Shalom, kibbutzniks!

I am here to tell you about my recent trip to Israel for Tiny Furniture’s international premiere at the Jerusalem Film Festival. I undertook this life-changing journey with my BFF since birth, fellow DDD Isabel Bramlette Halley.

My mom is a nonpracticing Jew and my dad is an even less practicing Protestant but according to us Jews, a Jewish mom makes a Jewish baby. I went to Hebrew school for two weeks but didn’t get the lead role in the class play and dropped out. I consider myself spiritual but not religious, and I never had any particular interest in visiting Israel. But Isabel has long dreamed of it, and we haven’t traveled internationally since an ill-fated Ecuadorian vacation in our tenth year of life, so plans were made. And I’m happy to report this trip was much more successful than our last (when I sat at the foot of an Andean foothill screaming and crying at the prospect of a hike, then slapped Isabel for owning a cooler Gap baby-tee than I did.)

The journey to J-town started out with a frantic scramble, as I realized on the morning of July 7th that our flight departed that evening rather than the next. Isabel took my oversight in stride and showed up ready to move.

We slept peacefully through the long flight (is it a coincidence that peaceful and prescription start with the same letter?) and arrived in Tel Aviv the next morning, groggy and anxious about facing customs. All I will say is that the people ushering you in and out of Israel are tough cookies.

A car waited to take us to the holy city. We could see the border of Palestine as we drove toward Jerusalem.

I sent a male friend this photo with the caption “this is where they send boys who don’t use condoms” and I immediately regretted it. You know why? Because there are some times when you know nothing and it’s better to just shut the fuck up. Among other things, this trip really taught me that not everything requires a quip. Especially not serious political unrest that you haven’t read multiple books about.

Isabel was very excited when we reached our hotel.

We looked out onto the beautiful swimming pool. I emailed this pic to friends also, and Kyle pointed out the shadow of a giant Godzilla cock looming.

Isabel ripped the guidebook a new one, making sure we saw all of Jerusalem’s most historic sites. I feel ignorant, because I didn’t realize that this city, roughly the size of Torrington Connecticut, is the birthplace of all three monotheistic world religions– Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. And that, as my dad would say, is some powerful shit.

On our first morning in Jerusalem we hit the Wailing, AKA Western, Wall, where I wished a wish for nearly everyone I know:

They provided disposable schmattas for our legs so as not to offend (my tats didn’t have too many supporters either.) I felt a real surge of power when I touched the wall and found the experience of placing my written wishes between its cracks very moving.

We touched the rock of Golgotha, which is supposedly were Jesus’ cross stood, then kissed the ground on top of [what they say are] Jesus’ bones. I didn’t really feel qualified– some women were crying and shaking while they did it– but I’m also sure Jesus himself was a kind and intelligent man and those are the kind of men I aim to kiss.

The Dome of the Rock:

The inside of this mosque is not open to the public, so Isabel covered her head in an attempt to seem Muslim enough to be let in. She meant no harm. Rather, she was moved by the aged architecture. Still, it was vaguely reminiscent of AgNess’ attempt to infiltrate Beatrice Inn:

At the Virgin Mary’s tomb, Episcopalian Isabel was quite possessed by prayer. She really had no idea I was taking this photo. Beatific, no?

We wandered to and fro inside the walls of the old city.

A highlight was enjoying a delicious meal in the Arab quarter, where Isabel said the hummus could only be described as “effervescent.” Makes the hummus I’ve fooled around with in NYC look like insulation on crackers.

I’ll have the hummous with hummous!

We purchased silver goods, including thugging nameplates for all the Matisyahus in my life.

Isabel’s haggling abilities are unparalleled. She bargained a man so low on a little wooden lute that she simply had to purchase it, even though she’d already decided it was stupid.

We also invested in some style yarmulkes (see the sign? Newest models.)

Below is a shot of something I really regret not having purchased. If you know me, then you already know how much I love fashion Engrish, culture mashups, and bad fakes.

At the time I thought “why would I need to drop 30 sheckels on this? I just need a good solid iphone pic” but now, in the light of USA today, I’d like nothing more than to go home with someone for the first time, remove my turtleneck and be rocking this padded wonder.

Still, I was able to add to my gag tee collection:

We bought one for each Delusional Diva, including the sorely missed J’Avillez.

I screened Tiny Furniture twice (subtitled in Hebrew!) and the Israeli people were very kind about it but they didn’t necessarily think it was a comedy. Rather, they saw a vaguely tragic film about a lost girl with an absent mother and serious self-esteem issues. A group of Jerusalem-based psychotherapists waited after the second screening to chat, and when I informed them I’d been in therapy since the age of seven one said “yes, I can tell.” A mix of pride and shame resulted. It should also be noted that I referred to myself as a “script Nazi” in the Q & A then immediately slapped a hand over my mouth. The audience laughed mercifully. Perhaps they could feel the radiant heat of my good intentions?

On Shabbat we enlisted a spirited man named Zachary to drive us to the Dead Sea. Zachary is Muslim, so it wasn’t a biggie for him to take us on this day of rest. On the way, we stopped to take in the view of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives.

Doesn’t this picture make Isabel look like an actress-cum-diplomat who is real concerned about the political situation over there? Zachary is her cultural attache and general counsel, and this is a feature for French Vogue.

Our next pre-sea stop was in front of this camel. Isabel paid 15 shekels to mount him and have the Ishtar moment of our dreams.

Chuck Clarke: You mean you bought a camel?
Lyle Rogers: No, I didn’t really buy it. They SOLD it to me!
Lyle Rogers: Oh no. I think that something went wrong and now I own a blind camel. A blind camel!

Camel Seller’s Translator: He says he will sell you a blind camel. He says he also knows of a camel with a crippled leg and no teeth. Would you like a dead camel?

Shirra Assel: The birds in the desert eat only flesh, and there is no wind.

The Dead Sea is not an actual sea, and it must be the saltiest water in
the world. It’s the lowest point in the world, and that’s a fact (!?) You get in and immediately feel like you’re flying because you float so easily, like a cork just bobbing along. So peaceful. Until you get some in your eyes. The burning! The pain! I had to wipe my eyes with Isabel’s muddy hair! They also don’t warn you (but I am a friend, so I will) that your feminine sections will sting too. They just will.

Isabel and I had the biggest laugh riot when looking for the mud you’re meant to smear your body with. At first we could only find sand, and figured that was as good as it would get. Then suddenly my foot slipped into a pocket of the ooey gooeyest mud you’ve ever felt in your life. We were elated. “Mud! Mud! My name is mud!” we screamed. “This is the nation’s top mud! We should have brought an extra suitcase… Just for mud!”

As we lay smeared in the aforementioned mud these boys who were clearly under 18 paddled up and plopped onto the beach to “flirt.” Isabel told them her name was Zala, which they informed us is the name of a chain store. I guess it was sort of like saying “hey, I’m Talbot’s” in an attempt to hide your true identity.

Side-note: someone told me that in Hebrew, Lena means: “to take shelter for the night” or “to lie somewhere for the night” or maybe “to sleep in a strange
place with someone you don’t know. For the night.”

But no wonder these pre-teens wanted to chat with us! Look how porny this all is:

Besides having scat-porn undertones, it was a deeply soothing experience. We drove back to the city in a happy hush, sipping Coca Lite and smoking cigarettes (something I only really do in the desert, where it makes sense. My favorite vacation quote from Isabel came on our guided tour of the old city, just after she’d lit a cigarette, when we were suddenly ordered to climb a blazin’ hot hill. “Wow, I really picked the wrong time to burn one down.”)

Speaking of blazin’ hot, our next stop was Tel Aviv, where we spent two nights before returning to the Jew S of A (that was right off the dome and probably doesn’t work. Maybe I’ll remove it later.)

Have you noticed that a lot of clubwear stores in Soho have signs that say, like, NIGHTFLOWER BOUTIQUE: NEW YORK, PARIS, MILAN, MOSCOW, TEL AVIV…? I could hear the club trax blasting from thirty miles away. I was ready to have a DJ save my life.

But our friend and hostess Shir Weinberg was decidedly more low-key, instead taking us to tasty cafes, tasteful shops, and back-alley bars where Tel Avivians with rat tails and nerd glasses made us feel like we’d never left college (only everyone at college had learned Hebrew.) Shir was an ideal hostess, as she is currently creating an iPhone app guide to Tel Aviv and she looks like she blinked right out of a French new wave film.

Above, Isabel and Shir express their sentiments for each other in front of a piece of street art.

We also enjoyed a meaty dinner at NG with my Sundance Labs friend Talya Lavie:

Talya’s film are wise, smart, and wickedly funny, just like she is.

We arrived at the airport the next morning vaguely delirious and giggled our way through the security check, which is not really a giggly affair. Isabel played a pretty fantastic prank on me though. When our security officer, a beautiful 20 something called Meital, brought Isabel into a room for a “private check” ‘Bel emerged stone faced and whispered “enjoy what’s about to happen to you. They’re going to take down your pants. And your underwear. And then they’re going to search you.” I was shaking as I followed Meital into the private room. She seemed great, but still… That sounded awful.

But when I reached the room, allz I had to do was step through a metal detector.

I returned triumphant: “joke’s on you, Isabel! Guess you must have looked a little more suspicious, you Episcopalian! Because I got to keep my pants on. Shazam!” Isable burst into hysterical laughter, as did the male security guard inspecting her dirty laundry. I’d been had.

I’d been had, and I’d had a thought-provoking, spiritually rewarding, and raucously fun journey to the Middle East. As I tweeted mid-trip, if seeing these Bedouins and this desert and these holy spots was the only thing that Tiny Furniture had ever made possible, dayenu (it would have been enough.)

Thanks to all. But really, how are you!?

With great admiration,
Lena

Beautiful babies. It’s been a long time since I blogged at, to or for you. The pressure to blog is like the pressure to catch up on important episodes of Charlie Rose, AKA a pressure I create for myself. But it also keeps me honest, and keeps you informed about what I currently feel guilty for having thought or eaten.

In terms of guilty for having eaten, these days the culprit is meat. I have very recently come off a decade plus of the strictest vegetarianism (Super-strict. When I went to Cuba at age 17, I didn’t eat anything but mangos and saltines for a week so as to avoid possible lard. Actually, that doesn’t sound like a sacrifice at all. Those foods are both exceptional.) To distract you from my moral failings, I will share this photo of me with Ronaldo (Ronnie for short) a guy who I made out with on the street in Cuba. He was only the second person I’d ever kissed. I thought he was just adorable but when I showed the picture to my mother she asked me if he had hepatitis.

I realize this story uncorks a whole bottle of worms. She really didn’t mean anything by it, and you have to admit that his eyes are quite bloodshot. I wonder where he is now, and if he still like Limp Bizkit.

Anyway, a long “battle” with anemia and a desire for increased energy has me consuming animal protein once more. It’s not a decision I took lightly, and I’m doing a lot of research about what goes into my body. Still have pretty macro/veg leanings. That being said, a grass-fed steak turns me fucking primal. And I don’t know why I’m not feeling more guilty. I used to love animals and babies. Now, I love meat and Tim Riggins. Is this what getting older feels like?

Too soon?

The reason for my long blog silence has been a glut of travel. Although in the past I have had the travel disposition of a 90 year old woman, on this most recent bout of wandering I really got into the swing of things. A big part of that was finally nailing the packing situation. In high school, at the height of my fashion tomfoolery, my father described my wardrobe as containing only “gambling visors and unicorn chaps.” Although college calmed me fashion-wise, when forced to pack I would revert hardcore, ending up with a suitcase full of tit-hole dresses and colorful spandy-wear. And sometimes when you pack 9 satin camisoles, one tube skirt, and a pair of knee high ski boots you just don’t feel ready to take on the world. But these days, I think like a Style network host. “Just a few wearable pieces that I know will travel well and I’m a happy fashionista!”

So, quick recap of the past month! Because you’ve been so curious and hounding me for deets.

On June 11th Tiny Furniture had its New York premiere at BAMcinemaFEST, which was a thrilling night to remember. See my superstar girls, Laurie, Grace, and Jem, all dressed in somber shades before the big event:

And check out this Grace-on-Grace meta narrative!

Then on June 13th Rooftop Films and BAM teamed up to screen TF outdoors in historic Fort Greene. It was one of the loveliest nights of my life– a light drizzle didn’t prevent a slew of friends from coming out.

Teddy Blanks dirty-danced a set before the film.

I got to watch myself getting railed in a parking lot… WHILE IN AN ACTUAL PARKING LOT!

It was really a “take a mental picture of this moment and remember it when your knees don’t work someday” kinda evening. Thank you to all who made it possible.

The next morning I embarked on the first leg of my trip, heading back to LA. I’m starting to feel like a real native. You know, a native who doesn’t drive and is essentially allergic to sun. I slept in the delicious guest room of my friend Deb Schoeneman– author, yogini, life-coach and…

Like my cherished friend Jenni, Deb calls this piece of Hollywood history home:

I was in LA for some bizness pertaining to the Los Angeles Film Festival. Every year LAFF takes its filmmakers on a very special retreat to George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch just outside of San Francisco. The night before I left, Deb laid out some flight suits and caftans on the guest bed…

…and asked this important question:

She gets my new packing philosophy but also pushes me to make bold thematic wardrobe choices. What a gal.

The retreat itself was very peaceful and sociable. But the only George Lucas film I’ve seen is American Graffiti, so I did a lot of smiling and nodding as we took the tour. “G-d, that’s a beautiful light waver. Oh, saber? So sorry, I’m anemic…” Then a rebel faction [consisting of The September Issue maverick R.J. Cutler, Cold Weather auteur Aaron Katz, and then me] took off to enjoy the natural gifts of Lucas’ land.

I’m all about both of these guys.

The day after the LAFF screening, I hopped a flight to Utah to join my gurl Ry Russo-Young and our script Nobody Walks at the Sundance Screenwriters Lab. Here we are, cozied up in bed at the ski chalet we called home for five days.

This intensive week of script analysis and revision was everything I loved about camp (the serenity of nature, fast friends, all your meals buffet-style) but with none of the name calling or enforced basketball shorts. Ry and I were putty in the masterful hands of our wise advisers, and our fellow fellows were equally inspiring. It was a real blessing. The only hard part was the night I was in the chalet alone reading Hollywood Babylon (the Frances Farmer chapter) and heard a subtle but terrifying banging. Mystery remains unsolved.

This is the view of my feet dangling from the Sundance resort ski lift.

What you’re not seeing is the view of Robert Redford headed to breakfast in a Canadian tuxedo. He looks incredible.

After Sundance, I flew to Baltimore for two days where my father’s studio assistant/my pal & soon-to-be driving instructor Darragh Rooney was marrying his longtime sweetheart Joanna Murray. Although only 23, they have been together for more than six years. They have an inspiring relationship and they make me believe in love between very attractive people. Look at Darragh post-nuptuals, menacingly displaying his hardware:

Then, after a full night of celebrating Darragh and Joanna’s union, back to LA for two more days. Straight from the plane to the beach to see Jenni’s daughter Coco, the nation’s top six year old, getting buried alive:

That is her brother Mack’s foot sneaking in at the bottom of the frame there. Both children are so adorable they’re near-edible (but just because I’m no longer a vegetarian, well, that doesn’t mean I’m a fucking cannibal.)

Other things I saw on this round of LA include…

1–an important poster:

2–a very kind man on the Sony lot who gave me an arepa just because I stared so hard. It tasted much the way that reading Like Water For Chocolate made me feel:

3– The toilet at the exclusive Soho House:

I found this oddly comforting because it means that all kinds of people have trouble holding it together sometimes (I didn’t do this, just found it. Does posting this mean I can never be a member? Because the salmon is delicious and it seems like it would be a good place to go and work if you lived in LA.)

Here is a view out the airplane window headed home:

Home, where Grace was waiting for me in this perfectly sensible outfit:

I enjoyed less than a week in the concrete jungle before it was time to embark on an even zanier journey… Stay tuned. Or don’t, since this blog entry paints me as a blood-thirsty victim of consumer culture who flies back and forth between the coasts for no discernible reason. How are you?

kisses,
L

Grace Dunham graduated from high school last night. She gave a deeply moving speech that had a huge church full of liberal intellectuals and horny teens in tears. She also looked far too fierce in a Thakoon dress and heels.

What is Karen from Will & Grace doing next to her!?

TINY FURNITURE screens twice at BAM this weekend and they slapped Grace’s face on the front of their monthly calender! My friend Sean read it while he used the facilities. How sneaky/creepy is the man-thigh in this shot?

Let us celebrate this not-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman. Someday she will deliver us from evil.

Since we last spoke I’ve taken another lengthy trip to Los Angeles, a city that continues to fascinate and confuse me like a lover I’m not sure I want but know I need (I’ve actually never had a lover like that, but hope to before I die.) The purpose of this LA trip was to get ‘er done workwise, so I didn’t have much chance to skulk around the tar pits and solve all the unsolved mysteries, but here’s what I did do:

I took a vigorous hike with two attractive female friends (it was a true Climb in Miley Cyrus terms.)

I got zipped into a state of the art auto-massage table in a dark adjacent room at a dinner party. This sounds like a line from a dream-poem I wrote in college, but it’s just a fact of my life.

I peeped the former Gilmore Girls set on the Warner Brothers lot. One fabricated block of a picturesque Connecticut town, nestled between fake Bronx and reserved parking for golf carts. To me, that is magic.

One LA afternoon I got driven to lunch by my BFF Audrey. She just obtained her license, the first of our NYC girlposse to do so, and we are very proud. You can’t really see from this pic, but girlfriend needs some phone books to stack under her booty. Her head just baaarely reaches over the wheel.

To celebrate our first drive with Audrey helming (to use Variety speak) we went to the Chateau Marmont, where I always spot a celeb– be it Dinklage in the elevator, Lohan by the pool, or Mulligan out to afternoon tea. This time Richard Lewis was seated in a corner listening to a walkman of some kind. What a guy.

[Question? Does taking sneaky iphone pix of celebs in their leisure time make me the enemy?]

Another notable LA occurrence was that I saw a quite-possibly psychic esthetician who has changed my life and provided me with oodles of new natural products. Hey, it takes a lot of money to look this cheap.

The above photo is meant to give you a boner (jk) and illustrate my goal for the summer, which is to work a look like that of Marisa Tomei in The Perez Family, a classic Latino drama starring very few Latino people.

Skincare sidenote: when I returned home to NYC this totally desperate greeting card from Proactiv was waiting.

They are just sad because, like P. Diddy, I no longer trust them to “preserve my sexy.”

The psychic facial was a 24th bday gift from my new old friend Jenni. Jenni is that super-special friend you feel like you’ve known since pre-birth. We have so many interconnections that it almost scares me. She lives in a residence called the El Royale which distills everything that is mysterious, sexy, and important about Los Angeles into one stable structure. Her 6 year old daughter Coco, one of the nation’s top children, painted this piece of “great artwork.”

At first I thought Coco was just telling me how great her artwork is (look at it! It’s great) but then I realized that this painting is modeled after a Van Gogh and is “great” in the historical sense as well. It lives about my writing area situation place (aka my bed.)

Whenever I travel I miss my family a lot, especially my mom, who I tend to love even more when she’s not near me (I think she feels the same way!) So when I saw this ad for a mother/daughter real estate team, the Amitai team, I snapped a pic and sent it her way with the subject heading “we could do that.”

The Amitai team. Possible movie idea? Karen, write that down! (FYI, Karen is my new invisible assistant. You’ll be hearing more from and about her in the coming months.)

I don’t have to miss my mom anymore, because I am home. The airplane’s descent into the tri-state area:

No matter how many times I land in NY, it’s always a thrill for me. It was also a thrill for the little Hasidic boy next to me, who threw his yarmulke up joyfully and dropped half a tuna bagel into my lap.

The moment I arrived home it was Memorial Day weekend. I just joined a gym (which is very like me) and I’ve been actually going (less like me) and I think the reason it’s working out so well is because the clientele skews older and there’s an amazing pool on the roof. I brought the divas for a lazy Sunday by the water.

We all wore our jellies, ordered en mass by Isabel from a secret European source.

She’ll never te-e-ell. A model of discretion and old-world elegance, she was a real Southern lady in her approach to poolside attire:

Meanwhile, the only sunglasses Joana could locate were equipped with a Googly monster:

I brushed up on my LA Lit, because that place has its acrylic nails in me:

But I don’t want to move there. If I lived in LA I would never get a Memorial Day text from Josh proclaiming “we’re popping a hydrant on Washington street with Franny. Come.”

Behold! Audrey, Eleonore, Josh and Franny on the “street beach.” How Larry Clark is this scene? Eleonore was well-prepared. Blankets, sodas, sunscreen. And her new baby chicken, Kansas.

I’ve already told you about my mixed summer feelings, but each year I warm up to it more (yuk yuk) and the magic of the season reveals itself. I’m not missing the party. The party is the city and the city is the party and I am invited because this is my home.

A great summer day feels like an episode of Hey Arnold!

And in this analogy I may be Stoop Kid, but it’s fine. He’s very stationary BUT he’s still in the show,

Move it, football head!
xxL

P.S. How are you? I’ve been talking about myself for ages and pages.

P.P.S. He’s so much more than Cody Simpson.

If you live with your parents and are trying to complete multiple writing projects, you might consider fashioning a sign like this one and affixing it to your bedroom door:

Just spent mother’s day weekend in Maryland, attending the lovely film festival with my beautiful mom. The festival put us up in a palatial room with animal-print robe action which Laurie is holding up for you to see:

The bed was so comfortable that I didn’t want to leave it.

But I arose, and we had two well-attended screenings.

The Q&A’s gave us an opportunity to practice our vaudeville act (although we forgot our costume trunk on the train and I forgot the words to our hit song “Your Shoes Are Bigga’ Than Mine.”) They also gave multiple geriatric men the opportunity to ask me “is that your sister?” or tell me “lovely daughter you have there.” Indeed, she cuts a very fine figure. I’m currently obsessed with this image of my parents from an article on creative couples, circa ’89.

When/if/how I get married, I would really like the opportunity to pose with that guy in the now-defunct Mirabella magazine. They look like such stringbeans! Where does one even find suiting like this?

The festival gave me the chance to see many beloved friends. For example, TINY FURNITURE star (and star at large) Alex Karpovsky quite weirdly and coincidentally had a five hour layover in B’More.

AK really has a knack for being in the right place at the right time, and also for just appearing. He once told me he would be out of town for my New Year’s Eve soiree and then showed up at like 11:55.

We had the chance to share dinner with Joe Swanberg and Janet Pierson. I was so glad to catch up with them both. It felt like we were starring in the SXSW episode of THE WIRE.

I still haven’t tackled THE WIRE, although I’m no longer averse and it’s totally on my to-do list. But the fact that I had a John Waters themed 10th birthday party and I’ve seen the Whit Stillman directed episode of HOMICIDE makes me feel like a real Baltimore authority.

My mom often tells me about visiting Baltimore as a little girl and watching the women scrub their marble steps.

I saw the premiere of a really interesting film called 0s and 1s by Eugene Kotlyarenko that does a tremendous job of capturing the hysteria of social media. The film’s aggressive visual approach and episodic structure makes it feel like it could be equally at home in a gallery context. It was smartly made and completely funny, so look out for it. The talented Alex Gartenfeld was there to support the movie and I caught him looking very anti-paparazzi at the filmmaker tent village.

Alex told me that when an Olsen wants to give the camera some great face she just says the word “prune.” Speaking of Olsens, have you seen this? I have mad respect for them as artists, business women, and tiny trendsetters but this still makes me LOL:

Trains put me to sleep, but in the few minutes before I pass out I’ll always have some revelations. Here are my latest:

1– Isn’t is crazy how things that seem so far in the future are suddenly happening? Like, it’s January and you make a plan to do something in May and inside you’re like “yeah, if I live until May” and then whoa, look, it’s May and you’re doing it because TIME JUST MARCHES ON.

2– You can feel so wise and adult in some ways and so retarded and young in others. The together/not-so-together contradiction/mashup is what mainly inspires me. This probably shouldn’t have been a train revelation since I just made a whole movie about it but, as a character in Cecil B. Demented once shrieked, “I’m stuck in a k hole!”

Love/thanks/sorry,
Lena

p.s. I ADORE this Glee rendition of the Pointer Sisters’ Fire. It’s so sexy, especially considering that there’s something so inherently UNsexy about singing a duet with a gay chorus teacher at a roller rink.

Today the Delusional Downtown Divas took an exciting adventure to the brave new world of Long Island City, Queens. The trusty steed carrying us to this virgin territory was the 7 train. Safely to our destination in less than half an hour!

Isabel used the trip as an opportunity to catch up on her crocheting. Currently, she’s at work on this very fetching strap:

The first time I took the 7 train was just this past February. When it emerged from the tunnel and began the above-ground portion of its journey, I excitedly texted Isabel “DID YOU KNOW THIS TRAIN RUNS ABOVE-GROUND!?”

She responded a few moments later: “u fucking idiot.”

What a treat to feel the sunlight on your face while you’re on the subway. If that happened more frequently, then I would ride the MTA more frequently.

The Divas like to project an image of outer-borough ignorance, but in truth I am the problem.

I don’t know where anything is, and I have a cab habit I can ill afford. I vow to quit taxis several times a month, only to fall back again, as if into the arms of a skilled but callous lover.

Isabel, Joana, and Lena were in Long Island City to case that
PS1 joint, plotting and planning our next outing, a site-specific episode for the Greater New York show. Think of it as The UK Office xmas special (in my fantasies) or Muppets Take Manhattan (closer to reality)

Y’know, just some pothead primadonnas commenting on contemporary collage. I can’t reveal much, but I will tell you that the Divas go public in this one… The fact that anyone is letting us near a museum (for the SECOND TIME) is wild and crazy. And it’s a wild and crazy honor to be able to create this farcical folly with my best friends from babyhood. See evidence of ancient connection below. Our cheerleading days, with a special appearance by Pippa White:

Isabel’s mother Caroline made these important costumes herself. This happened to be the Halloween, circa ’96, when the children of NYC had the fear of Bloods and Crypts practically gang banged into them. A policeman came to my school to warn us that Bs & Cs lookin’ to get initiated often approach innocent children, especially if the children happen to be wearing their gang colors. According to this cop, the thugs will ask for the time, then slash the unsuspecting child’s wrist and run. We were instructed to look out for shady characters dressed in red or blue. I begged my mother to let me switch costumes– maybe something orange or pink!?–but she told me to freaking chill. I tried. But when a homeless man in a red t-shirt asked our trick-or-treating group for some change, I was sure he’d asked for the time. I made the sound of a rape whistle with my own throat and ran. This story is awful to me on so many levels.

I’m in serious writing-mode these days (not JUST this blog, wise-ass) and some of the music that moves me along is Kate Nash’s new album. Is that cool or uncool? I think she has a really good handle on contemporary girlhood:

Speaking of contemporary girlhood: yesterday I was caught in a torrential downpour and arrived at a BUSINESS meeting thoroughly soaked. I headed to the bathroom, ostensibly to dry off, but instead I took an iphone photo of myself. It’s a sad culture in which that is one’s first reaction to a thrilling sprint through the rain. And an even sadder culture when I publish the resultant image on my “blog.”

Something about wet hair makes my legs look thinner?

I turn 24 next week. For my birthday I would like: an ipad, a nap with all my friends in one huge bed, a guest-spot on Degrassi and/or Glee playing the hot new girl in school, and for you not to judge me.

always love,
Lena

p.s. I saw PLEASE GIVE last night and it reconfirmed what I have always known, which is that Nicole Holofcener is a whip-smart, brave, riotously funny filmmaker. If you need to convince some boy to join you but he’s not interested, just tell him the movie starts with a boob montage (DON’T tell him that boob montage is a series of elderly jugs being mammogrammed. It rules.)

P.P.S. I’m sorry this blog isn’t more culturally relevant. I’m usually just thinking about people I know or people I’m inventing, with a dash of THIS and a side of cookies.

ACK.

The past few weeks have been chock full of travel opportunities, which is lucky and lovely but also a challenge for a crotchety old woman such as myself. My natural habitat is my windowless Tribeca bedroom, and my favorite form of exercise is writing, and new places make me sore and cause me to eat gluten, which Alicia likens to seeing a long-sober alcoholic go off the wagon.

On a trip to Rome my mother once pointed out that, when traveling, I tend to develop a “shiny film” and no matter where we are I’ll squint, as if staring directly into very bright sun. (It was on this same trip that I wore hot pink spandex leggings to the Vatican and she pretended we weren’t together.)

But traveling with TINY FURNITURE (and the TF gang) has given me a new sense of purpose and I’m rolling with the punches like a real live boy. Check it!

Independent Film Festival Boston was terribly fun. Alicia, Kyle, Lance and I all shared a room with one king-sized bed at this very hip jail-themed hotel. It was a Dionysian time to be sure. Kyle utilized the fluffy bathrobes and the room service.

What a delightful festival! I saw two very different and very wonderful films, both soon-to-be-released by IFC.

We love the cinema.

The weekend before that, Alicia and I took the show on the road to the Sarasota Film Festival, a delightful festival in the sunshine state. We arrived around noon on Saturday, quite exhausted from an early a.m. flight, and I did some feverish napping in our room at the Hyatt Place Hotel. Warm weather creates an outfitology crisis for me always, as does awaking from a sweaty dream that I’m back in middle school, and so I made us late to the awards ceremony. This would be rude under any circumstances, but was especially uncool because we won the Indie Visions Award, a juried prize that was a true honor to receive. It was presented about a minute before we arrived. Luckily Jody was there to accept the award on the film’s behalf. I’m told he said something along the lines of “Lena is, uh, late. So… thanks very much.” What he SHOULD have said was “hi, thanks so much. By the way, my thought-provoking and beautifully constructed documentary BBROCK ENRIGHT: GOOD TIMES WILL NEVER BE THE SAME is being released on DVD June 29th.”

I apologized profusely to the festival programmers and hugged one fellow who I thought was juror (and BAM programmer and general coolguy) Jake Perlin, crying “thank you for this award!” like a regular Sally Field.

“Jake” looked confused. He was not the real Jake Perlin! I found and introduced myself to the true Jake Perlin and he is pictured below, to the left of Alicia and Jody and our prize.

We also got the chance to hit the beach with Harvey and Sarah Sabinson, Alicia’s great uncle and aunt. Back in the day Harvey was a big time Broadway press agent (with some big time clients. Ever heard of Barbra Streisand?) Meanwhile, Sarah exercises for one hour daily and looks about fifteen years younger than she is, so no flies on these Sarasota locals.

I took the below photo of Alicia and my twin booties ONLY so I could label it beach_bums.jpg

We flew back from Sarasota on a Monday evening and the next day I had a 5:45 a.m. call time at 96th Street and Broadway to catch the courtesy van to the set of MILDRED PIERCE, Todd Haynes’ HBO miniseries in which I have a very teeny role as a nurse in 1931. I don’t want to spoil anything about this hotly anticipated television event, but I will say that it was exciting and humbling to be there. Todd Haynes is incredibly nice and incredibly good at his job and SHOCKER: Kate Winslet seems to be able to experience a wide range of emotions on command.

Here I am, in costume, quite clearly terrified.

And here is a picture of a hair piece that I spotted while getting my makeup done. It was meant for Guy Pierce’s head, but the hair stylist deftly noted that, when on the wig form, it distinctly resembles Brendan Fraser.

Just today I got to do a little more acting, portraying a faux-hippie barista with an unacceptable oversharing problem in Ti West’s new horror picture THE INNKEEPERS. The inimitable Joe Anderson snapped the below pic of me slanging java (ew, sorry) to ingenue Sara Paxton (that’s Aquamarine to you.)

Ti’s crew has taken over the entire (and entirely spooky) Yankee Pedlar Inn in Torrington, Connecticut. As you can see, he is running a very classy operation.

Speaking of attractive blonde actresses in spine-tingling films, you may recognize Jemima Kirke as the co-star of TINY FURNITURE, or as a talented painter/DIY tattoo artist. See this image of her dog Rozy’s face that I let her carve into my ribcage awhile back!

And by “let” I mean “demanded.”

Or you may recognize Jemima as the coolest girl in the Saint Ann’s high school class of 2003 (she wore gold slippers and sat on the radiator in the lobby just oozing vibes.) But soon someone very small will recognize her as their mother. It’s true! Jemima has a bun in the oven and it’s just about the most exciting thing doing these days. This album drops in late September and will have a vagina.

I told Jem that her totally pregnant body is still as nice as Britney Spears circa 2008, maybe nicer. I consider this to be a massive compliment, as barefoot-at-the-gas-station-era Britbrit is where I aim to be in my non-pregnant life!

The progenitor of this soon-to-be human is Mike Mosberg Esq., who has become one of my closest friends. As I said to Jem at her recent 25th birthday party, their totally chill relationship inspires me more than any romantic movie. All excitable and complex women should be so lucky as to have a Mike in their life.

Another very exciting thing that has occurred is that IFC Films has unburdened us of TINY FURNITURE and plans to release it theatrically and on Video On Demand. This blows my mind, and I’m very grateful. Variety has the scoop:

According to this trade rag, I am a “femme helmer.” According to my mother after she’s taken half an Ambien and I’m walking through the house in clogs, I am “a jerk who carries on like an a**hole.” Who to believe!?

As always, thank you–
Lena

p.s. How are you feeling? Any spring allergies?

The bitch is back! After some weeks in sunny California, I have hit the ground limping in my own private Idaho, New York City. My last post postulated about what Los Angeles would feel like, and I can now officially report that I was semi-accurate. I saw some things that I hoped for and expected (tar pits, palm trees, hacienda-style apartment complexes, Reese Witherspoon lingering near, but not eating, a plate of brie. She seems really nice.) I saw other things that surpassed my wildest expectations. Like a party in The Hollywood Hills (them thar hills! THE Hills!) It was the wrap party for this movie. I don’t know how or why I got there (actually I do- my friend’s friend was going) but somehow I arrived, full of nerves. The party was stocked with Smirnoff, as well as every girl who has ever been voted Prettiest Girl by the [INSERT MIDWESTERN TOWN] high school yearbook. It felt like a murder would or should take place at this event. I felt so ugly that I felt really gorgeous– does that make any sense? In any case, I snapped this iPhone pic for the pleasure of my 3 readers. It is two blonde girls talking to an old man in a room of the spec house where the party was held, with some cardboard “art” on the wall. I would/should have felt bad covertly taking their photo, but isn’t that why they came to Los Angeles in the first place?

Apparently so, because ten minutes later they disrobed and hopped in the pool for a photo op with the Smirnoff. [ED. NOTE: I AM NOT JUDGING. Despite the fact that I labeled the image sluts_on_a_bed.jpg, I am not judging.]

I mostly slept in Venice, a lovely, freakridden, beachy area where you can watch all the cool kids skate. It made me feel like I had completely wasted my high school years– I should have been on Ocean Boulevard, rooting on my lanky boyfriend as he shredded on his totally tubular board.

For the first four days of my trip I stayed in Silverlake (they tell me it’s the Williamsburg of LA!) with my friend Ti, who kindly allowed me to snap his photo as he was getting ready to shower. His slippers are either dogs or bears.

His apartment is amazing, because it’s like a Brooklyn studio except it has a sunny balcony and looks over a glistening reservoir. Which makes every day feel a little magical, even when you’re just refreshing your email or eating pudding for breakfast. Ti is getting ready to shoot this awesome new movie.

I can’t drive. I won’t even begin to explain the challenges this presented in LA, but you can imagine how I homesick felt when I was wandering the Fox lot and saw these prop cars in front of this prop bodega.

It turns out it was for a commercial shoot directed by Patrick Daughters, who also did many energizing Feist videos such as this one:

Coincidentally, my friend Andrew Sloat was the creative director. He also makes amazing things. He toured me around and it felt like Sesame Street.

These are all facades! Even Grocery Time! (So named for copyright reasons, because there is no other business on earth called Grocery Time. Why the heck not?)

In LA you can buy Variety in the 7-11! I am obsessed with Variety speak (“the heat of this three-picture deal attests to the rising temperature of this action helmer” is my attempt to imitate it) and I went there late at night to purchase the edition that contained the Tiny Furniture review. It’s all downhill from here. That’s my mantra.

The highlights of Los Angeles were: Seeing studio lots (that could never, ever get old. Kid in a candy store! Disney’s had Mickey shaped shrubs!) Eating meals at Real Food Daily, the Sou En of the west. Interviewing Sarah Silverman for Paper Magazine’s upcoming technology issue (hint: she rules). Seeing some old friends and meeting oodles of kind, smart people who live to make movies. Spotting celebrities such as Trent Ford. Believe it or not, he just walks around.

However, I really missed all my homies, and the pulsing streets of NYC, and my little writing alcoves scattered around my family home. When I returned home our family hairstylist, the multi-talented Stella Winkelmann (NOT to be confused with the fictional Stella Zinman) informed me that my hair was not healthy. In fact, if I didn’t cut off seven inches it would just keep eating itself from the root up. Truth be told, I was ready for a change. An Aeon Flux, if you will…

A few people asked if I’d lost weight (yeah, I emailed this pic to a FEW people) but it’s just my posture. “Don’t worry” I assured them. “Just as phat as eva’.” As Ashlee Simpson once sang, “Hollywood sucks you in but it won’t spit me out.” She was talking to Lindsay Lohan vis a vis Wilmer Valderrama, I think…

Ok, I’d ask you how you are, but this is such a one-sided medium. And I’m sorry for that!

Thanks so much for listening,
Lena

I hereby proclaim that my favorite blogger is none other than Alicia Silverstone! Her blog, The Kind Life, is updated with startling regularity. She earnestly comments upon important issues, like the pitfalls of refined sugar or finding the best vegan snowboots, and she uses the word “groovy” so much that someone might need to talk to her about it. Like me, Alicia loves Souen, my macrobiotic home-away-from-home. There, I have spotted Patty Smith and Agyness Deyn and Matthew Modine (MoDeyn?) who asked to try on my mom’s glasses. She obliged. Usually I am alarmed by blonde actresses with lifestyle agendas (you hear me, GWYNETH!? Ugh, GOOP!) But this video of Alicia almost makes me want to take my macrobiotic tendencies and, you know, put a ring on it.

Aaaaalmost. Because my grandma turned 90 tonight and we celebrated with the exclusive and elusive Cake Man Raven. Although I usually JUST SAY NO to gluten, I am letting the Raven flap his wings at me. If you haven’t heard, he is the most ornery and skillful red velvet cake maker in the five boroughs. Listen to the Hip Hop and R & B that plays on his website, and enjoy his silky smile.

Which leads to my guilty frown.

Parenthetically, do you trust really skinny girls whose main hobby is baking? That feels like a bubbling trend…

I have been home from SXSW for nearly a week now, and have had time to reflect on the wonders of that experience. Last year’s SXSW is where I met so many members of my cherished film posse, and this year we returned, rolling deep.

Alicia, Alice, Grace and I arrived early to start our campaign. We picked up our badges. Grace and AVC were armed with postcards and enthusiastic grins.

PR maven/producing monster Alicia conceived of a brilliant guerilla flyering campaign and, with help from Teddy, we realized our dreams.

Of course we had traditional posters:

And PUNK ones that simply read MY HEART IS SO BROKEN AND MY VAGINA HURTS SO MUCH. People tweeted them and flickred them and they were shockingly effective (offensive?)

Grace is 18 now, so it no longer counts as child labor when we put her ass to work slappin’ paper.

When we weren’t poster-children, I got to cuddle some beloved pals. Like Kyle Martin, producer of TINY FURNITURE.

Sean Suozzi, executive producer of NY EXPORT: OPUS JAZZ and famed ballerino.

And the devilish Ti West, seen here learing over a platter of flesh. Someone call Silverstone!

TINY FURNITURE premiered on Monday March 15th.

Before the Tuesday awards ceremony, Alice and AVC had their fingers crossed (although we kept saying “EVEN IF WE DON’T WIN IT’S JUST, LIKE, YOU KNOW, LIKE, FINE AND STUFF.”)

However, we won the Narrative Jury Prize. It was simply too much to bear in the excited, honored & grateful department.

I also won the Chicken & Egg Emergent Female Narrative Director Award. Chicken & Egg Pictures is an amazing organization, and they gave me this splendid egg to display, as well as some monaaay. (I’m Ke$ha!) I totally cried when it was given to me– the other women in the running included Debra Granik, who I idolize, Katie Aselton, and that dame who made The Runaways (which I hear starts with a drop of period blood hitting the pavement. Rawk!) It’s hard not to sound flippant when blogging, but this was all a tremendous honor and I tried my best to live in the moment with passion and grace. Thank you to all.

The night of our win, Alicia and I got to pal around with the incredible David Carr. His book Night Of The Gun is an inspiring overshare that asks journalistic questions about a rather unjournalistic topic: the self. It’s the most creative and honest memoir you’ll ever read. Meeting him was a tremendous coup. We learned that he once wrote for Roseanne!

He interviewed us (yet another great honor) and sent a very handsome NY Times photog named Josh to snap some pics of AVC and me. I like this one because we look like we’re a Russian teen-pop duo formed by a middle-aged “manager” named Boris.

A few tweets and status updates made it all worthwhile. Anne Thompson and David Carr are idols, and Dusty Smith is the funniest man on Facebook, and my sister was already back in NYC, so I screen-capped these digital moments so they wouldn’t be forgotten! (Please file this under NOT BRAGGING JUST SHARING, K THANKS.)

Jody Lee Lipes, the DP of my heart, “lensed” and co-directed (along with the blonde-ambition known as Henry Joost) a film that also played SXSW. It’s called NY EXPORT: OPUS JAZZ and it was co-produced by our very own Kyle Martin. It wowed the people, won the Emerging Visions Audience Award, and confirmed my sneaking suspicion that I have the world’s most talented pals.

Now that I’m home again, I’ve been clearing one to-do list so as to tackle another, getting some script-notions rolling in my mind, wrestling with the creepy-warm weather, and reading Are You There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea whenever I have a spare moment.

Tomorrow I head to LA for two weeks. Although I was potty-trained there, I don’t have a real sense of the place. I returned once when I was 17. My mom bought me vegan UGG boots and a Betsy Johnson mini-skirt and I was walking from the Chateau Marmont (where I had just seen Peter Dinklage in the elevator!) to Baja Fresh when a man pulled over and asked “how much?” So I basically concluded that LA is a place where you can’t walk around without someone thinking you’re a hooker.

Like this:

Or maybe like this:

But I am ready to be proven wrong! If my mind were a blog and LA were an entry, then here is what the tags would be: Palm Trees, Robert Downey Jr., Sunglasses Tan, Joan Didion, Cruising, James Ellroy, JUICY, bungalow, taco truck, making a business call from a raft in the middle of a kidney-bean shaped pool