Owen now Showin’

Paramount gives good screening.

I arrived at Mann’s Theater in Hollywood Tuesday afternoon and sought out the press check-in table. I was looking forward to seeing Paramount’s “Drillbit Taylor”, opening this weekend and starring Owen Wilson, aka, The Butterscotch Stallion. (Mr. Wilson is very popular with the ladies – and not just at the box office. Unfortunately, there was premiere for the movie so I would not be able to see Mr. Wilson up close and personal on the red carpet, just far away and publicly on the big screen.)

Upon locating my name on the list, a publicist handed me a coupon that I assumed was redeemable for the purchase and production of my first screenplay. (After all, I had twice touched the Paramount gates during a studio tour for good luck as tradition dictates.) On closer inspection, I saw that the ticket entitled me to free popcorn and soda. Certainly, a 3-picture deal and an office on the lot couldn’t be far behind.

I’m not a professional movie-reviewer, just a professional movie-goer. And, I love the movies so much that the mere fact that something is on celluloid and playing in a theater makes me like it even before I wrap myself in my old-lady sweater and settle into my seat.  I don’t possess a critic’s sensibility or vernacular, so I end up telling friends that a film was either worth two hours of their lives and 11 of their hard-earned dollars, or that they’d be better off using that money for a complicated coffee beverage or a gallon of gas.

My verdict on “Drillbit” is that it’s cute and will no doubt be a big hit among the weekly-allowance, parent-pick-up-and-drop-off-as-far-from-the-entrance-as-possible set.  “Drillbit” did make me laugh outloud a few times, and it was fun, though I did disturb my row mates and risk uncomfortable knee-bumping to use the restroom partway through the film instead of forcing myself to wait until the end so I wouldn’t miss anything. (It rates a “7″ out of 10 on the Bladder-Relief/Snack-Stand Visit During-the-Movie meter.)

Of course, I have to point out that there’s a mini-love story in which Owen Wilson, who plays a covert high-school bodyguard for some bully-targeted kids, is hot-for-teacher and wants to take the fetching Leslie Mann on a romantic date instead of only engaging in “after-school activities”.  (Hope springs eternal, ladies.)

Also opening this weekend is Tyler Perry’s “Meet the Browns”, which I have not yet seen, but plan to. Still in theaters: The Bank Job, which I found to be entertaining and British sexycool, with Jason Statham as an irresistably untameable alpha-male heartbreaker/lawbreaker. (“9″ out of 10 on the BRSSVDM meter.)

Well, I’d better dash before the day gets away from me. I need to go lift some weights to fend off that pesky Osteoporosis and excavate that little bicep bump before it disappears forever into upper-arm anonymity. For those of you who celebrate the holiday, I hope the Easter Bunny fills your basket with lots of goodies and that you have the patience to pick off every last speck of foil before consuming them.  This is also a big church-going weekend where fashion and religion intersect and people don their Sunday best to attend services. (As a natural consequence of my job as a Red Carpet reporter, my mind sometimes drifts into fashion commentary mode during mass: “The woman in the 6th pew to the right of the altar took a chance on a pastel dress and jewel-tone hat, but, Amen, it seems to work.”)

Back soon!

What’s New, Pussycat?

I wonder what life would be like if I were a Pussycat Doll.

This is what went through my mind as I stood behind my cameraman, singing along as the glammed-up girl group, wearing towering heels and black spandex, booty-popped and hair-tossed their way through the catchy question, “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?” Their performance on the last night of L.A. fashion week followed a runway show of new Pussycat Dolls lingerie so tiny that at first I thought it was designed for actual pussy cats.  But, no. There were attractive,  willowy human females who modeled the bras, panties, hoodies, and garter-belt dangling micro-minis that I could possibly squeeze into if I did back-to-back stints on “Survivor” as well as my personal reality show: “Your High School Reunion Is In Two Weeks and It’s a Pool Party!”

Fortunately, when I was assigned to cover the lingerie launch, I could proudly boast to my boss, “You are sending the right girl because I watched ‘The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll’ and can say with confidence that I have found my inner doll”.  There was silence on the other end of the phone, so I decided not to tell her that I secretly hoped the record company would open up auditions for those of us past approaching the sexy song-and-dance act expiration date. I think there could be a market for a group of sassy, successful gals sporting Spanx, Aerosoles, and body-hugging costumes made entirely of Calcium patches.  We could sing ”Don’t cha wish your girlfriend had life-experience like me? Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was well-read like me? Don’t cha?”

Perhaps it was too late to live the dream, but there were more immediate accomplishments to focus on, such as catching up to P.Diddy who had just arrived backstage with Dr. Dre.  It was Pussycat pandemonium as I nudged my way through the throngs and thongs.  The charismatic Diddy evoked squeals of delight from the cast of the PCD second-season reality series, “Girlicious”, who giddily asked the Hip-Hop hyphenate to pose for a photo.  This was fortuitous because it got him to slow down long enough for me to thrust out my microphone and ask two event-related questions - all while security hovered and tried to shoo us away.  Phew! I, and my inner Pushy-cat Doll, broke a sweat on that one, but I got the soundbites I needed.

Meantime, the crowd clamored to congratulate Pussycat Dolls founder and lingerie designer Robin Antin who has successfully applied the PCD brand to make-up, dolls, television productions, a Las Vegas lounge, and a jewelry line. Now, the lingerie collection, called “Shhh”, is no longer a secret – Victoria’s or otherwise. No angel wings on this runway, just devilish little underthings that require a boatload of body confidence and a lifetime’s supply of Nair.

I conducted a few more interviews and headed home to the solitude of my studio apartment. I unzipped my faux patent- leather boots, removed my red newsboy cap, and piled on the moisturizer and comfy sweats.  I munched on low-calorie multi-grain crackers wishing I had some melted chocolate to dip them in to make them seem less like cardboard.  (In fact, I really couldn’t taste the difference between the product and the packaging.)

Well, friends, I think I’m me-owt of here. It’s time to visit the make-up aisles of Walgreen’s to see if there are any new shades of beigey-pink lip gloss.  I also have to stop by the newstand to load up on the week’s reading material covering everything from what’s happening on Capitol Hill in D.C. to what’s happening on “The Hills” with LC.

I will be back soon with more tales from the nearly-naked city!

Sex and the City

Today I walked around Century City Mall and played “Pretend Spend”.

It was a beautiful, sunny day and relatively quiet compared to the Sturm und Drang of the socks-on sex scandal unfolding in New York.  Trystin’ with Kristen was Eliot Spitzer’s assignation-to-resignation real-life sex and the city and everybody was buzzin’ about it. 

After I had saturated myself with minute-by-minute internet updates on the country’s newest drama involving the world’s oldest profession, I decided to take myself out for a spinach wrap and fantasy shopping spree.  I wasn’t working again until the next night when I would be covering the debut of the new Pussycat Dolls lingerie line, which I’m sure will send me into a downward spiral of cellulite shame.

I drove to the mall, navigated my car into the same underground area I always do, (my way of dealing with parking-spot amnesia), and wandered in and out of my favorite stores picking out the items I would buy if I had a backlog of bucks. In one of the AP stories about Eliot Spitzer, it was pointed out that his father is worth $500 million.  That’s A LOT of Jimmy Choos. 

Imagined wealth is a fun game and it got me through a restless afternoon of my other Hollywood hobby, “Waiting for the Big Break Phone Call” which involves bringing the cell everywhere including the bathroom while I shower and keeping my shampoo-burned eyes on the incoming call screen through the glass door (the same technique used in cute-guy, great-date, next-day phone call vigils).

Am heading out now to meet friends on the patio of an upscale industry restaurant where we once saw Stanley Tucci along with the usual bevy of blue-suited power-brokers.  I’ll order an Iced Tea and eat the lemon wedge for dinner, imagining it’s Eggplant Parmigiana. 

Back soon!

Sunday in L.A. with Angela

It’s Jane Austen’s fault that I forgot to turn my clock ahead.

Yes, even after many thoughtful reminders from my parents who’ve made it their life’s work to keep me apprised of time re-setting, rental availability in apartments near theirs, and “Dancing with the Stars” updates,  I fell asleep without advancing the hands of my friendly, faithful, Target-purchased Home Furnishings alarm clock. In my defense, I had just watched “Pride and Prejudice” and was completely drunk on romantic escapism and thoughts of Mr. Darcy in his thigh-skimming riding breeches.

As a result of the Spring Ahead, Fall Back (Into Bed)- ritual, I missed aerobics, wasting the motivational mojo I was saving up from Friday when I saw the Olivia Newton-John “Let’s Get Physical” video at Hamburger Mary’s.  There I was, at a tall table on the patio, eating my veggie burger, enjoying the view of Santa Monica Blvd., thinking, I really don’t want to get physical.

The idea of a sit-up is not nearly as appealing to me as a good long sit-down.  I prefer a “Let’s Get Cerebral” approach to life.  I like to read, write, watch TV, go to the movies, stare at art, all of which can be done without ever disturbing the comfortable lifestyle of my sweat glands which retired after the final game of 8th-grade Kickball.  Now I have days when the most exercise I get is brushing my teeth or taking off my bra without first removing my shirt.

OK, I changed the clocks on the microwave, the stove, and the nightstand.  I’m a fan of more day and less night. No matter how many years come between me and my childhood, hot weather and primetime sunlight remind me of being out of school for the summer; the carefree days when bike-riding screeched to a happy halt the moment we heard the chimes of the ice-cream truck as it lumbered through neighborhood streets.  I think of  family trips to Asbury Park, where we’d eat at Howard Johnson, glide high above the boardwalk on the Sky Ride, and surrender to the joys of Skeeball and sand-castle building. And, there was shore-related snackage like Cotton Candy, Salt-Water Taffy,  frozen custard on a cone, and whatever else we could talk my parents into spending too much money on.

It’s a beautiful day here and I do have to move my body to go to the supermarket. And, I’m sure I’ll treat myself to lunch at the outdoor food court where I’ll mentally plot out my week. Of course, I will end up exercising,  if only because I’m meeting up with old friends when I visit New Jersey next month.  One of them is my high school crush whom I haven’t seen since graduation and I’d like to be able to sit down without worrying about my midsection spilling out over my favorite jeans. (Although that mess can be hidden with a strategically-placed dinner napkin. Just remember not to take it with you when you leave.  Covert attempts to cover a bountiful belly are not worth a restaurant supply-theft rap sheet.)

I’m off to the store.  Enjoy your Sun-is-out-longer-day!

Angela Goes to Hollywood

So, let me backtrack and explain how a Jersey girl with big hair and a penchant for diner French Fries smothered in gravy ended up in L.A. at more than one raw-food dinner party where I was so desperate for something cooked that I snuck into the bathroom with a tiny pile of vegetables I’d never even heard of and held it under the blowdryer for 5 minutes.

Ever since I perfected the Wonder Woman spin while watching Linda Carter lasso the bad guys and deflect bullets with her bling, I knew I wanted to create characters and build stories around their lives. I also knew to do that in a visual medium, I should live where showbusiness lived: Los Angeles.

When the timing seemed right, I sold my house and headed west. I rented an apartment near a newsstand and a Coffee Bean and moved in with my 2 cats (1, if my landlord is reading this). I didn’t know anyone here.  All I had was some savings and an earnest desire to become a screenwriter. I had no idea how to make that happen. But, I figured geographic desirability was a plus in case a Busy and Important Industry Person heard about my extensive background in television and film writing watching and wanted to meet with me post-haste.

When I arrived, I broke a sweat praying for some type of lucrative, non-specific, show biz deal involving a bidding war and a hometown parade whenever I deplaned at Newark Airport for a visit with the folks.  When, surprisingly, that didn’t happen within the first two weeks, I decided to seek employment.  A steady “just waiting for my big break” income would keep ink in my printer, allow me to take lots of writing classes, and give me hope that I’d be able to trade in my windshield-wiper, horn, and radio volume control – challenged vehicle for a ride that wouldn’t traumatize me with car shame whenever I valet parked in Beverly Hills.

The first stop in my quest for a paycheck was a swanky, celebrity – frequented eatery/drinkery. I hadn’t waited tables in more than 15 years, but I knew it was a critical chapter in the Hollywood success story.

For over an hour, I explained to ascending restaurant managers how my reporting skills, honed in Florida covering fireworks accidents and family gunplay injuries during holiday barbeques, would translate to the food service industry. After all , what is a server but an interviewer anyway? Instead of knocking on doors asking which Baby Daddy showed up drunk and set fire to his restraining order with a Bottle Rocket and pack of Camels, I’d be delicately questioning customers about their choice of side dish.  And, those off-the-cuff  live shots could come in handy if there was ever a catering crisis, i.e., “Ma’am, there’s breaking news from the kitchen. We’ve just run out of scallops.”

The restaurant uniform consisted of a shin-to-chin, stiff, shapeless, beige-on-beige ensemble that they could have saved money on by cutting head and hand holes out of a refrigerator box.  And, I’d have to wear flat shoes and minimal make-up!

Through mascara-ed false eyelashes and enough eyeliner to reproduce a Jackson Pollack exhibit, I self-consciously surveyed my leopard print peep-toe pumps and shiny, off-the-shoulder sweater that I reverently chose as homage to the Patron Saint of New Jersey Mall (“Mawl” in Jersey-speak) Fashion: Carmela Soprano.

I was further informed that many movie-star clients didn’t want to be bothered and that communication between the glitterati and the bitterati was not on the menu. Apparently, a certain blockbuster action hero would sit solemnly at the bar and not glance at the help. (Who could blame him? His corneas could survive two hours of explosions, but looking at those uniforms could cause serious ocular trauma.)

When the interview concluded, I was directed to the employee exit where I carefully navigated the chipped floor tile leading to a dank, decrepit staircase that hadn’t seen a workman’s trowel since 1949. I tentatively teetered up the slanty, moldy steps convinced that I would emerge, not onto the pristine sidewalk of Burton Way, but at the final resting place of the vampire Nosferatu.

Clutching my Confirmation Rosary Beads and a Vitamin Shoppe garlic tablet dug up from the bottom of my purse, I rethought my romantic notion of serving drinks to saturnine celebs by night and slaving over a hot lap top by day. Longing for a well-lit lobby that wasn’t off limits to the great unwashed and a job that didn’t mind lip gloss shiny enough for its reflection to guide in the Space Shuttle, I hoped that something else was in store for me.

Was it ever!