katathymia

All of the douchebags hating on her ring on ohnotheydidnt can blow me.

http://ohnotheydidnt.livejournal.com/76233513.html#comments

shh-the-adults-are-talking:

katathymia:

Can be seen/read in high resolution at Paget Brewster Online Gallery

Tada

Because I felt like reblogging this awesomeness right now.

No photos for this last one. :(

“The Paget Page”

Ick. Poop. Crapples. ****dickers. I am clinically depressed. Okay, I haven’t seen a doctor about it or anything but I sleep a lot and have inexplicably combined loss of appetite with weight gain. How in the **** I managed to do that, I will never know. I gained seven pounds. Death in my business, as I’m sure you’ve heard. I joined the gym to try to get in shape but it happens to be a gay gym, and seeing all those perfectly built, zero-body-fat men who seem so Goddamn happy all the time is even more depressing than the criminally meat-market hetero gyms where I feel pressured to look cute in my workout clothes and not sweat too much. To be fair, I go through this mini depression every year, right around this time. Yes, it’s pilot season.

It usually stems from the fear that I will never work again but I already know we are shooting the next season of Huff for Showtime starting in June. I can’t go through pilot season because I have a job already. I have the best job ever. Though Andy Richter Controls The Universe was Nirvana, (Hindu heaven, not the band), I have been challenged and learned more on Huff than I ever imagined. I love Huff. I love the crew and cast and guest stars and the writers and editors. Morgan Spurlock, who directed the documentary Super Size Me, came up to me at the Writer’s Guild Awards two nights ago and told me how much he loved the show. The man who directed one of the only two movies I have seen in the theater all year (The other was The Grudge. Loved it.) came up to me and thanked me for what he said was a great performance! And I must not be fat because I had more pictures taken at arrivals that night than anyone else present! [Go to wireimage.com and do a search on Paget for a complete proof sheet.] In my depression, I admit that the WGA Awards red carpet paparazzi frenzy was a mystery to me and I always fall for that “Give us an over-the-shoulder!” where you DO look fat from the wrong angle but I know it wasn’t because my boob fell out or you could see any cellulite. I was wearing a full-length gown. And pasties. Poor dumb, drunk Tara Reid. I feel better for me when I feel bad for her. Knowing that makes me feel even worse.

But I have a job I love and I AM NOT FAT! So what the **** am I depressed about?

Oh, wait, it might be the crushing realization that I will never feel love again.

That might be it.

You see, I was making great strides in working on my Repeating Rotten Choice Pattern. [See the complete story in FF 13:10]. But I hit a wall of sorts. In trying to break my RRCP, I went and did something dumb. I did something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT YET EQUALLY STUPID. That takes talent. I should be proud.

About two months ago, I had a boyfriend — well, he was 46, so let’s call him a manfriend, he was also a raging lunatic. You didn’t hear about him because I only mention them when it’s over, you ever noticed that? My best friend, Phyllis, hated him and was shocked, upon returning home from a two-month job in London, to find I was dating such a “monster.”

“Why him? That guy is an *******!” she demanded.

Phyllis had had a meeting with ManMonster four years ago at Paramount to discuss her movie idea. ManMonster was… rude, I think. Apparently, he was inelegant in his refusal to embrace Phyllis’s movie pitch. He pitched her his idea instead and Phyllis has hated him ever since.

“Well, now wait a minute! He’s a successful writer, he’s smart, a grown up, independent, funny, owns his own house. He’s a peer! An equal! I’m breaking my terrible pattern, don’t you see?”

“But he’s a renowned psychotic!” Phyllis insisted.

“Well… okay, I know, he’s a little odd, but maybe it’s an act? Maybe he just does it to weed out people who won’t stand up for themselves?”

“How is that an admirable character trait? God, why him?”

In my search for a man who could be my creative, intellectual and financial peer, I failed to stand firm on my previous requirement for relative sanity.

ManMonster has been in Jungian psychoanalysis for 18 years. He doesn’t speak to his parents. He despises his siblings. He has six dogs. He is, in fact, a well-known Hollywood psychotic.

I broke up with him about week after talking to Phyllis when he yelled at me for two days straight that I had cheated on him by going swimming with a male friend. You heard me. We went swimming. Not naked. Nothing happened. ManMonster said I was essentially cheating by submerging myself in water in front of another man.

SFX: Cue cuckoo clock sound.

Later, when I told Phyllis that I had ended it, she looked over the wreckage of my last 18 months of dating and laughingly said, “Pag, you should write an advice column” I started laughing at my friend’s brilliant sarcasm until I realized…

I DO write an advice column.

How am I doing ? Not so good. Unless by advice column, Femme Fatales MEANT “Paget, you could really make our readers feel good about themselves if you would show them six times a year what a screw-up you are !”

In my last column I told you about Barbara DeAngelis’s book “Are You The One For Me?” and my adaptation of her ideas into the Repeating Rotten Choice Pattern. My bad pattern was always guys who weren’t my equal who needed Mommies. ManMonster didn’t need a Mommy. True, he needs another 18 years of psychiatric care but not a Mommy.

My COMPLETELY DIFFERENT YET EQUALLY STUPID move was to date someone when my gut told me not to. I was following a list. Lists in the dating world are bad. Bad, bad, bad. You carry a list around with the attributes of your Ms. Right and it seems to do nothing but guarantee you a world of pain.

I ignored my gut and followed a list, which brings up endless dating dilemmas.

What are your needs? (And then isn’t that a list?)

What are your deal breakers? The flag on the play? (Is having more than two cats really a deal breaker?)

What if they stab their poached eggs with well-done bacon?

What if they have kids, or a crappy car, hate their parents, adore their parents, smoke cigarettes, don’t eat meat, live too far away, or in the same building?

In the end, don’t we make concessions for someone we end up being crazy about? But how do you get crazy over someone if the deal breaker flag you saw in the first date prevents you from setting up a second date?

Are we right to put the brakes on early?

If we do that, isn’t it possible that we could let a potentially Great Love fall off the tracks and into Bad First Date Gulch?

Do I sound like a rejected script from Sex and the City season one?

Yes. Yes, I do.

Jesus. I am the worst columnist since the Gutenberg press was invented. I’m so bad I couldn’t even spell “Gutenberg” correctly! I had to look it up!

Christ, I am going to die old and alone!

We all are.

This is a terrible column. This is the worst column I have ever seen.

My manager just called. I got a part in a pilot starring Pam Anderson. That is beyond awesome. I love her. I love that she executive produced V.I.P. and said that if producers were going to be making so much money off her boobs, why shouldn’t she? They just called and flat out offered it to me. No audition. That never happens.

Well Goddamn.

Things are lookin’ up!

I gotta get over to the gay gym before they close.

source

I’m home now (it’s funny how taking a cab from Brooklyn back to NYC will reduce one’s commute time from TWO AND A HALF HOURS to about 30 minutes) and here’s my “OMG I MET PAGET BREWSTER” story.

First, the Thrilling Adventure Hour was hilarious. I can’t really explain this show; it’s one of those things you have to see for yourself to fully understand. 

In preparation for (potentially) meeting Paget after the show - since everyone knows that, at Broadway and off-Broadway shows, you just wait by the stage door if you want to meet the actors afterward - I had written her a letter. I knew in advance that I’d become completely ineloquent if I did meet her in person and unable to describe just how amazing she truly is … basically about how I was probably Huff’s #1 fan when it originally aired on Showtime and not only did it take two years for someone else to tell me that the same actress who played my very favorite character, Emily Prentiss, had played Huff’s wife, but I didn’t even BELIEVE him until I looked it up online, and how that’s just one example of how incredibly talented she is as an actress.

So, while having a cigarette outside, I overheard someone saying how he met one of the other cast members inside and I asked (hopefully): “Do you think Paget Brewster is in there? Because I’d really like to meet her.” [Understatement of the century.] He said he didn’t know, but I should go check.

Since this WAS in an awesome bar in Brooklyn and not in some pretentious Manhattan theater, I walked right back in through the door with the “exit only” sign and … there she was, talking to the woman selling the merchandise. I kind of froze for a minute, took a deep breath, and approached her. After waiting for her to finish her conversation and taking a picture of her with the woman, I said something like, “Um, I am a huge fan of yours … and I knew if I met you I’d be completely incapable of speaking sooooo I wrote you a letter” and handed it to her.

She seemed genuinely touched by the idea that someone would take the time to write her a letter and said, “Awww, that is so sweet! Thank you so much!” and then she pulled me in for a hug. I am pretty sure that my synapses short-circuited at this moment. No, I am DEFINITELY sure that my synapses short-circuited at this moment.

Afterward, she thanked me AGAIN and I kind of blurted out something like, “And you’re just as beautiful in person and I really think you’re an incredible actress …” She kept telling me “thank you” in this really sincere, genuine way and I couldn’t help thinking: SHE is thanking ME? What the hell kind of alternate universe did I enter when I crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge?!?!

Then someone else (littlelovelylies, as it turns out) took a photo with her and I realized: oh, shit! I would love to have a photographic reminder that this did indeed happen and that I did not slip into a narcoleptic dream state from the Red Bull and vodka. So then I took a picture with her - well, two, because the guy who took them thought the first turned out blurry and said “Uh, can I take another one? Because this one might be kinda blurry.” And Paget was all, “Yeah, take another one!” even though there were, by this point, several people standing there waiting to take photos with her.

I mean it when I say I’ve never met a more genuinely caring and appreciative celebrity in my life. And, living in NYC, I’ve met a lot of celebrities.

The difference with Paget is that I didn’t feel like I’d run into a superstar who was somehow inconvenienced by “this part of the job” when I met her … or that she even felt like saying hello or taking a picture with me WAS necessarily “part of the job.” Which is fucking incredible. It felt more like running into a casual acquaintance than “meeting a celebrity.” Except, obviously, I am capable of actually forming a sentence when I run into casual acquaintances.

It seemed like it mattered to her. And I’m really glad that I wrote what I did, omitting most personal details and instead focusing on why she is, as her website puts it, “a super-babe” because that’s the best way you can show someone how much you appreciate their work, I think. But what do I know? The last fan letter I wrote was to Jonathan Brandis.

AND SHE HUGGED ME! LIKE, VOLUNTARILY! ON HER OWN! HER IDEA!

It’s preeeeetttty hard to beat that. :DDD