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.

A Stroppy Harridan…

A toast, a toast… it was finally snowing-ish. Or it was yesterday morning in Central Park. (Pic courtesy of Alex Di Stasi)

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Yes, Decima… promised to be a stroppy harridan of a storm…

I bet you’re wondering what that is because I certainly was when my BFF and criminal service animal, Ed, proclaimed me nothing but one at a recent birthday lunch. A fine how-do-you-do…

I’ll confess, my first guess was stroppy harridan: a variant of some hipster-nonsense Christmas cocktail, one that involves artisanal singing… Wassail, wassail… and whatnot. (Thinking about it now, all cocktails should involve singing. We should make it a rule, like diplomatic protocol. Singing keeps drunk people in Mary Poppins mode and prevents them from morphing into a sea of Archie Bunkers, amIright? And we’ve had more than enough Archie this past year. Electors, how about a write-in on Monday…Vote Julie Andrews!)

Breaking it down… “stroppy”… I quite liked. It means irascible and/or easily annoyed. That’s definitely me when lacking actual REM sleep. You know, the kind of deep slumber you get in the early, early mornings, the kind that is fevered and awash in vivid, storied dreams that play out like a Daphne du Maurier novel–complete with Mrs. Danvers lurking. The Victorians referred to it as the “second sleep” and apparently it went away with the invention of the electric light bulb… Damn you, Edison. For me, it’s always SUCH a fortifying sleep that… upon waking, I immediately race into the kitchen with a new musical or book idea, which I then frantically, nonsensically attempt to explain to the dog as I fumble with the coffee-making while he listens politely, trying ever so earnestly not to pee…

“Harridan” seems like a fancy version of a religious ne’er-do-well or someone with an implausible haircut, like Boris Johnson. In fact, it’s a grumpy old woman from the French for old horse. Charming.

I’m not sure what merited this whimsical moniker. Honestly, I don’t think Ed knew what it was either, and for the record, I was super cheery and decidedly un-horse-like given it was my birthday. But right as I left the restaurant, I ran smack into one of those very serious New York City joggers, you know… the kind who runs even when it’s rul cold out. He was wrapped in tinfoil like a baked potato with a ski mask. We were flirting distance apart, trying to avoid each other so naturally, “See-something-say-something” took hold, and I called him a stroppy harridan… to which he replied, “You bet your sweet ass I am!”

And what can I say… it was the quintessential Manhattan moment: a term nobody knows, uttered in an instance of grouchy, unanticipated physical disruption that could have resulted in conflict, but instead resulted in Seinfeldian intimacy. It’s what makes this place, this place.

So, a toast, a toast… To the stroppy harridans, the difficult-sweet people, and storms…

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Keep singing and enjoy the holiday mayhem… I have a book to finish, but lovelies you are my favorite procrastination. Have a day that means something 🙂

xoxo – gg

P.S. If you need to avoid your family for hours upon hours of wrapping or just general brooding… I highly recommend Netflix’s new thriller The OA