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Once upon a time, Bekah was in LA, driving from this place to that place with a FAIR amount of success. But: she found that though she usually arrived at the place SORT OF on time, she then could find nowhere to park. She could SEE the place she needed to be, she could see it with her EYES, nay, nearly touch it, but go inside she could not, as she could not find the ENTRANCE OR because she was inside of a vehicle (deathmaker machine,)  as opposed to on her own two trusty feet (preferred method of travel.) And so, after circling around for forever, she either said screw this and left, or did the ‘valet’ thing which is giving someone $1100 to take this weight of car off of your shoulders, and then she went inside to the place and said some things, did some stuff, drank some water, most likely went to the bathroom, then proceeded to the next location, where there was nowhere to park, and she lived happily ever after? Also there were dragons. But she defeated them.

I TAKE THEM.

With glee.

Whenst I was in high school, I worked at Party City for 3 years, mainly behind the balloon counter. I spent hours making delightful arrangements and not sucking helium, not at all. This part time-job rendered me quirky, adorable, and most importantly likeable….. Right?

Hence my decision to force this job – I mean – bestow of it – upon a character in the feature-length version of I Have it. I’ve been given the note that she needs to be more likeable. So – kittens, old people or balloons, right? Balloons it is. Color. Quirk. Screenwriting. America. And all of those things. Et cetera.

Or – writing for TV – an exploratory monologue. 

At the gentle insistence of my agentfolk, I’ve been watching more TV and trying to figure out which show I might could write for. Apparently, it doesn’t quite fly to just say, ‘Oh, I don’t really watch TV.’  So I’m searching for inspiration for generating my own material, which is daunting! And strange! (To have one good idea: amazing. To have a idea with such a powerful conceit, such an irresolvable central problem that it could write it self for 5 years – dang near impossible.) But I gotta say – I’m pretty excited by even the prospect of this. I might really hate writing for TV or be superbad at it – but at least I will have tried. Also, I want to live in LA for a minute and wear white skinny jeans and I don’t know, eat celery or whatever.

So – Have you seen Weeds yet? I just started watching, I think with the latest season. It’s pretty freaking great and I’ll blog you why. A.) Mary Louise Parker, who has made an entire career out of being small and weird. In Weeds, she is smaller, weirder, and more adorable and poignant than ever. B.) The conceit. It’s classic fish outta water – but it’s suburban California housemom – selling weed. It’s Mary Louise Parker housemom wrapped in all sorts of situations with drug-selling thugs. Essentially – the jokes are endless. The show also walks this really brilliant fine line in terms of tone – TERRIFYING and hilliarious at the same time. I’d like to think that I’m totally capable of walking said line, and that I’ve walked it before. Though, I have a sneaking suspicion that I am far from ready to actually write for a show. Either way, it’s pretty great to lay on one’s tush, eat cookies, watch TV and call it work.

Go see this! Wish I could, so badly. I Will be there in spirit, I guess. In a creepy, transparent, hover-y type way.

It’s a great company, this is the second show of mine they are doing amidst a festival of shorts. This one’s about the hot high school girl who goes to visit her terminally ill classmate, determined to take his virginity.

So he* saw my short play  I Have It in LA and wants to film it.

However, he cannot, because I’ve already signed an option with a pair of young filmmakers, giving them exclusive rights.

As much as I’d like to be excited about this, it’s turned into a smallish nightmare that compells me to point all inquiries to my agent. This is the proveberial ‘talk to the hand, because the face does not understand’ of the industry.* I’m much too much of a pussy to handle these things on my own. But the minute I start to dial 212 to reach him/her/it, I remember that my agent, at this point, lives in my inbox, in my laptop, and next to it, in my printer. Essentially, je do it myself. Gah, I’ve got to grow some balls. Proverbially.

* Bekah Brunstetter does not really know Ashton Kutcher, nor has she ever met him. This information has all been passed down through an actor (a marvelous one, at that) who knows him.

* Bekah Brunstetter does not really know anything about the industry.