The OA, Crazy Dream Logic, Bad Wigs?

Hello, Lovelies… How the hell are you?

I’ve been wickedly excited about the return of The OA and GoT—especially after writing a Christmas movie about pie. That said, I do hope I don’t end up dying in an airplane bathroom in a Draco Malfoy wig. (I probably will) Yes, the tour took its toll but was ridiculous fun and I have many stories…

Meanwhile, is AOC  not the new political Daenerys? I know I sound like a broken record here, but we need guys everywhere to bend the knee, show us the report, and make room for lady writers, politicians, activists, comedians, bartenders, and engineers to do their best work to save the planet and vanquish the white walkers with their horrendous toenails, etc. It’s time to lead with fairy hair and dragons…

What else is happening… RIP Agnes Varda. You broke ground, you powerful sprite. Speaking of angels, Part 2 of The OA is super fun. They weave storylines so gracefully across all manner of “bearing witness” platforms and contexts—it’s almost balletic. I won’t spoil it for you.

I think because I’m coming up on my own personal epilepsy survival day of April 11th…  I just had the most beautiful-frightening dream ever.  I’m in New York on the way home from dinner with my ex and his hilarious friend Will, and because it’s crazy dream-logic, we all go to yoga in this converted church that somehow looks like a Restoration Hardware ad??? Think soothing, hipster masculinity, everything swathed in grays, taupes, distressed leathers, and wood tones. And I fall asleep during Savasana like I always do. When I wake up, I’m in a different place in the studio, searching the crowd for my ex and his buddy. They would never just up and leave me… Oh, and did I mention I’m also naked… and phone-less.

So, I wrap myself up in a yoga mat (like a taco) and I’m asking staffers where my clothes might have gotten to, but they’re all in this post-vinyasa fugue state that’s probably a function of working there. I can’t remember my ex’s number or Will’s to call them from these white courtesy phones that keep appearing out of nowhere. I finally make it to the door, and out of the church-yoga-Restoration Hardware. It’s just a few blocks to my house, I think. Yes, I’m only wearing a yoga mat, but I can make it if I run really fast. Hell, it’s NYC… There are plenty of people wearing much worse.

Just then, a man approaches me. He’s a pale, gaunt Jeff Daniels type, and he whispers, “I’m going to have one…” And I KNOW exactly what he means. All at once, he morphs into this roiling, swirling, skinless body of sand, light, and air that I cannot quite catch or keep safe… it’s like trying to hold fire. He is having a seizure, and then I SIT STRAIGHT UP in my bed here in LA, with both arms outstretched and empty—still trying to catch him. It was haunting.

Ok, I need coffee… Enjoy Spring, you crazy rad lovers – XOXO – GG

PS… For what to actually do during a seizure, watch this.

PPS… Apologies if you see weird paragraphs in this one… Something is up with WP.

How to Talk to Boys at Parties…

Hello, Lovelies… Welcome to another week rollicking, non?

Aren’t you so glad Mercury is no longer in retrograde? It’s Noah’s ark on the subway today. There’s pretty much zero point in going anywhere except perhaps the amazing Frenchy bakery on the next block (Miss Madeline). You’ll miss it if you blink, but just walking in the door there… is a full-on nose-gasm from Paris. After that, I’m seeking refuge in BBCAmerica for less political psychopaths. Killing Eve is a sparkly gem that had me wanting to test out if I too could stealthily zip myself into a Swiss Army carry-on.

Speaking of Brits, I was so excited to hear that Warren Ellis’s AI comic, Injection, sold in a massive auction and to see that Neil Himself’s story How to Talk to Girls at Parties is finally close at hand (ETA May 18 in theaters near you). I cannot wait to see it if only because the characters remind me so much of my own kids. I think the alchemy of sweet, weird, innocent defiance is what’s needed now more than ever… Hold fast, people. Today is a strange one.

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And yes, I’m trying to stop doing all my business parties (meetings) this way… just my sparkling personality always leads to trouble. xoxo – gg

 

The Year I Set Myself on Fire

Greetings from The Overlook where I have been in a mad dash to finish my second book, a psych thriller code-named Project G. It’s sweltering out—like Do The Right Thing hot.

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July is the hardest month to stay in love with Manhattan. It’s like year nine of marriage when you really wish he’d just effing clean out the garage (for once) so that you can shoehorn the car in a hair from all of his unfinished manuscripts before it’s the depths of the Arctic winter again. But anytime you so much as even hint at this frog of a task, he starts yelling like Jerry Stiller from Seinfeld. July is usually a time of blatant abjection where all of the city’s humanity shows itself in its boldest, most disturbing hues. Especially on the subway, which is no great shakes right now as I’m sure you’ve all seen. A carnivalesque, pheromone-based mating ritual to be sure!

That said, the city does try its best (above ground) to make things fabulous with arts and culture. Opera practically comes to your stoop with F’Rosé popsicles. Shakespeare in the Parking Lot is the tailgate of the century.

I barely look at my phone, email or social media these days, but then suddenly, out of nowhere, I’ll get a crazy text from Ed saying, “Holy Crapdazzle! Turn on the telly… The world’s a shit-fire!” And so I do, and I’ll see something horrid like a nuclear Cheeto wrestling a logo, which will somehow remind me of the time I set myself on fire 20-odd years ago in grad school. It was the worst. I was living down in the East Village in this tiny 4th-floor walk-up apartment where it used to actually rain through the ceiling whenever my upstairs neighbor took a shower–making so that I actually had to take a brolly in the shower to take my own proper (clean) shower. I was under the most intense deadlines and What. An. Idiot. I was making both tea and coffee at the same time. For some reason, I needed both, and I leaned over the lit burner to grab the sugar (or something) in my highly flammable Wal-mart flannel shirt. “Hmmm, that’s an odd color flame: purple and green” I observed. “Then, holy shit! That’s me on fire!” Pat, pat, pat. Tries to blow it out (big mistake). Forgets the whole “Stop, drop and roll” exercise from 2nd grades and run screaming from your apartment into the grubby hallway, your cheap shirt now almost fully engulfed in flames, only to rip it off like The Hulk and inadvertently show off your latest, most experimental bra choice to all of your scary neighbors.

That’s the world right now. If only Chris Christie could have done like French and worn dark socks with sandals to sunbathe. Then while you could never excuse him, at least you could laugh at him. Come on Christie… you f*ckwad, either DO the right thing… or be the girl on the right.

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Hold on tight, Lovelies.  And don’t lean over any open flames. xoxo – GG

Not to brag, but I’m getting SO much writing done!

Image above stolen from the desk of the amazing Austin Kleon.

HA!  Hello lovelies,

Greetings from The Overlook where I am in a white-heat manic frenzy and positively useless as a human. It’s not hyperbole. Friends came to visit from France, and I’ll admit it; I was the worst hostess ever. Domestic badasses like Martha Stewart, Ina and Snoop would excommunicate me tout de suite. I used to really, really  be able to cook, but all I can think about right now is the book, which is due molto pronto. I can’t do drugs because of my spazzy brain, but damn if I don’t start twitching like a meth mom every time I think about all the egregious typos in my manuscript. I’ve even started to resemble Karl Ove Knausgaard. Seriously,  I am his less-cute doppelgängster:

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Plus, my skin is scaling away like that old corpse broad from The Shining. I’ll spare you the graphic bathroom visual from Kubrick’s stunning masterpiece. Suffice it to say, I’m trying to hydrate more.

Maybe it’s just aging, but I feel like my whole body is at war with itself. Where it’s like, “Yo’ lady! I need to see some ID!” and there’s me having left my driver’s license in my other purse. It’s almost a case of self not recognizing self, but I can’t figure out if it qualifies as an existential crisis or an auto-immune disorder? I think both are still covered under the #ACA.

On the bright side, the book is making me heaps skinnier. It’s a kind of terror-burp dyspepsia that gives you zero appetite as you are literally eating your own words. To cope, I’ve started harboring lush escapist fantasies and conducting wildly aggressive real estate searches for places like these:

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It’s a farmhouse in Gers, France where there is health care and people still take naps. I also love this particular region because everywhere you look, there’s food like this:

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Quack, quack went the duck. I have so much to tell you, from the different women’s marches to old AF parades to all-new New York weirdos, I just have to write like a mothertrucker this week.

Who was it who said, besides sex and wine… you are my favorite procrastination?

Stay rad – xoxo – gg

 

Welcome to Face Club…

Cartoon by the amazing Allie Brosh!

The first rule of Face Club is: you do not talk about Face Club.

To hell with that.

For those of you just joining us, it’s a little over a year since I shattered my face and jaw in a grand mal seizure. Worse still, I severed all the facial nerves that fan out like a daisy across the right side of my forehead, cheeks, lips and chin. This has meant no feeling or movement for things like speaking, eating, drinking, smiling and blinking. It took 11 months to be able to blink again on my own . Lately, I am relearning how to whistle… so that I might be able to kiss again. Right now, I can only smooch people like Auntie Mame… MWAAAAHHH! Beware, I practice all the time. I had no any idea how many muscles it takes to close one’s lips together, even just for a second! It’s like doing a prison push-up with my mouth!

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Much of the time, getting better seems to stretch out to infinity. Progress has been so fucking imperceptible… like clouds on a windless day. Grrrr… But the city has been a marvelous place to recover in that it affords so much anonymity. Hooray for strangers’ willful ignorance. Such a blessing in disguise!

Today, however, I woke up to a freakin’ miracle… I can finally raise my right eyebrow!

WOOHOO! YES, I can give people the side eye. I can fully AL GORE just about anyone I want… on command! It’s the best. To celebrate, I’m going to AL GORE people everywhere, all day! I might even sigh audibly when I do it just so they notice!

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XOXO –  GG

PS – my skull a year ago!

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My Beautiful Broken Brain… Wait, is that too high fallutin’?

Cartoon by the amazing Allie Brosh (hyperboleandahalf.com)

Yes, I came home from the wild and went in for the final reconstructive surgery…

Dr. Ira Sturman and Dr. KareemofWheat…  you are indeed the crafty Oliver Sacks-van Gogh-Jan Svankmajer team of maxillofacial artistry…

And to that poor/sweet anesthesiologist who yanked  me back into life by disemboweling me through my nose… Guantanamo-style… I’m so sorry if I scared you… don’t be afraid chica, it gets fucking better, I swear 🙂

And to Sherill and Nada… feel my love ladies! You are the greatest nurses in the world… you deserve some crazy-meaningful prize… or something… a big-ass raise.

Have been shuffling around my apartment having David Lynch-style real estate dreams and looking like a drunk lady, wearing a jockstrap on my chin…which is so not fair because I have been very, very good in that regard… but I am almost one year without a full grand mal seizure and I almost feel/look like me… Even if I can’t fully talk yet… I still love what’s crackling in my beautiful broken brain and I cannot wait to see this… Feel like I have lived it 100 times over…

And now to fight eviction… by the sweetest, most patient landlords who ever were… not that I wouldn’t just give them the keys because they are the best (and I will), but when you are like I am these days… all you crave is the constancy and sameness of your books and your friends 🙂

XOXO – GG