There's no business like show business...

Shit. My boss just informed me that pitching a new film project to “industry people” is analogous to dating. I think I picked the wrong career.

I started a new job about 4 months ago as an assistant at a small film and television production company. Prior to taking on this role, I was responsible for tossing menus to the hoity toity Beverly Hills elite at an Italian Restaurant, all the while feigning foreign fluency by uttering such greetings as “Buon Giorno” and “Buona Serra” as said uppity BH folk would protest their seating arrangements. I don’t want to brag, but more often than not, I would convince these various clients (ranging from old time Hollywood producers to women with face lifts the likes of which Joan Rivers has yet to accomplish, to various Z list celebrities, agents, and Michael Bolton,) that table 23 is in fact even lovelier than table 14, which can “get a bit drafty.” I would usually then be suavely slipped a 20 for my valiant efforts.

But those days are gone. And now I am working in an industry whose daily MO consists of phone calls, phone tag, lack of return phone calls, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and coffee dates, emailing, lack of emailing and waiting. A lot of waiting. And pondering. And analyzing. Well do you think Colin Farrell really liked the role? How do you think he’s reacting to the script? Do you think his agent will get back to us? What kind of games is he playing? Those damn agents, never can quite trust ‘em. And the real pisser: Should we just move on to the next guy?

There are a few concentrated areas of life at which I excel: reading, literary analysis, writing, kayaking (I am inexplicably naturally gifted,) foreign language, elipticizing, cooking/entertaining, public speaking and swimming. However, dating is not my forte. It was not missing on the aforementioned list on accident. I actually have concluded that I suck at it. While I would rather get to know someone in a relaxed situation rather than as a part of the institutionalized custom that forces human interaction over a beverage, meal, or activity, I have come to realize that I just don’t know how to play the game.

I have had a handful of dates in my 22 years, enough to gauge my proficiency. Everything from a blind date, at which I hastily asked for the bill and was promptly asked to pay “halfsy wasvy’s” by none other than the cheap ass with whom I was dining, to one too many “Let’s just go out and have drinks,” which then turns into a calculated ploy to spread his seed after properly watering me. (I’m sorry but my loins are worth a hell of a lot more than 2 vodka sodas and thus 2 easy payments of $9.95. OK, it’s LA, the vodka’s probably top shelf-- we’ll go with $14.95.)

There are the occasional good experiences, too. You meet a guy, exchange phone numbers. He calls (nay texts) you the designated 3-5 days later, at which point you exchange witty banter, (albeit over facebook or G Chat,) and arrange a date. And instead of drinks, he suggests dinner. And instead of talking about the inane activity that men your age generally enjoy discussing, you talk about shit that matters, (to you at least). And although you feel you may have fucked things up on more than one occasion, (let's face it, the only game you enjoy is Scrabble--not the proverbial dating game)-- you attempt to patiently await the next phase of the process. All the while you utter cliches including,but not limited to, "It's worth it, you never know if you don't try, and you're a smart, confident woman, what's the worst that could happen--you get a bruised ego?"

And so, the film industry is the same. There are those who go on lunch dates with producers because their pocketbook is a bit slim, and they need some free sustenance. Or there are those who “just ask you for drinks” in an attempt to use you for the information that you have. And you sit and you wait and you ponder what could be going through their heads, until you wonder… When should we go to the next guy? And is it worth doing all over again?

Besos

I'm in a nostalgic mood and revisted a few of Gabriela Mistral's poems tonight that I studied in college. Feel free to marvel at the beauty of her words... (Use this link for the English translation http://www.poemas-del-alma.com/besos.htm)

Hay besos que pronuncian por sí solos
la sentencia de amor condenatoria,
hay besos que se dan con la mirada
hay besos que se dan con la memoria.

Hay besos silenciosos, besos nobles
hay besos enigmáticos, sinceros
hay besos que se dan sólo las almas
hay besos por prohibidos, verdaderos.

Hay besos que calcinan y que hieren,
hay besos que arrebatan los sentidos,
hay besos misteriosos que han dejado
mil sueños errantes y perdidos.

Hay besos problemáticos que encierran
una clave que nadie ha descifrado,
hay besos que engendran la tragedia
cuantas rosas en broche han deshojado.

Hay besos perfumados, besos tibios
que palpitan en íntimos anhelos,
hay besos que en los labios dejan huellas
como un campo de sol entre dos hielos.

Hay besos que parecen azucenas
por sublimes, ingenuos y por puros,
hay besos traicioneros y cobardes,
hay besos maldecidos y perjuros.

Judas besa a Jesús y deja impresa
en su rostro de Dios, la felonía,
mientras la Magdalena con sus besos
fortifica piadosa su agonía.

Desde entonces en los besos palpita
el amor, la traición y los dolores,
en las bodas humanas se parecen
a la brisa que juega con las flores.

Hay besos que producen desvaríos
de amorosa pasión ardiente y loca,
tú los conoces bien son besos míos
inventados por mí, para tu boca.

Besos de llama que en rastro impreso
llevan los surcos de un amor vedado,
besos de tempestad, salvajes besos
que solo nuestros labios han probado.

¿Te acuerdas del primero...? Indefinible;
cubrió tu faz de cárdenos sonrojos
y en los espasmos de emoción terrible,
llenaron sé de lágrimas tus ojos.

¿Te acuerdas que una tarde en loco exceso
te vi celoso imaginando agravios,
te suspendí en mis brazos... vibró un beso,
y qué viste después...? Sangre en mis labios.

Yo te enseñe a besar: los besos fríos
son de impasible corazón de roca,
yo te enseñé a besar con besos míos
inventados por mí, para tu boca.

Decisions, Decisions

OK, so it's been awhile. I haven't written in an exorbitant 38 days. But I'm back. And despite what's happened in these 38 days, (horrendous immigration reform laws being passed in Arizona, a cloud of volanic ash shrouding Europe, a potential car bombing in NYC, and let's not forget the dawning of a new form of obesity with the new KFC heart-attack in a meal double-down sandwich,) my filanges are functioning, and I am back to writing. I know my lovely readers at Chapman University are stoked.

Yesterday, while sitting in my office, I was pondering some of the recent choices that I've made. Some have been uncharacteristic, and have potentially caused my character to be misrepresented. But no one has made them for me, and I must accept their consequences and move on.

My mom has told me since I was young that I must take responsibility for my actions. (Which may be why I have an overactive conscience).

Newton tells us that for every action there is an equal or opposite reaction. (Which is why I've never been good at physics).

And UN Leader Koffi Anan tells us, "To live is to choose. But to choose well, you must know who you are and what you stand for, where you want to go and why you want to get there."

I came across this quote, and, like the true over-analyst that I am, dissected it as it applies to me. I encourage you to do the same--it really helps to put things in perspective.

Who am I?
Janel Anna Waite Schepman--quirky,funny,intelligent,fun,knowledgeable,kind, tempermental,idealistic,imaginitive,hard-working.

What do I stand for?
Christianity,helping people,enjoying life,positivity,promoting a mutual understanding among people and cultures,supporting my family and friends,creativity, humor,wit, intellect,drive and ambition.

Where do I want to go?
Geographically? Anywhere and everywhere! We'll start with South America, Tel Aviv and Thailand.
In general: I would like to ascertain a job that I enjoy, that challenges me creatively and intellectually, I would like to be surrounded by people I care about, I would like to find someone who I love and who loves me (for all my crazy idiosyncracies) in return, and, eventually, I would like to get married and have children.

Why do I want to get there?
To be fulfilled, to feel appreciated and inspired--to give to the world what I know I am capable of giving.

As I've said, I'm idealistic. This may not be the eventual outcome in my life, but this is what I want. And I'm going to try my damndest to make decisions that yield these results.

How to Fight the Fuzz and Win!

How to effectively talk your way out of getting a ticket.

Data collected and experiment tested by: Yours Truly.

1.Have a vagina. And boobs. If you are one of my 3 male readers and you have the genetic misfortune of lacking these integral components, you might want to quit reading now. I can't guarantee that this carefully gathered data will work for you.

2.Commit an obvious infraction. Making a blatantly illegal U-Turn over a double yellow, while operating left of center generally provides enough evidence to alert Johnny Law.

3. Get a little crazy and drive sans seat belt while committing said infraction.

4.When the Constable pulls you over, make sure to lose all sense of composure. Shaking like a whore in church while speaking unintelligibly as said Po Po approaches your car door is generally proper decorum.

5.When asked for your Vehicle's License, Registration and proof of insurance, make sure to provide only your license. Hand over your AAA card instead of the insurance verification. When asked to provide the correct information, be sure to ask the officer what that slip of paper looks like exactly, all the while, rambling on about how, "[Your] father is vigilant about having this paperwork on [your person] at all times."

6. Make sure that the Registration on your vehicle is expired. When asked why, blame it on the DMV. Sticking it to the man once in awhile never hurt anyone.

7. While browsing through your very disorganized folder of car records in your glove compartment, praying that some sort of documentation exists that will absolve you of your cardinal driving sin, make sure to be wearing a strapless beach cover up without undergarments. This will provide for optimal nippage as you lean over in an attempt to retrieve said documents.

8. When asked why you should get off and not get the proverbial book thrown at you, reply by saying that there is no reason. You expect to be punished to the full extent of the law.

9. When the officer exonerates you of your wrongdoing, gravel just the right amount. You don't want to look like a kiss ass. But you also want to make your appreciation apparent. A simple "Thank you, sir, this won't happen again," is sufficient. (Not to mention, you already showed some bosom, even if it was accidental... That should be "thanks" enough.)

10. Write a blog to help others evade the plight of being issued a ticket. Your driving karma is sure to increase as a result.

If you follow these 10 simple steps, I am willing to bet that you too, can fight the law, and win!

Editing

I am a good editor. I pride myself in my ability to spot a typo a mile away, and I get a strange satisfaction at pointing out a mixed modifier, spelling error, improper comma or verb tense confusion. My editing skills apply, however, only for others' work. I am, for all practical purposes, unable to spot my own errors in syntax. It's my writing, and I know exactly what I was thinking when I added that extra comma, albeit possibly misplaced. I suck at self-editing.

In my life, however, I am keenly aware of each mistake and wrongdoing that I have committed, and hold myself culpable for my actions; (a lesson that my parents instilled in me from little on,) in an effort to notice my fallibility, my humanity, and ultimately, to know myself as best as possible. Which, as you may guess, I do.

One area of said self-understanding that I fail to understand, however, (how's that for a paradox?) is that which applies to the opposite sex. I am 22 years old and have never had a boyfriend. There have been a few opportunities which have come my way, but never with anyone for whom I have felt it was worth jumping my proverbial ship of independence.

In the meantime, though, I have managed to effectively attract every derelict, old man, social anomaly and/or weirdo in some manner or another. While the capers and escapades of a day in my life make for one hell of a story, the self-deprecating bit is getting tired. The hilarity of these random antics is losing its edge.

Take yesterday, for example. Felipe, the guy at Trader Joe's, who is always friendly and helps me find a nice Cabernet that he thinks I may find palatable, or points me in the direction of my favorite snack crackers when I appear lost, asked me out. He made sure to inform me prior to doing so, that he has a criminal record, but is getting back on track, and hopes to cultivate a career as a firefighter/hairdresser in the near future. Mind you, this instance was used only for chronological purposes, and is one of many anecdotes I have in my repertoire pertaining to such. (I'm not in the mood to reference them, but trust me, there are a great many.)

Far be it from me to judge Felipe's life. That is not my intention here. In fact, I think it's great that he's turning his life around to combat arson whilst snipping the locks of his fellow firemen. Admirable, even. What I fail to grasp, however, is how, out of the throngs of Trader Joe's goers, I am the one to whom his attention is drawn.

So I guess my question is this: What is my role in all of this nonsense? If I am the self-aware individual that I claim to be, where is the consolation? Should I continue to accept these frequent occurrences, laugh them off, and use them as blog material? Or, like a misplaced comma, or subject verb disagreement, should I simply edit them out of my life?

I do.

I have a confession to make. Not worthy of "Holy Father forgive me for I have sinned" utterances, but nonetheless, a confession.

I am a Facebook stalker. Before you judge me, I would venture to guess that you are, too. Social networking, is, after all, as ubiquitous to our generation as the "puff puff pass" of the reefer and rock and roll music were to our parents'.

Whoever deemed this delightful past time taboo ought to be kicked in the shins. Repeatedly. We all do it. Tell me you don't scour the guys' screen who never called you back, and notice that he's now conversing with some bitch ass hoe who can't even spell properly? That you don't naively navigate your elementary school pals' page who, you are shocked to find, is knocked up and raising babies prematurely? Heaven forbid you tell anyone about it--you don't want to come clean and expose the truth to the masses. But I get it, it's there, you do it, and I'm here to say, "It's OK."

Recently, much of my Facebook "stalking," nay social research, (yes, that sounds much more PC,) has revealed to me that half of the girls with whom I attended college are now engaged.
We are talking at age 22 or 23.
ENGAGED.
As in betrothed.
As in he liked it, so he put a ring on it.
A diamond ring.

Now I'm not here to get all Betty Friedan on your ass, or anything, nor am I a bra burning, armpit hair pruning feminist, but I choose to believe that a woman's 20's can prove to be her most learned years.

Since graduating from college in May, I have never been more alone, scared, BROKE, jobless, or emotional in my life. Ever.

I have also never been more self-aware, independent, determined, or proud of myself in my life. Ever.

It is with experience that we learn and grow. My experiences reflect a life of independence and self-sufficiency. I have had an incredible support system, don't get me wrong, and there have been days and weeks that I felt that I just wasn't going to make it. That maybe I should just do as so many others, and move back in with my parents. And not have to write that damned rental check every month. But I did. And "I do."

And now so many that I know, or have known, are saying their own "I do's." They went home to live. And they'll move in with their husbands. And they'll probably, (hopefully,) be quite happy. But their experience will be one starkly different from my own.

And that's OK. Neither way is right. And the beauty of it is that it doesn't have to be.

(But you'd better believe that I'll be stalking the wedding photos on Facebook.)

I'm so tired of you, America!

Every day at work I make sure to have some background music to get me through the day. There’s no one with whom to converse here at Braun Entertainment, other than my elderly boss, Zev, his middle-aged partner (business—not sexual,) Philip, or Ming, the office dog. Beings as neither of the three generate superlative conversation (although Ming can occasionally be quite chatty,) I generally select my go-to station—The Beatles. I feel it is generationally appropriate for all involved, and does not create a cacophony that would harm Zev’s already precarious hearing. (I won’t even get into how the likes of let’s say Kanye or Jay-Z could affect Ming’s tender lobes.)

So today, while I was listening to the general array of melodies, a gem of a tune came to my attention: Rufus Wainwright’s "Going to a Town." The refrain of the song reiterates a theme with which I can commiserate: "I’m so tired of you, America." While I believe Wainwright’s intention in writing these lyrics stems from his discontent that gays are still unable to legally marry in America, (a theme to be addressed in another post—remind me!) I can relate to their face value. I’m so tired of being in America!

Truthfully, I feel like an idiot even saying this, since I was very fortunate to study abroad in Barcelona, Spain for 4 ½ glorious months in college, but I am itching to use my passport’s powers for good again. Unfortunately, though, I am a broke recent college grad, and am obligated to write a check each month to Wells Fargo Bank, Attention: Student Loans Department. I’d much rather be squirreling away funds in a piggy bank, the saving habits attributed to 5 year olds the world over, and, apparently, me.

I sit in my office on the daily (I love that expression; its twin sister, ‘on the regular’ isn’t bad, either,) longing to make a dent in my mental list of places to go. I’m dying to go to Tel Aviv, to Thailand, and to climb to the top of Machu Picchu. Maybe I’ll have to wait awhile, but for the moment, I’m so tired of you, America! I’m going to go count the money in my piggy bank, now. Maybe I’ll have enough to afford the gas money to get me to San Fran by dawn. Maybe.


Lyrics included below:
Going to a Town
Rufus Wainwright

I'm going to a town that has already been burnt down
I'm going to a place that has already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down
I'm so tired of America

I'm gonna make it up for all of The Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you, America

Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I've got a life to lead, America
I've got a life to lead

Tell me, do you really think you go to hell for having loved?
Tell me, enough of thinking everything that you've done is good
I really need to know, after soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood
I'm so tired of America

I really need to know
I may just never see you again, or might as well
You took advantage of a world that loved you well
I'm going to a town that has already been burnt down
I'm so tired of you, America

Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I've got a life to lead, America
I've got a life to lead
I got a soul to feed
I got a dream to heed
And that's all I need

Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I'm going to a town
That has already been burnt down