Guest Writing My Blog (The Hollywood Goodbye)

Written by @missrosanne

First off, I am not a professional writer by any means. Having said that…. why, would you ask am I guest writing a blog? I have been thinking of a proper way to say goodbye to my Hollywood dwelling, beverage slinging, TV show writing` friend Christian. You all know him well as The Complainer of an Art Form, or the guy that is Always a Groomsman but Never the Groom.

We met behind the Elvis bar at the Wiltern Theater.  Our boss thought we would make a perfect couple, but as it turns out, I just ended up cock-blocking you for 2 years at work, & all you got were Simpsons quotes, laughter, some general advice, and a few nights where we drove back from San Bernadino, or burned a bowl of green.  😉

No, but really we are just a couple of Italians who transplanted themselves to Los Angeles where our friendship grew over a mutual love for film, pop culture, and a cynical sarcastic outlook on the desperate, needy entitled Hollywood thought process they call a lifestyle.

L.A. is a great place to meet fair-weather friends and go on dates with people whom you will never see again, but the time has come for you to leave this nepotistic, passive- aggressive over-priced lackluster city of love and move on to greener pastures.

I have no doubt you will succeed greatly once you are the big fish in a smaller pond.  I’m sure our paths will cross again in the future, and this is not goodbye….. forever.

Rather these are my efforts to show you through your medium of expression just how much of an impact you had on my life the last few years. I will miss our endless movie quotes, our uncensored conversations about the opposite sex, eating, smoking, drinking, eating, and yes of course, more eating.

Without you, there is one less laugh in Hollywood tonight, and to that I say…

“You’re part eggplant.”

-Rosanne Sabella Sollecito

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How Many Cardboard Boxes Does It Take? (Part 4)

My cat alarm went off at four thirty five am and now I am here, awake a little past 5 and I have two more boxes to pack, then I am done. All of the clothes I will wear for the next three weeks are neatly folded on top of my dresser, and I will somehow fit them, the coffee maker, a blow up mattress, some blankets, pillows, a cat and the rest of the stuff I need to live into my car as I have just finished putting the final load of clothes in the washer.

I leave in a week, and I had to get all of this done before the last few days because I don’t want to be packing shit into cardboard boxes anymore. It’s quite boring, and sometimes amounts to nothing good as the three dry cleaned shirts I just got back from the cleaners will ultimately have to be dry cleaned again at some point in February when I open the box I just sealed.

In the past two weeks I have been trying to work, pack, blog, and say goodbye to friends all at the same time, and even though I have been nominated for the Versatile blogger, and the Liebster award by my fellow WordPressers, I thank them so much for thinking of me, but I beg their forgiveness for not being able to complete the steps necessary to pass it on to someone else just yet (Thank you Inny and Mescalime  I promise to get on it soon.)

It’s just that my life is in upheaval.  In a good way, I hope.

Things are scattered throughout the apartment. I’ve lost my gorilla tape and my scissors at least four times in the last three days, and I spent last night hobbling around my place wondering why I’ve been breaking down so quickly these last two weeks and does it have anything to do with that methane gas leak in Porter Ranch?

Perhaps that 7 hours of sleep I got when I took a xanax last night at 7:30pm during the Democratic Debates will help. Rocco certainly isn’t helping today, he’s just trying to dump his poo box I just cleaned onto the floor, and eating an old extension cord in the living room and if it looks like I took that picture at night, you are almost correct since I shot it about 10 minutes past 5 in the morning before the sun came up.

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This will be the last blog in this series and I guess by writing about all of the shit I have to pack up I am in some way coming to terms with the fact that I won’t be living here anymore. There is a element of sadness to it all, I totally will admit to that. However, there is an element of surprise at what COULD happen and I guess that has been the driving force behind all of this. My cat doesn’t like when she looks into the closet and doesn’t see anything she recognizes. I try to tell her that it’s going to be alright, but her and the rabbit just stare at me from less than a foot off the ground wondering why I am doing what I am doing.

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(what the fuck?)

The answer?

Because I deserve a better quality of life, and what I’ve figured out over the last few years is that I’m not going to find that in Los Angeles.

Sure, I love knowing where everything is, and I love my friends that I have been hanging out with for years and I wish them all the best in every endeavor they take on, much like they wish me the best in this one I am currently in, but it’s time for me to move on.

I know all I’m packing is just stuff, but it’s stuff that I am attached to that carries with it these memories I made and I will take them with me to the next place I live where I hope to create more. I’m going to miss having the option to choose which of my 56 tee shirts I should wear, but I think the four I picked out for the next two weeks will do the trick for awhile.

So when it comes down to it, how many cardboard boxes did it take to pack up almost 13 years of memories from a place where I sometimes felt like the king of Hollywood, even though in the end I have accepted the fact that I am the court jester.  That’s not a bad thing at all, because everyone tries to dethrone the King, while the Court Jester looks on from afar making people laugh.  I think I can live with that.

Final box count: 20  (18 pictured, 2 not pictured)

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Change Your Name, Change Your Destiny

Originally posted on THISISMORPHEUS.COM

I changed my name twice in the hopes to change my luck and inevitably, my destiny.   Click the link to find out how it all went down:

Change Your Name, Change Your Destiny

Please follow THISISMORPHEUS on FB and Twitter

How Many Cardboard Boxes Does It Take? (Part 3)

It’s 8:23 in the morning, and I just took a break. I needed a break. I’ve been going hard af  these last few days, and af wasn’t a misspell. It means “as fuck” if you haven’t heard the word.

My kitchen has been packed up along with my hallway closet and the cabinets where I kept my sheets and towels and printed photographs of the last 40 years.

I found some oldies but goodies, and a envelope labeled “THESE SHOULD NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY.”

I listened to my past self and I don’t open that envelope, because I know what’s inside. My first head shots from Las Vegas circa 2001. I looked like a tool. A skinny 150 pound tool with no muscle tone, bad hair, and a pale face. I will NEVER post that picture unless I put it in my book that some publisher will pay me to write.

That will happen sooner than later, but in the meantime I found THIS gem here from early 2004.

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That is probably the most “in shape” I ever was, and probably ever will be in my entire life. That was a lot of work. Like 5 days a week at the gym, and the last time I did five days in a  row, I pivoted the wrong way and pulled some ligament and wasn’t able to go to the gym for four days, otherwise known as “last week.”

So now I’m that guy who deals with getting older by rolling his own cigarettes as a pre-cursor to quitting, taking glucosamine, and is thinking about buying some more records since I found that ONE Dammit Janet record when I was packing.  It is an older progressive house track from way back in 1999 and it sounds like this:

I’m turning into a middle aged indie hipster, not to be confused with an actual hipster which is NOT what I am becoming. That’s right…I don’t mind the term “hipster” if you preface it with an accurate adjective based on an observation from my life. I’ve always been independent.  I think that’s a good quality to have, even though I would like someone to depend on too.

Anyways, I may not have the body I did back then…but mentally, I feel like I look in that picture. I think if I had a choice, I’d rather live with the latter.

The kitchen was kind of boring to pack, so I’ll skip that and go straight to the hardest part of the last two days. Taking picture frames and pictures off the wall. It saddened me to do this.  I got SO sad that a part me of thought the only way to cheer myself up would be to  buy a NEW picture online from a Rocky movie and get that framed when I finally figure out where the fuck in Seattle I will live.

Oh yeah, by the way.

PLOT TWIST:
I don’t have a job yet, and I don’t know where I’m going to live, but for some reason I know I’ll be fine. (Remind me to tell you a story about how I stopped getting panic attacks on the first day I thought about leaving L.A.)

Back to the pictures…here’s a little bit of them

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That’s my hand on the road to Arizona in the middle. That’s not part of the picture by the way, I’m just saying hi.

I took all of those. Two in Vegas, one in Sedona, one Rabbit in Hollywood and my fave. Me taking a picture of Tasha taking a picture of the Grand Canyon. There are about 25 more of these glass framed moments in my life, so I carefully wrapped them in old tee-shirts and label the box “fragile, glass, picture frames” NO STACKING!

I think the movers will get it.

The living room, kitchen and hallway are done, and the last two things I do are vacuum the Flyers rug and other throw rugs, and pack them in my old trash can which I cleaned out for the first time in 6 years. Gross.

Rocco runs into the kitchen, looking for the rug he used to stand on and beg for a goldfish cracker. I text Tasha to remind her to bring over a rug for Rocco when she comes by this weekend.

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I get the response, Lol I love Rocco.

Me too. I’m gonna miss my little buddy more than I will miss this city, and I’m totally ok with that.

I put the last box in the pile and I label it “Random Shit” cause that’s what  a few sweatshirts, a Christmas Tree, a lamp and a lampshade, and a little baggie full of office supplies are.

Box Count as of today: 14

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How Many Cardboard Boxes Does It Take? (Part 2)

It was 6:30 am on a Friday, and I felt like I had a lot more packing to do since that one box I put together on Thursday.  I spent the weekend packing up my DVDs, my blu-rays, my books, and of course more memories of the dozen years I have spent in Los Angeles.

Into the boxes went my full seasons of the Sopranos and Six Feet Under which in my opinion were two of the best shows to ever grace the TV screen.  I don’t care if you aren’t very comfortable with the Mob or with the idea of death, but let’s be honest.  The mob doesn’t exist anymore, and death is the only constant with the exception of love and taxes.  See how I put a little positive spin on that?

A few movies stood out to me when I was packing them up.  The Green Mile and Cinderella Man had somehow found their way into my collection, even though I know I’ve never owned either of them.  I guess this is the point in my life when I have to contact people and tell them I have their first four seasons of Entourage on disc and if they want them back they have about 17 days left to claim them.

I loved Entourage, but I hated the character of Vinny Chase.  I always thought he didn’t appreciate being an actor, and he never respected the craft the way I did for a full six years when I was really into “being an actor.” It was evident in the amount of scripts I found when I was packing, and it was obvious in the abundance of Christian Marc head shots that I wasted so much money on over the years.   Here’s one of them circa 2012

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I don’t even know if this picture got me any work.  Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t.  Regardless of the fact, that part of my life is over, but I’m going to keep these because there are a lot of embarrassing pictures of myself that I have paid to get taken over the years and that will make for some good laughs when I’m in my late forties writing an article about when I was an actor.

I started to pack my old scripts and the promo packets my partner and I put together for the web series we created, which turned into a TV sitcom we wrote, which we hired Shar Jackson and Dorian Gregory to star in along side of ourselves. We won awards for that web series and got a deal with a network, and had managers and talent agents fighting over us, but then that network was never was able to pay us the money they promised and those talent agents and managers would continue their predictable courting of you otherwise known as the Hollywood “jerk-off.”

This is my favorite clip of us in the moment:

God damn it we were so close to that dream.  We were so close to making enough money so I could help my Mom and my sister and live a nice life of hiring my friends to do production work.  We were so close to being the next big things, but in reality maybe we wouldn’t have liked it because I don’t think we were ever meant to be so scrutinized in the public eye, and perhaps any level of success would have changed us and our writing and perhaps Tasha and I would have hated having to “dumb it down” for the acceptance of the Hollywood machine. Have you watched any recent comedies on TV?  They’re just not funny.

Hollywood will take something great and something raw and find every way possible to remove all of the intellectual nuances and the hilariously funny parts you wrote and replace them with pop culture gags written by hacks and product placement ads that you don’t even know are affecting your daily routine.

That is NOT the dream I wanted for myself anyway.

As I finish with the  office stuff I look down at my moving helper, Rocco.  He is not that good of a helper, unless of course running around nibbling on old pictures and eating the Albuquerque Journal with the Walter White obituary in it is considered helpful.  God damn it, I paid $20 for that newspaper on Ebay.

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I look around the apartment and gauge the level of shit that I have left to pack.  I got to be honest, I have a lot of shit.  It’s not just big shit, it’s little shit.  Little shit that needs to be put into sandwich bags and labeled and then packed away into a box for a date later to be reopened. Of course I don’t own any sandwich bags because I’m not a pot dealer, nor do I have kids that eat PB & J with the crusts cut off.  I head to the Dollar store at 8am to pick some up.

Now the dollar store is remodeling and moving all their shit around and restocking, so for me to find the shit I’m looking for I have to ask someone where they moved the little baggies, but I have a feeling that not many of the Dollar Store workers are going to be very helpful to a guy with sunglasses on at 8:05 in the morning on a Friday who looks like he could have been up all night.

I almost bring myself to ask someone, but I think this might be fun if I try to find them myself.  26 aisles later, I finally find them, and I head to the checkout lane and I KNOW the woman must me thinking, “this drug dealer must have run out of baggies in the middle of the night and here he is now buying plastic to wrap his cocaine in.”

I don’t even take off my sunglasses, but I let her think whatever she wants to think because maybe I HAVE to be that drug dealer in her life because that is more acceptable than a guy who is NOT on drugs who is just moving everything he owns 977 miles north in a few weeks.

I pack up the next box full of office products, printers, hard drives and the little amounts of stuff that fit into baggies I never even remembered that I kept like 8 silver quarters, and a plethora of old papers and documents that lived in a filing cabinet for the last 10 years.  They don’t count as cardboard boxes, but I put them in the pile anyway.

The next day I start to pack up the kitchen and I continue the process with a box full of coffee mugs that I have collected throughout the years.  Some of them I can’t live without, others I wonder how they even got into my collection.  I’m going to leave some of them for the person who is taking over my apartment because she drinks coffee too.

I also leave her a computer, a crock pot, a George Foreman Grill and a wok because she has been one of my closest friends and my business partner over the past 9 years, and there are herds of pictures and music on my old Desktop and she deserves to hear and listen to the good times we had while we were here.

She has inspired me throughout the whole acting/writing/producing part of my life and she always told me for years to start a blog, and one day I finally listened so Tasha, thanks for that.

As I push the last box of the weekend into the kitchen I start to see that perhaps I’ve made a small dent in my humongous organized pile of shit that I call home, but alas, I am now out of small boxes.

Box count as of today: 6

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How Many Cardboard Boxes Does It Take? (Part 1)

If you had to pack all of your belongings into cardboard boxes, how many of them would it take?   Today, I began to find out.

I hit up Box Bros for ten of them plus a roll of tape.  Of course as soon as I started “making” one of these boxes, I realized that without that handy tape dispenser that fits in your hand, EVERY TIME I cut the tape, I lose the end of it somewhere in the roll.  There is absolutely NO WAY I am going to continue like this.  I head to Home Depot, which I imagine will be my most frequented store over the next three weeks.

In front of the parking lot of course are the “day laborers” looking for a job.  I call them Mexicans.  Not because I am generalizing, but because that’s who stands outside of the Home Depot. Day laborers who are Mexican…ok fine, Latino.  Stop being so offended world, nothing about that screams racism.

I hit up aisle 39, then aisle 6, then BACK to 39 where I realize that the tape I came in looking for was actually sitting on an end cap in front of the paint section. Gorilla Tape. Fuck packing and duct tape, this stuff is like concrete strips in a convenient sized roll for under $10.

I leave the Depot, and stop and grab a bite, then I come back down my street and I look at the very unattractive and shady apartment building across from mine.  There are two black guys in suits, using the call box, and one of them looks like Johnnie Cochran if I hadn’t just googled him and found out he died 11 years ago.  There is also a sedan parked nose out onto my dead end street, and a giant black suburban with tinted windows is backing up to get a better view of the on coming traffic, but for once in L.A. there isn’t any.

Two things come to mind.  That is either a drug deal in the midst of happening, or it is a celebrity in the midst of a drug deal.  The one thing I know from living across the street from that apartment building for the last five years is that I 100% assure you, it has SOMETHING to do with drugs.

Now I’ve finished eating, and I am starting to pack my old journals and papers, and writings.  I read something I wrote from 10 years ago and it sounds like a bunch of confounded superficial dribble that makes no sense years later.

In the desolate air of the summer breeze, I find myself astounded that I made the choice I made today.”  

Wait, what the fuck was I talking about back then?

Regardless, I pack it because I’m probably going to want to read that again and laugh at myself with a glass of red wine in my hand, chuckling at the idea of how silly I was when I was 28.  Also as a writer, I don’t think you should ever throw away anything you’ve ever written, except death threats.  BURN them if you have them lying around.

I open the drawers to my coffee table and start to empty out the contents into my first cardboard box and suddenly the cat and the rabbit have to start investigating everything.  The rabbit is hopping to and from each item I put on the floor to eat it, and the cat is stretching where I spilled a little cat nip a few hours ago.

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I put the rest of the stuff on the couch to pack it up, and then I do something I don’t think I should have done.  I decided to dump the dirt from the drawer into a box while I’m standing over my coffee table covered with important stuff on top.

Of course, the drawer then slips out of my hand.

It falls onto my GLASS top coffee table which happens to have a lit foresty smelling candle on it.  It doesn’t shatter the glass thank God, but it does knock the candle over onto the table and splashes hot green balsam fir smelling wax all over the glass, the other couch, my work bag, and the carpet.

The animals go running in opposite directions and I start shouting expletives into the air like: “Fuck!” &  “Holy Fuck!” & “Of fucking course that fucking shit just fucking happened!”

I should have taken a picture of this calamity, but the LAST thing I was thinking when this happened was “I wonder if this spilled wax has enough artistic value to hold weight on Instagram? #accidentallyartisitc

I take a deep breath and exhale and then I look on the coffee table and I realize that the wax could have gone any place it wanted.  I had no control over that.  Sure, parts of the table were waxy, including the couch and whatever else it splattered onto, but you know what the wax missed?  My cell phone and my laptop which were just inches away from the candle.

“Holy fuck…. I’m a lucky duck.”

I scraped off the wax by using an old CD I was going to throw out anyway.  I guess the band Coldplay is good for something AND for nothing.

After this debacle, I decided it’s probably best to take the rest of the day off and come back to this project tomorrow.

Box count as of today:  1

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Random Thoughts at Newark Liberty Airport

I have flown in an out of the same airport three times in the last year, once for business, once for pleasure, and once because I felt like it was time to come home. I have probably drank about one thousand two hundred and seventy seven cups of coffee in 2015, and only one of those times did it come from fucking Starbucks. I’ve made over ten thousand alcoholic drinks for other people in the past year, and I have probably poured about three hundred of them myself, give or take a hundred.

I took a shot at running down a dream that took me to a place where everyone said it was going to happen, but after thirteen years I took the initiative and chose to make a new dream happen by taking myself out of that place. I have spent a good amount of cash on music that I have listened to over and over again and I don’t feel like that will ever be a waste of money because it inspires me and it keeps me going, and it makes for a great soundtrack to my life.

I have loved and I have lost, but I would never trade the experience or the heartbreak just so I could say I never got hurt. I somehow packed twelve days of clothes into a suitcase made for about ten, but only remembered to pack eleven pairs of underwear. I have given up on the idea of controlling everything around me because over the course of the last week I have realized that that shit doesn’t work for me, and I like having an element of surprise in my life.

I have observed so many random acts of self-less-ness over the past two weeks that I am starting to believe in the honesty and the kindness of the human spirit again…. However, the one thing that is going through my mind is the fact that I am about to embark on a 2,447 mile journey from a place I love, to a place that I used to love, and within a few weeks I will be traveling again to a place that I will learn to love again.

I can’t wait.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.