who appear on TV now and again. If I had a dollar every time I heard, “Oh geez, I just was modeling and thought acting would maybe be kinda fun, ya know? And boom! Haha, isn’t that so funny?!” … Yeah. Hilarious. Plainly, it has been confusing, and sometimes disheartening or lonely, to be in a category all my own. I hardly feel like delving into all my supposed woes and instead would prefer to highlight my many blessings.

Honestly, everything I’ve accomplished came so naturally, it just flowed like sweet honey. Those blessings are uncomplicated and lovely. I moved to Los Angeles in short notice after being encouraged by an acting coach. From there every home in which I resided flowed from one to the next. My relationship with Drew was easy from the start and the way we met was never forced. I fell into celebrity styling without even trying, then into PA extraordinaire from there, and have written for magazines simply thanks to word of mouth. None of that is glamorous, but the moments within it all have been cinematic and beautiful; a huge adventure, for sure. But, those were the things I never pined over and exhausted myself towards. It’s all been more like eating a piece of cake I was simply offered- then kicking butt at gobbling it all up.

So, perhaps the lesson is: relax… I am creating- with my Creator- everything I desire. I need to just enjoy the ride.

Enjoy life!!

Felix da Housecat’s “Madame Hollywood” has inspired me to write a little something regarding the lyrics. So, I’m splitting it into parts.

Enjoy.

<3 b

“Just imagine my face in the magazines.

People analyzing my look, my body, or any plastic surgery,

you know, like the Big Dipper.

And maybe one day you can shake my hand, on the Planet Hollywood.”

Daria in French Vogue

As I sorted through her walk-in closet, I heard her say the most cliché thing. The one thing you suspect they all think, but only say on the harshest of days; the days when there’s simply nothing left to be said.

With tears screaming down her face: America expects me to be this happy, perfect person all the time…and I just can’t be! I just can’t!

I rolled my eyes at the rolling racks of designer clothes and sighed to myself. Could it be that the supposed plight of the rich and famous is indeed true? Has one lost herself and her identity to the machine of Hollywood? Has one woman dug herself so deeply in it that she begins to believe that without perfection she isn’t worthy of the spotlight?

All eyes on her. E! Channel speculating on a “drinking problem” that I knew to be untrue. Soppy tissues lining her bedroom floor with her reputation on the line. No husband or lover to scoop her into his arms. And certainly no higher being to cry out to. Just a pint-size woman verses the world of entertainment…

 by Juergen Teller

Meanwhile, I stood in one of her closets with my current biggest concern. “Hmm, which hot Gucci tank goes best with this bomb L.A.M.B jacket?”

Suddenly, the notion of a celebrity having a stylist made more sense than ever. The question on my mind was so petty compared to this single woman’s world falling to pieces. And yet, sadly, my job was completely relevant. Because, the lady is right: America expects her to be happy, perfect, and most certainly stylish. No matter what.

by Terry Richardson 

“You don’t mind if I bring two gorgeous girls, do you?… Haha, yes. See you soon.”

We pulled up to the immaculate Beverly Hills street and I put my horribly disfigured Honda in park. “Bobby, I can’t do that! Bren, he wants me to leave the phone on the whole time so he can hear his voice. He wants to talk to him.”

“No, that’s gay; we can’t! Just leave the phone on and hold it close to him. No, no that’s retarded, too. I’m scared! Let’s just go in. Breathe!”

Two east coast girls at the original gangsta’s house. Every Philly frat house dons his picture, every boy quotes him, and every character in the Sopranos wants to be him. Living in New Jersey, 80 percent of your friends are at least a little Italian and every family reunion has at least one table of shady- lookin’, cigar puffing Mafioso discussing “business”. I was so under-dressed and sweating bullets. All I wanted in life was to be as skinny as Michelle Pfeiffer and be packing heat at that very moment. Would there be mirrored walls and machine guns? Reality sets in: actors are people who pretend to be other people for a living. This man is just a man.

The three of us were beeped in to the white gate and helped ourselves up the brick walk and into the expansive rancher. The interior had a stuffy, strange aura and an antique smell. Nothing was as I suspected. Floral sofas? Cheesy, romantic paintings? He walked by and his eyes widened. Cold as ice, “I’m feeding my kids. Not now.”

The man who invited us stiffened uncomfortably and quickly scooted us into the backyard. We could still see the gangster feeding his young twins through the kitchen window as he glared at us. My heart sank as I reasoned that while being shot by him might be the coolest way to die ever, being shot an annoyed look by him was just plain awkward.

Our host spoke about how close of friends they are and how their friendship goes on for years and years. Strange to see a grown man sink under the assertive power of their “best friend”. I was so turned off by everything. Who cares about being friends with a celebrity if you have to submit to their demands? Respect your friends? Of course. Let them boss you around? Get new friends.

The gangster’s personal assistant was noticeable nervous as he took calls rounding up all the bigwigs that were attending the evening’s poker game. To Tara and I, “I’m so sorry. You just have to understand…” the assistant let his voice trail off and he smiled meagerly.

“It’s fine. Really.” I smiled.

Another ten minutes and we were allowed to sit quietly in the living room. There was a bar of cheap liquor, book lined shelves with stuffed animals and toys shoved in between certain selections, and stacks of candy bars in huge cardboard boxes. “Would you girls like a Kit Kat?” our host inquired.

Are you serious? I just want to go home. This place was creepy and we were not welcome. “Um, no thanks.” We accepted wine that tasted worse than boxed Franzia and sat silently. Finally the gangster entered.

“Hey. I’m sorry, I just had to send the kids to bed.”

“Oh, we understand,” I said sticking out my hand to shake his with Tara following suit. He nodded uncomfortably until another guest arrived. The vibe became friendlier as everyone loosened up and more polite people arrived.

My favorite was his “girlfriend”. A precious, skinny woman of late 30 something. She met him 20 years ago on a set. Were the children hers? No. Did he call her “girlfriend”. No. In the most roundabout sorrowful way, she explained that her youth is wasted on a man who can have any young pretty thing he wants and that he’ll never settle down. Were we brought here just to be young pretty things? I hoped not, of course, so when his assistant beckoned only Tara and I into the game room we declined and remained with this woman instead. Our conversation thickened into personal issues and she complimented everything from our shiny hair, flat bellies, and wrinkle-free skin. We insisted on her beauty and she laughed in disbelief. At one point she explained, “I’m not anorexic or anything but some weeks I only eat a head of lettuce a day.”

Isn’t that the definition of anorexia, I muse, hoping my sadness for her wasn’t written too boldly on my face.

Suddenly he himself entered, “Um, what are you girls doing?”

“Just girl talk,” I replied. He chuckled and left slowly.

Moments after our host came in, “He’s asking what you girls are doing. Don’t you want to watch us play poker?” I thought not. Tara and I had plans for that night anyway…

We left with his girlfriend’s phone number and while he was tending to his daughter’s nightmare and following request for a favorite stuffed animal and night light. He had just walked around in a panic asking if we’d seen a certain doll, overturning pillows frantically. His girl jumped up to instantly tend to this emergency, as well.

After letting the whole event sink in, I decided that I respected his need to protect his children. What little girl needs to see random blondes parading around her daddy’s house? On the other hand, lack of introduction only makes the situation seem shady. Kids, I fear, are smarter than he suspects. And so are Tara and I.

His lady also later informed me that the house is only a rental because the majority of his life is in NYC. None of those strange, stuffy belongings were his. Makes sense.

And, push comes to shove, how do you live your entire life portraying the darkest and most powerful of people and not expect some of that mentality to rub off on you? He’s actually doing pretty well considering. And, fine, I’ll admit the sex appeal of two machine guns in hand still prevails, even when he’s merely in search of a doll under pillows.

Bikini and pink pleated mini-skirt. Her in a suede bikini and jean skirt. Heels and miles of leg between the two of us. The white shuttle, stamped with that bunny emblem, as familiar in America as a stop sign or a “don’t cross” light marked the sides and wrapped a million times around our VIP bracelets. Courtney gripped my thigh like she’d fall off her seat otherwise as my eyes skimmed over my modest cleavage. “Wow, this should be interesting,” I think.

The driver leaned into the gray rock speaker and waited for the black gates to welcome us in. We accelerated again, green hill to our left, “Bunnies at Play” signs donning the driveway until the house rose into full view on its hilltop. My heart jumped into my throat and Court’s nails dug into my leg. The pain was inconsequential and served to assure me that I was indeed not dreaming…

Unknown

We emerged from the bus as elegantly as stilettos would allow and walked through the giant wooden door pretending we knew where the hell we were going. Our soles clicked on the marble floor, the castle’s bedroom to our left was marked with a large painting of the King himself and the window paneled doors ahead assured us the outdoors were green and plush.

The moment we stepped outside, an older gentleman flashed several pictures and asked our names. “Is this your first time?”

“Can you tell?” we chimed.

“Yes. Very much. Just enjoy!” And like a circus master, he flung his arm out. My eyes followed his fingers’ leading and it revealed an array of Brenda-like fun. A large trampoline, cotton candy machines, a volleyball net, hula hoops wrapping itty-bitty waists, beach balls the size of artificial bosoms, and, of course, the infamous pool and tunnel to the grotto. Court and I plopped down at the nearest table to formulate a game plan. “We look like a-holes,” I offered.

We skimmed the yard, “I feel ugly…and…not blonde.” Court concurred. However brunette, I was positive her Coke bottle figure, flat tummy, and DD boobs were our ticket in this strange little world. When a place is scary I often find the solution in a place of solace, “Let’s look for the bathroom.” She agreed…

Kendra and company

We intruded down the tunnel of bathrooms, moving the long fake vines out of our hair and found the furthest outcove. The lights were dim and walls were 70’s stone with shelves offering towels, tampons, condoms, and spray deodorant. I couldn’t think of anything else one could need there. (Except maybe some confidence, which I was slowly working on.) Several bunnies entered behind us loudly, “I need some fuckin’ blow!” The closest thing I had was a rum and coke, which didn’t suffice for the ladies.

A smaller woman near the coat check stopped me. Her dirty-blonde hair was parted in the center and her eyes were decorated with wrinkles proving years of hearty laughter. “God, you’re beautiful!” I laughed until I noticed she looked a bit insulted. “You are. You think these girls are beautiful?”

“Um. In their own way, yes.”

“Well, my daughter would adore you. She hates these chicks. You’re right up her alley. Please, please hang out with her.” I shrugged and agreed. It’s not like I was on some sort of schedule there. The woman stuck out her hand and introduced herself. I recognized the last name, but highly doubted her daughter was whom that implied…

Me and Courtney in the bathrooms

However, as Court and I followed her outside we were indeed headed towards the girl I grew up watching in movies. My heart dropped because, what do you say to these people? Its not like you can start with the, “So, what do you do?” sort of small talk. I’d only been in Hollywood several months and my naive New Jersey mentality was still all over me. I still believed celebrities were gods of sorts. Worst of all, she looked up and rolled her eyes. Her mom clearly tries to set her up with “normal girlfriends” all the time. She swallowed her annoyance and gently shook our hands while her mom excused herself. We sat down staring awkwardly until, “Let’s go swimming,” she suggested.

Moments later we dove in the pool and she showed us the grotto. The pool had an array of wonderful inflatables that we jumped on as we commented on the weather and our childhoods. Hers casually included award parties and mind-blowing directors while mine included mounds of snow, summers on boardwalks, and thrift shopping. In a moment of silence she giggled and chucked a ball into a crowd of bunnies in flirtation with a reality star, “Bitches.”

SMACK and bleached hair tumbled.

The girls parted and the man’s machismo rose, “Who threw that?!” Court looked guilty having not been able to swim as fast as the star and I.

The three of us ran for the game room, “Come see this!” We had a blast playing Pac Man and pinball until 4 other girls entered. Instantly the embarrassing, “Whoa, you’re so and so!!” comments began flying. I watched the star shrink back and reenter her shell. She excused herself and remained withdrawn the rest of the day. Upon our leaving her mom slipped me her home number, “Please come over for dinner and a movie sometime. I know you’d be great friends if you gave her a chance.”

“Of course,” I smiled…

Court on the slip n' slide

I called once after that and her father provided me her screen name. Over the safety of the internet she was more expressive and honest and lovely. She has grandiose dreams and all the blessed resources to make them a reality. Unfortunately, Hollywood has given her a chill that hardens her to the core. So distrusting and afraid of everyone she seems. The moment my goals were mentioned she “needed to leave”. Would I use her? Would I hop on her bandwagon to peddle my own dreams?…

Me and Courtney with Hef, movie night

As days turned into months and into years, Court and I were shrugging our way through the Playboy Mansion and giving tours to other new visitors. We’d spoken to countless celebrities and held mindless polite chats with Hollywood producers, as well as plenty-o-shady individuals in a dozen different situations and hills’ mansion parties. I don’t take anything for granted but, to say I’ve realized stars aren’t “god” status would be an understatement. Some of the most miserable, troubled, addicted, arrogant people I’ve ever encountered, they are. My favorite is hearing another specific star club hop yelling, “UM, HELLO!! I’m motha fuckin’ [so & so]” if she stands in line for over 2.5 milliseconds.

So, as this town takes the best and brightest and strangles every last bit of joy they ever grasped until they’re reaching for air in the darkest places, I shifted their positions in my life off their pedestals and into my heart. After all, all the rest of us love the argument, “well, I’m sure I’d be happy if only I was [fill in the blank, "rich, famous, a movie star"]. These poor souls stand on top those mountainous goals only to find there’s still no joy there in themselves.

The star and I never talk anymore. She’s diminished into a stickly figure that once bounced with vibrancy. Frankly, joy is something I’ve yet to see in her eyes, even in her earliest films. The last time I saw her, I walked in the grotto to find her rounding third base with a mansion employee (who are the only attractive guys there except for celebrities, PS). That was an awkward reunion. I think I even waved and smiled before ducking out with lightning speed.

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Jenna Jameson…

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 So, I’ve spent days and nights in Los Angeles running around, having adventures, experiencing disappointments, meeting crazies, falling in love with friends and places, doing things that terrify me, defying my own odds, escaping pain, fighting, singing, dancing, knocking, annoying, wishing, dreaming, planning, hoping, and praying praying praying.

 At the end of almost three years I had a list of accomplishments that surpassed my dreams, disappointments that challenged my ideas of “success”, an empty bank account, $1000 stolen by an ex-boss, and a notice to leave my apartment in 2 weeks. What had my life come to? Was I failing? Does God punish? Am I a fool for believing in the “impossible”? Would my family and friends laugh and call me naive? Would they tell me to throw in the towel and come “home”?

 Thankfully, my cousin Jamie and Aunt Dorie, a sassy women with auburn hair, a PHD, and the mouth of a sailor begged me to move into their beachside home in Newport (an hour south of LA). Accepting the invite made me feel like I was an admitted failure until I remembered I am merely 22, in the palm of God’s hand, and perhaps there was something amazing to come of all this.

 The three of us in this house look like sad Charlie’s Angels hoping we still have plenty fight left in us. The blonde, redhead, and brunette spend time working, riding bikes, skating, and discussing how to become a better us. My cousin cooks organic dinners and does yoga on the roof while my aunt smokes a cig and says things like, “You know, Bren, you’re a pretty girl. If I didn’t know you I’d be staring at your ass too!” after I complain about the old overweight gross neighbor bothering me.

 In my desperate need to raise money, I got 2 painfully mindless jobs- one at a tanning salon (which is a hilarious contrast to my affection for pale skin) and another at an Indie movie theater- both in bike riding distance. The theater began as poignantly painful. As I swept the floor a tear actually ran down my flushed cheek, “God! I thought A Chord of Three Strands would be on that screen right now and I’d be sitting in the f’n seats not sweeping the damn floor.” I felt so foolish. How many people knew about my screenplay at Paramount? Who would point and chuckle if they could see me now?

But, somehow my faith still welled up within me, more powerfully than my tears. I knew there was a purpose to all this.

My first hopeful discovery was that I was allowed to read, but not allowed to write during downtime at both jobs. This was great because I always opt to write and never allow myself to just enjoy a book. Unfortunately the high school boys at the theater only offered sci-fi adventures and the salon was only equipped with reads like “Shopaholic”. However, my beautiful, blonde, and tan coworker Ashley highly recommended the daunting 600-some page How to Make Love Like a Porn Star by Jenna Jameson. I put it off for as many hours that Vogue issues could kill until I submitted to Jenna.

I blew through that book in two days, enthralled by the queen of porn.

In middle and high school I was painfully envious of all the pretty girls. I fantasized about being one girl or another and made fun of the most gorgeous girls for hours- pretending I was thrilled I wasn’t plagued with their lives. Lies, lies. Somehow, over the years my envy turned from destructive harassment into heterosexual girl crushes. I would find the hottest chicks ever and attach to them like glue. This has gotten me onto tour buses, into ritzy parties, and surrounded by the craziest people. Eva Reinas was probably the first of many of these, which still occur today. (Jennika, you’re my latest! haha). Also a latest, is Ms. Jameson.

I can’t say I’ve seen her in action, nor do I want to, but her pictures enthralled me. She has perfectly smooth skin, a teeny frame, beautiful breasts, flippable hair, and a desirable command of the motion of her body.

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Just as one might suspect, the story behind her persona is heartbreaking. At 15 she lost her virginity while passed out in a boy’s sloppy bed, a bit older she was raped by her boyfriend’s uncle. And at the most horrendous, while attending a small high school in Montana all 10 boys in her class took her to a field, knocked her out with rocks to the head, and took turns raping her. Every time she came to, they would knock her out again. When she saw herself in her bedroom mirror after painfully stumbling home, she was certain they intended to kill her.

Porn was her way to take back her own sexuality. At last, she was in charge. Jenna couldn’t stress enough to her readers, “DON’T feel sorry for me. I’m fine.” I don’t imagine she buys her own lie, either. I don’t. She won’t acknowledge her very first rape at all; she claimed she felt victorious and that it was deserved. After all, that WAS her intention and she WAS in his bed. But, beautiful, you were passed out! That boy’s nuts should be chopped off. End of story.

By the book’s end, she is the reigning queen, a millionaire, the most downloaded woman on the web, reconciling with her family, and falling in love with her healthiest relationship to date. In the last few chapters, I’m getting annoyed when customers come in, eyes welled with tears, thinking, “Don’t bother me! I wanna know if Jenna marries him or what!” Her future husband is down on one knee, gorgeous ring in hand, and I cheat to see that indeed the next picture he dons a wedding gown. Her face is in a vibrant laugh and her dysfunctional but proud family surrounds her.

All in all, it was the perfect book for me to read at this moment in my life. My love and affection for women gleamed as I thought of all my girls- known personally or not- that I want the world for. And as I read and watched Jenna’s fame and success rollercoaster spin, fly, slow down, turn upside down, plummet, reach new heights, I realized the absolute only way to maintain sanity and health as a human being in the spotlight is to have a root system stretched far and deep into the ground to sustain the heights you’ll reach.

In this lifetime, for me it’s not about fame or money- Lord knows I’ve never had either one- but it’s about women like Jenna. It’s about me, no matter what I do or achieve, maintaining roots long and wide enough to withstand any storm and to hide other women in the safety of the branches I hope to one day have. I want to know for myself and other women, that sex is not power- Jenna admits to feeling utterly powerless still.

Health, stamina, morale, and heart are power. Sex is the icing on the cake of what a beautiful woman can offer a deserving man. And to this day, even Jenna is deserving of the best of men, because she is beautiful, truly and deeply. As all are you, beauties.

So, no matter how demeaning my jobs, I think I’m here to grow roots. And I pray the ability and strength for all you gorgeous women to do the same, always.

Jenna and me at LA Fashion Week, where I met her years after writing this