Blog: First Hollywood Job

This piece appears in full at Hollywood Journal.

My first Hollywood job was not actually in Hollywood, but in New York. I was in college; a freshman whose cubicle-sized dorm was covered in wall-to-wall photographs of old movie stars. With black-and-white images of Dietrich, Crawford, Harlow and their fellow goddesses staring down at me, I dreamed of a career in the movies.

Perhaps that’s why I responded to an ad for a job as a locations intern on the set of a movie called The Pallbearer, starring one “Friend” (David Schwimmer) and one relatively unknown actress named Gwyneth Paltrow. I had no idea what a locations intern was, but I knew it would get me into the inner circle of the dream factory. My only previous brush with the film industry came when I was twelve years old and asked to

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Blog: Daddy and Me

This piece first appeared in The Advocate. Mommy-and-MeThe first time I ever saw a sign that read “Mommy and Me” was outside a movie theater in Los Feliz, an extremely liberal enclave of extremely liberal Los Angeles. On Wednesday afternoons, this movie theater hosted “Mommy and Me” screenings. I imagined a theater filled with mothers nursing their newborns as they watched the latest art-house film, and as a father-to-be, I immediately felt excluded. Since having my children, I have run into the phrase “Mommy and Me” time and time again. The Pump Station, a Los Angeles destination for all things baby, declares on their website that “the support and friendship of other Moms who will be part of your world for years to come! You can’t put a price on that!” They offer not only a series of “Mommy and

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Blog: Goodbye Damon

I met Damon Intrabartolo on November 5, 2000. I was twenty-four years old. I had never had a boyfriend. My friend Mark told me he was going to take me to his friend Jon Hartmere’s play, “bare.” Jon was single and Mark thought we would hit it off. We arrived at the Hudson Theater in Los Angeles. I was so busy crying through the show that I didn’t notice that above the actors, a manic young man conducted the band. Scan19 After the show, I met Jon Hartmere, and then I was introduced to that manic young conductor. We looked in each other’s eyes and felt an instant connection. We drove the same car. We had the same Kate Bush CD in our cars. Everything was a sign that we knew each other in a past life. The night we met, he spelled my

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Faye Dunaway

Blog: My Faye Story

MademoiselleB_Blonde_FayeDunaway_2It seems as if everyone who lives in West Hollywood has a Faye Dunaway story. I have heard of sightings at the cheese counter of Whole Foods, Faye berating some poor soul because they don’t have the manchego she likes. I have heard of sightings at the Virgin Megastore (remember CD stores?), Faye accosting a manager because she was displeased with their classical selection. I have heard of sightings at local coffee shops, Faye mistaken for one of West Hollywood’s Russian babooshkas. But despite living in West Hollywood for fifteen years, my Faye Dunaway story happened long ago and faraway from the city of Angels. Wallingford, CT. 1994. After two years at the tony New England prep school Choate Rosemary Hall, I had finally come out of my shell and started to express myself.  And a big part of that self-expression came through

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