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.

Have yourself a merry Tenenbaums Christmas…

Dearest one and all,

Season greetings from Gotham… where it is yet another Royal Tenenbaums family Christmas… complete with an enduring cast of characters and archetypes… many of whom you will know from your own families…

– There’s your youngest daughter, who has confused herself with Annie Leibovitz and is stealthily stalking unwitting guests with her new Nikon 9 million… a camera so high def… even your subconscious will feel the need to smile and strike a pose… Somehow though, all the photos make people look like romance novelists.(think: Danielle Steele)

– Then, there’s your waspy drunk uncle who thinks he’s a war hero because he served in the Connecticut National Guard… during Vietnam.

– Your arsonist nephew who always hugs you just a little too long…

– Your oldest child who insists that your spirit animal is in fact a cockapoo. (and not a wolf or a hawk, like you were hoping)

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– Your cousin, the plastic surgeon, whose passive aggressive generosity shines ever-so-bright when he offers to fix that “ski jump you call a nose” and who pointedly touts the recent and dramatic cost reduction of Lipo. (all while appraising your stomach and upper thighs)

And then there’s the 2-day adventure that is cooking Julia Child’s bouef bourguignon. You chose it because 1) you were sick of turkey, 2) afraid of goose and 3) ham gives your chain-smoking sister-in-law a headache…

And here it was…

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To all of this though, there was (and is) an escape, a respite from crazy people and difficult foods… it’s a cold, clear day in Manhattan, out by the Jackie O’ reservoir amid the anonymity of obsessive joggers, dog walkers and old geezers… all of whom are silently rejoicing in the temporary freedom that is Central Park on Christmas day…

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Today at the park

From Gotham… Wishing you a very Bukowski Christmas, one in which your greatness is only handicapped by your laziness, which on a day like today seems entirely appropriate 🙂

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The writer Charles Bukowski. (Charles should go as Bukowski for Halloween. He’s a dead ringer!)

Love actually, A

Update…

So, my dreams of warbling Christmas carols like a torch singer in the streets have been dashed. There’s a monsoon today.  And one predicted for tomorrow as well.

Also, several readers have pointed out that there are in fact many other fine neighborhoods in New York City and that my staunch defense of the upper west side might be overstating things a bit.

Sorry everyone… 😦  I can only say I was feeling feisty.