How to Make It in Hollywood (It's Easier Than You Think)

I've often told myself that if I were to ever be silly enough to want to be an actress, I would simply make some big name director or producer or actor my BFF. Why? Because Hollywood is like high school. The easiest way to survive is to fit in with a group so that all you have to do is be like "what are we working on now, boys?!" and the group leader will practically hand you a role.

(Of course you could also try to get him to fall in love with you, but I prefer the less slutty route)

Still doubting this theory?

Allow me to introduce you to the equivalent of the Hollywood cafeteria.

The Jocks - The George Clooney Club
Members: Brad Pitt (among other various Oceans Eleven cast members), Ben Affleck and other good-looking actors who are a smidge less good-looking than Clooney.
Requirements for admission into group: Treat George like a benevolent god.

The Druggies - The Jud Apatow Club
Members: Seth Rogan, James Franco (though he's unsuccessfully been trying to leave the club for years), Leslie Mann, Johan Hill, Paul Rudd and pretty much anyone who ever starred in Freaks and Geeks.
Requirements for admission into group: You need to find fart jokes hilarious

The Goths - The Tim Burton Club
Members: Helena Bonham Carter, Johnny Depp, Danny Elfman
Requirements for admission into group: Be super weird with crazy hair and pale complexion. Think artsy in a dark way.

The Swingers - The Quentin Tarantino Club
Members: Members of this club are free to come and go, but Uma Thurman and Robert Rodriguez may never leave
Requirements for admission into group: Catch Quin's eye

Former Clubs:
The John Hughes Club
The M. Knight Shyamalan
Etc...

So now I MUST ask...which club would you be in? Be honest with yourself.

Obsession

I go through these obsession phases with male historical figures.

In late elementary and early middle school, I was obsessed with Alexander the Great (in my defense he did rule all of the known world). To this day, I know the name of his horse, the various theories behind his death, the specs on his arch nemesis, and that his revolutionary war maneuver (the phalanx) looked a lot like a porcupine.

After Alex came Julius Caesar. This lasted through late middle school into early high school. I even took a class on Greek and Roman history and for years could name each of Rome's rulers in order (thankfully, that bit of knowledge has been replaced with a knack for being able to name the entire Cullen family).

After good old Jules came James Dean. This lasted from high school through early college. I can tell you about the car he died in, that his middle name was Byron and that he died before Giant came out. I can also tell you that he was disappointingly short.

After Jimmy, came...well. Perhaps I should explain this next one. I was in college, in the library, when this book (that happened to be shelved library style and therefore not easy to spot) caught my eye. This super attractive (in my opinion) guy was on the cover. And his name? Che. Now before you go judging me for my obsession with Ernesto "Che" Guevara, know this...I had zero clue who he was. I mean it's not like the book was titled "Che the Commie!" or something equally obvious. And I'm young!! I know who Fidel Castro is, but I never knew he had famed accomplices.

This meeting marked the beginning of a time in my life where I was stalked by Che. You may laugh (!) but I swear he was everywhere I went. My most prominent memory of this happened when Che followed me all the way to Turkey. I was there for a summer, and whose face showed up on the t-shirts, totes and pins that littered bazaar stands? His.

Now the only way to get rid of these obsessions was to research the heck out of the person. I'd usually tie it in to schoolwork (so it wasn't a complete waste of time), and would let the papers, presentations and reading material stack up until I felt I knew the person so well that I could move on. (If you like, I can make a compelling case for why Che would have been a much better leader than Castro). 

So recently, I stumbled upon this fellow named Doc Holiday (again, I'd never heard of him before. Sue me). As soon as I started reading about him, I felt the obsession begin to take hold. I needed more. More info. More theories. More urban legends surrounding this clever and cunning man of the wild west. My only problem was that I didn't have any school assignments. No papers or book reports through which to funnel my obsession.

It looked as though I was stuck.

And then Tad heard about suggested we watch Tombstone...

Ladies and gentlemen, nothing is more of an obsession buzzkill than seeing who Val Kilmer used to be.

Dear Adele

Dear Adele,

I love your music. And your raspy voice. And your cat eye makeup and fake eyelashes. I wish I had cat eye makeup and fake lashes. Then people would look at me and say things like, "my, she is exotic!"

But alas, this does not happen. And even if I were to have cat eye makeup and false lashes, people would probably say, "what's she doing in Indiana?"

I would also like to say that you inspire me. You're so young and accomplished. And you're proud of this! Instead of apologizing for your youth, you shout it from the rooftops. For example (I'm not quite sure why I'm providing you with this example, considering you're well aware ...), you title your albums after whatever age you happen to be while envisioning/writing/working on them. Your first album, 19, released when you were the very same age. And your second album, 21, released this past February. No doubt a nod to the truth that much of its conception happened in your twenty-first year.

But I worry, dear Adele, that you have not seen the big picture.

Because thirty years from now, do you really want to have an album titled 53?

Or perhaps I'm seeing this all wrong. Perhaps you'll be just as content with who you are even when your hair is less glossy, your skin less smooth and a simple smile produces wrinkles that mar your wonderful cat eyes.
If only we could all find such self-acceptance.

Best wishes,
Amanda Luedeke

P.s. If you would like to do a book, I just so happen to be in the market for a famous singer/songwriter.

Real Potential

Overheard at the gym:

"Some people work at places where you can't come in with a hangover, man. Yeah! Some people . . . you can't even come in with a hangover!"

To Russia, With Love

Here is the main problem with finding friends from other countries on Facebook…you rarely know/remember/can even spell their last name. Which means finding one Masha—your Masha—in a sea of Masha’s is next to impossible. Sure, you can look up mutual friends and narrow the search that way, but can you ever be 100% sure that it’s the right Masha when you don’t even know her last name? No. You can’t.

I just friended a woman who I believe to be my Masha. We’ll wait and see. I could be wrong. It could just be some random Russian girl, petrified that some American with an even crazier last name (and former last name) has just decided to span the Atlantic and put an end to the fallacy that Russians and Americans are only fake friends.

Or, it could be my Masha. End of happy story.

I’ll keep you posted on how this turns out. If all goes well, and I don't get put on Putin's "watch" list due to my peculiar obsession with friending random Russians, then I’m going to embark on a quest to find the girl I stayed with while there. Her name is Anna.

And I kid you not when I say there’s no fewer than 10 bazillion Russian Anna's on Facebook.

Wish me luck.

Putting 26 in Perspective

As if I'm not having a hard enough time dealing with my entrance into the middle ages, Facebook seems to have taken it upon themselves to remind me.

Every click. Every ad. 26. I guess these days only 26 year-olds are eligible for car insurance. And Victoria's Secret shopping sprees. And Mac products. And enrollment at the University of Phoenix.

I suppose I should be thankful. Glad that I just so happen to be at the perfect age. But I'm not glad. I'm not thankful. Because I'm getting old.

To put my age in perspective, I though I'd compile a list of individuals with whom I would have gone to high school had we been in the same school zone (and social status):

Sasha Cohen -
Born: October 26, 1984
Difference: Younger than I by 10 months
Translation: She's already proven people my age do retire (and then pretend it never happened) . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Lady Gaga -
Born: March 28, 1986
Difference: Younger than I by 2 years, 3 months.
Translation: We would never have even been present at the same prom . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Prince William of Wales -
Born: June 21, 1982
Difference: Older than I by 1 year, 6 months
Translation: If I were British and certain royalty dead, I could be Queen . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Britney Spears -
Born: December 2, 1981
Difference: Older than I by 2 years
Translation: She's been divorced twice and has two kids . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Jay Cutler -
Born: April 29, 1983
Difference: Older than I by 8 months
Translation: If I had my act together I could be quarterback of a so-so pro football team. (This just may be the saddest of all)


Beyonce. Justin Timberlake. Jodie Sweetin. The list goes on. And on. And the only good part about it is the small satisfaction one gets out of knowing that we all could have chilled in study hall or suffered through PE together (except for Sasha, of course).

I won't even get into the list of peeps who are too young to have gone to High School with me . . .

Taylor Swift, Taylor Lautner (he's like 9 years younger than I, by the way) . . .

Remember, Remember, the 4th of November

This is my friend, Josh:

What a stud!

Now, being a die-hard Libertarian, Josh doesn't take too well to socialism. He also has a tendency to be offended by all things socialist, fascist or communist. It's just how he is. So, naturally, he was a bit nervous at this time last year. What, with all the "spread the wealth" allegations and what not.

So, for his birthday, I told him I was going to give him John McCain for president. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but it was a step in the right direction and so he was pleased.

I was unable to follow through with this promise.

Sorry, Josh. Don't be mad!

So, this year, I'm going to scale things back a bit (because I really hate it when people promise stuff and don't follow through), and instead, list out for you reasons why Josh is one of my top 10 most favorite persons in the world:

1) He's a fellow home schooler.
2) He doesn't take himself too seriously. (Ahh, my knee!! )
3) He is easily angered. (We often tell him that Thomas Jefferson would have made a good president, or that JFK was a godsend or that Guy Fawkes was awesome!! or that we're glad the government tells people where they can and can't smoke--just to make him mad.)
4) He is of Norwegian ancestry. (Norwegian and Jewish, to be precise. I particularly like the Norwegian part, since I am also of that people).
5) He includes me in conversation. (There can be a huge group of guys talking about guns and video games, yet Josh, if he is close enough, will talk with me about books or his love life or taking over a small country)
6) He has dreams of taking over a small country. (This is a dream we've shared for awhile now...letting our Viking roots get the best of us...it's just a matter of choosing the right country....oh, and getting over the fact that Josh prefers freedom and is therefore morally opposed to conquering and ruling a people group even if in the name of liberty)
7) He is a superb actor. (I had the privilege of acting opposite him in Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park. Because of what we would later find to be typecasting, we were the old people.)
8) He could be a fighter pilot if he wanted. (Or, at least this is what I imagine of him).
9) He is smart, but not too smart for his own good. (Nuff said)
10) He may one day rule the world. (His most favorite thing in the world is politics (that, and reading while eating potato chips). It's just a matter of time before he gets so riled up over what he's seeing in Washington that he'll run for some seat, somewhere)

Glad to see you like the gift, Josh.

Happy Birthday! Hopefully, this post will make up for the fact that I was not able to come through on last year's present and consequently we're about to have evil, government health care!!


P.s. - What do you think about North Korea? I hear Kim Jung Il will soon be relinquishing his throne to his son...sounds like the perfect time for a coup.

Male Fashion, 1995-2005

On this day of costumes and creepers, let's take a look at some guy style that used to separate the men from the boys:

Adidas Sandals

What could be more comfortable and stylish than Adidas sandals worn with socks? NOTHING! That's why boys pimped this style well into the 00's.

Compound Cargo Pants

No more suffering through the sweltering day, boys. These cargo pants not only have all the pockets you could ever want, they also have hidden zippers that convert them to shorts! Unzip partially or completely, depending on your desired body temperature! Envious bystanders will stand in awe while you casually roll the detached portions and stuff them in one of your pockets! This style was so hip, it followed me through high school.

Hemp Necklaces

Calling all manly men who are too young to get their parents' permission to get their ears pierced--hemp necklaces are the answer to your problem! Want to feel rebellious without any pain? Want to appear tribal without leaving your backyard? Want to make girls wonder whether you're a surfer or a preppy meathead? Here's your chance! (I still see this style on occassion)

The Bowl Cut

Raise your hand if you idolize Moe from the Three Stooges! This style went strong through the 90's. Its fashion-forward appeal was so tempting, that eventually we saw it on grown women.

Frosted Hair

Even the stars jumped on this one. Getting your hair frosted meant compliments and congratulations from guys and girls alike. For the first time young guys looked forward to their hair appointments, and instead of settling for Great Clips, they visited salons and specialists. Curly, straight, long, short, nothing escaped the frosting. And can we ever forget the proud and the few who would frost their bangs and then stick them straight up?

How I Prayed Shawn Michaels into Heaven

The year was around 1995 or 1996. Somewhere in there. We were living in Des Plaines, Illinois--a suburb of Chicago and neighbor to O'Hare. Mary Poppins-esqe scenes seemed a daily occurrence, only in our case the sky darkened, the earth shook, and the windows of our house rattled as giant planes flew dangerously close overhead. At least it seemed that way.

During this time, I had but two prayers that I faithfully and dutifully whispered to God every night:

1) That our dog, Traff, would go to heaven, and
2) That WWF wrestler, Shawn Michaels would become a Christian and go to heaven.

I believed in these prayers with the utmost of sincerety, knowing and believing that my sureness and faithful repetition would result in nothing short of a win. I wholeheartedly believed I could back God into a corner with my consistent prayer life and unparalleled faith.

And then I grew up. A year or more of this sort of prayer life, and it got old. Or, I got old. I stopped such prayers, turning my requests to greater things and more pressing matters. But the innocense wasn't there. The sincerety wasn't the same. I had become adult-ish. I had grown up. And eventually, I looked upon my old prayers with humor, thinking upon my foolishness and scoffing at my subject matter--my childlike trials. Oh, if life were as simple as worrying over whether a professional entertainer's name was in the Book of Life.

Until a few years ago, when I found out that Shawn Michaels had become a born again Christian.

For me, nothing better exemplifies the faith of a child.

I'll see you in heaven, Traff.

On Disney and Those Who Live Forever

Also still alive:

Kathryn Beaumont, the voice of Alice
Mary Costa, the voice of Princess Aurora
Ilene Woods, the voice of Cinderella

See post.

On Literature and Those Who Live Forever

Black and white movies. Books with now yellowed pages. Music that crackles and voices that sound altered, tin-like and strange. These are the things of long ago. Things that I associate with a time and place that was before my existence and therefore not a part of my reality.

And then, every now and then, someone from that other world will step in and remind me that what and who is now considered classic and timeless was only a few short decades ago considered new and current.

Elizabeth Taylor. The Dalai Lama.

And yet others will remind me that the evil and unfathomable of the past still lives. Still breathes.

Charles Manson. Fidel Castro.

And then there are times when those who I thought long dead, are proven to be alive. Unexpected in my little world of the present. In my world where the actors and actresses of the black and white movies died with the invention of color. Where the authors and writers of literature now shelved in the "classics" section, ceased to exist with the invention of computer cataloging and success of Stephen King. Where the musicians of verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, chorus songs disappeared with the start of MTV.














In these moments I see the connectedness of things and begin to realize what it is to grow old.

Today, I found that Harper Lee and JD Salinger are still alive. Such a thought does not seem fathomable.



For an interesting view, see the death list.

The Worker

One of the saddest things I see on a near-daily basis is an older man, probably in his 50's or 60's, who stands on the corner of Clinton and Rudisill with a cardboard Little Caesar's Hot N Ready sign in his hands. He paces the corner, sign held out but not up. A hat shields his eyes.

Tad said he saw this man on a bicycle, once. Riding toward the restaurant, his visible work attire giving away his intended destination. He didn't try to hide it. He didn't cover it up.

I don't know who this guy is, what he's been through or why he's now operating as a minimum wage employee. I can only imagine he's a recent layoff victim--a factory worker through and through who's been forced to try his hand at what may seem beneath him. Yet he doesn't give up. He doesn't give in. He keeps on, shift after shift. And every time I see him, I wonder at his determination to make it. To get through whatever it is that has put him on that corner. To come out victorious.

For us, it's a constant reminder that others have it much worse than we do. And we can complain about Tad's unemployment and my hopelessly broken down Volkswagen and how we can't spend money on this and that, but at the end of the day neither of us is holding a sign on a street corner at 55 years of age.