Reimagination station

To be a writer in Hollywood must be the easiest freaking job in the world. You wake up and splash a little Early Times on your face to mask the smell of cocaine and vomit, flip through your girlfriend’s kid’s copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, point to one and pitch it to your boss. Boom. Now all that’s left to do is to “reimagine” this story, which means adding gratuitous, big-budgety-type violence and maybe figuring out a way to sneak in some booby shots. Done. Blockbuster. Now go get your casting director to ask K-Stew to mope around the set for a few months, maybe taking a break or two to bang the director. It’s all coming together now.

“Reimagine” is a buzz word around Hollywood these days. I loathe the term buzz word, but it works here. What does reimagining mean to me? It means that these people are out of original ideas. I can’t really pinpoint the exact time that it happened, but sometime around the first Matrix action screenwriters everywhere threw up their arms and said, “That’s it, we’re screwed. Call Bruce Willis and see if he’s down for a twelfth Die Hard.”

You've made some poor choices, Bruce

You’ve made some poor choices, Bruce

What these people understand, the Hollywood people I mean, is that as long as there is an explosion or two, a car and/or helicopter chase, a short skirt and some semblance of a storyline, people will be lining up to watch the movie. We will shell out $40 to sit in a sticky theater with a big, soft pretzel to watch Jason Statham calmly walk away from yet another fiery crash with AC/DC screaming in the background. And we’re invested because he’s avenging his wife’s neighbor’s mother’s friend’s dog walker’s cousin’s untimely death. I wonder how it’s going to end.

OR if you are really in the mood to make a movie but just don’t have any of that there “creativity” it takes to dream up your own story line, well why not just look through your VHS collection and REMAKE one. Just pick a movie and do it again. Maybe change some lines around, maybe add a scene or two. More fire. More cleavage. Son of a bitch. I can’t even get away with wearing the same outfit twice in one month, but these bastards can make millions just copying a movie that was made a few years ago? Andy Garcia is going to be pissed that he’s been washing windows all this time after learning this little tidbit.

Oh, and one more reason why I hate the movie industry these days: Fast and Furious 6. Take the cotton balls out of your mouth, Vin Diesel. Take the cotton balls out of your mouth before speaking.

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Sit on it

I’ve recently been burdened with the unfortunate task of searching for a babysitter. For my kid, not me. And since I don’t really have many friends, I’ve taken to the internet. It seems like a great idea: a website created for parents (just like me) to search through hundreds of babysitters and nannies in MY area. Wow, sign me up. I can even see pictures, too! Then why is it that I feel as though I’m on some early incarnation of Chatroulette? It’s sticky and seedy and hepatitis-y here.

I want to send a personal message to some of the young ladies on this site. Well, actually I want to grab them by their shoulders and shake them until I hear a pop. But I’m a nonviolent person. I just would like to tell them no. Don’t use a cropped headshot of yourself at a bar. Because I can tell. And I’m pretty sure if we could magically see the rest of that edited picture we would see you on a mechanical bull trying not to spill your Mai Tai onto your new Hollister halter top. Don’t think you can fool me; I was waiting in line behind you for that same bull ride.

I almost broke my collarbone on that damn thing.

And don’t use the same picture you sent in to eHarmony and Christian Mingle and Ashley Madison. We want it to be a surprise when you sleep with our husbands. If you advertise it right in your bio then you’re ruining that for us. So maybe edit out that little tidbit about you loving cherry lollipops. (And certainly don’t use that picture). And ease up on the crazy eyes and maybe crop out the breast pump in the bg. You need to take the Rebecca De Mornay down a few ticks. She was so 1992, anyway.

Yet as I write this, I realize I don’t really know what I want in a babysitter. Nobody will be good enough. Well, unless you wear a calf length, Edwardian-style dress, carry a bottomless carpetbag and use an umbrella to fly hither and thither, you will not be good enough. And even though Mary Poppins is most likely unavailable and/or out of my price range, I don’t think I should have to settle for Kelsey in the next town over. Sure she loves puppies and classic rock, but she’s a psychology major and can’t work nights because it could interfere with her job at Leave it to Beavers. I don’t want my child around psychology majors.