AND THE WINNER IS....

In Hollywood, competition is not only a given, it's a journalistic directive. Actors, writers, networks and movie studios are objectified in headlines like race horses, to be met with newfound glory or retired to greener pastures. As industry participants, we are almost immune to the constant polarizing, box office tallying and awards countdowning that go hand in hand with artistic commerce. Our GPS system is set for rivalry and reward.

Last year, I was at a couples' joint birthday party. I had been through an extensive rough patch (see my first blog), and my mom had recently been admitted to the hospital. Friend number one started to vent about being out of work for a whole month, and the struggles he was facing, with some understandable drama and fanfare.

I started to fight back, “I've been out of work for awhile, AND my mom's in the hospital”. Friend number one's husband interrupted us, and proclaimed, “It's not a competition.”

As I left the party that night, I tried to process why I felt so invalidated by someone else's newfound hardship.

My mom was soonafter released from the hospital. When her kidneys showed signs of weakness again, she was readmitted. A few days later, my mother, Miriam Ullmann, passed away unexpectedly.

On my birthday.

The last six months of my life have been entirely consumed with all matters concerning my mother's passing. As the only child and sole relative living a few states away from my mother, moving through the loss - logistically and emotionally - has been the most excruciating and devastating experience imaginable. Seriously, it's like a Lars Von Trier movie.

It IS a competition, and I win.

Sometimes, when you are losing, you feel that all you have is your pain. And without it, you might not have anything to hold on to, so NO ONE had better take it away.

Once, when I was at a swank London hotel bar, I asked a well dressed gent what he did for a living. “I'm a banker,” he replied, friendly and neutrally. “Do you like it?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Oh God no! I despise it!” he said emphatically, as I almost spit out my champagne. “But I've got a family to support.”

The Brits really understand self deprecation, and that bragging rights go hand in hand with hardship. Remember the brilliant brownie scene in Notting Hill? At a dinner party, a group of people compete and one up their failures and tragedies to see who most deserves the brownie. Even the movie star gets in on the action, revealing some distinctly un-American vulnerability.

Ricky Gervais analyzed the differences between American and British humor in a piece for TIME Magazine where he states “Brits are more comfortable with life's losers”. So maybe a winner is not a winner in every country.

My first trip back home, I met the social worker at the nursing facility in order to collect my mother's possessions. While I do not yet have words for this social worker, an angel really, who shared some intimiate final details about my mother, I can share a simple quote on her informational card that she gives to every patient: “It's not what you accomplish in life that matters. It's what you overcome.”

And it's true, that is the biggest yet often overlooked cause for celebration, because it is not always obvious, tangible or dare I say, sexy.

I found myself relating to some classic tv and film characters during my mourning process. Having re-watched NAPOLEON DYNAMITE one night, I caught myself yelling “GOSH!” as I dragged yet another massive load of my mother's clothing to the consignment store. When the process of grieving felt insurmountable, I remembered those early BREAKING BAD episodes where Hank struggles in physical therapy (poor Hank!), his physical pain entirely palpable. And then of course, I remembered KILL BILL's The Bride, who after busting out of a buried coffin, comically stumbles across the street to a diner, caked in dirt, and calmly asks the waiter for a glass of water. Sometimes we want to be caked in dirt, just for people to notice our suffering, too.

In Hollywood, it is so much easier to take credit for an accomplishment than some intangible personal and spiritual triumph. But ironically, the artistic depictions of these journeys are the very things that captivate, and then lead to awards.

I will not spout a cliché, and tell you how much this time has turned me into the person I have always longed to be. But occasionally I hear my mother's voice saying “I can't believe it” with pride and levity. And I am learning to make that, along with my own reflections, my reward. But it ain't easy, because the struggle doesn't come with a gold statue, certificate, or committee-voted affirmation. But it does come with an often more elusive and hard-earned value: clarity.

I am attending a wonderful grief support group, where we find solace and understanding in each others' experience. One group member is mourning the loss of her mother, a physician from India, who was killed while on vacation in South America.

And do you know what my first thought was, after physically reeling with empathy and sorrow?

It IS a competition, and she wins.

NANCY O'DELL INTERVIEW

I recently had the opportunity to interview Nancy O'Dell of Entertainment Tonight for HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL. She is a class act and her heart and soul are evident in all the wonderful and personal causes she supports. She is an inspiration!

NANCY O'DELL NATURAL BORN STORYTELLER - HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL

PODCAST INTERVIEW WITH WARNER ARCHIVE

I did a fun INTERVIEW with Warner Archive for the Season 3 DVD Release of THE RICKY GERVAIS SHOW.

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH TALENT

Last year I decided to go visit my friend Laura in San Franciso. Laura is a beautiful working actress who was my LA neighbor for years, with whom I share some core values in the “make the world and ourselves better” realm. Having never gone to college given her longstanding career, Laura applied to and was accepted at Berkley. After hearing about Laura's growing community there, and having spent some time in San Francisco before, I figured a road trip might prove a worthwhile adventure.

As it turned out, my college friend Rob's opera was opening in San Francisco the night of my arrival. Laura, newly enamored with academia, was gleefully studying and unavailable to attend. So I threw down my bag and got back in the car, running on the exhilaration of a new destination.

As I took a seat, a bright orange watch band on the arm rest next to me caught my attention. “Nice watch!” I said before looking up and noting the watch's adorable owner. Watch Band accepted the compliment and pursued some conversation. “So what brings you here tonight?” “Oh, I went to college with Rob, the guy who wrote the libretto. And you?” “I know Rob, too. But I mostly know Jack, the guy who wrote the music.” “Oh cool. What do you do?” I am always infinitely curious about people's lives outside the industry. As exotic as people might find our lot, I am always smitten by “real jobs” and their correlating communities. “I'm a musician. But I also work in wine.” He sounded like the perfect San Francisco prototype to me.

The opera was called LOVE/HATE, and played out the initial encounter, ensuing courtship and demise of a relationship.

During intermission, I told my new friend, “You work in wine, so you must recommend a place for me to have dinner.” I swear I had no ulterior motive; I just assumed his wine pedigree would outperform my YELP app. And yes, I was chipper and open, unbound by my hometown identity, one of the many reasons I love to travel. “I actually need to eat dinner too, so maybe we could go together?” Seconds later in the ladies room, I texted two girlfriends “I've been in San Francisco less than 2 hours, met a guy at Rob's opera and now I have a date. It's THAT EASY outside of LA.”

At dinner, Jordan told me he was not a musician, but a singer songwriter. When I asked what kind of music he wrote, he told me that it was hard to explain and would become clear once I got to know him. A seemingly pretentious comment, but delivered by Jordan with low key sincerity. Afterwards, Jordan walked me back to the theater where I had parked nearby. I am pretty consistently scattered (see prior blog admission to A.D.D.), so it never really occurs to me to make a note about where I parked my car. “You know what? I am pretty sure it's on this street” I told Jordan about 10 minutes into our search for my car. 45 minutes later we were still looking, and still immensely enjoying each other's company. My defenses were down from sangria, and I was getting tired. So I turned to Jordan and said “why don't we take a break?” And then we kissed. And then we kissed some more.

I got a text from Jordan the next day. “There's a great place in your hood – a piano bar, Martunis – meet me there later?” In the meantime, I did a Google search and noted his Berklee School of Music credentials. And found a song of his on YOUTUBE. But I'm not the kind of girl who goes gaga over a musician. I listen to Howard Stern and CNN exclusively while driving, and I watch tv. Music is just not a large part of my media consumption these days.

When I ventured out early evening, my car was nowhere to be found. JESUS CHRIST, AGAIN? At first terrified that my car had been stolen, I wisely second guessed my own judgment and called the nearest towing facility. Yup, I was blocking a driveway and my car had been towed. I texted Jordan “small problem. Would you mind picking me up and taking me to the tow place?”

$500 later, we ended up at Martunis, which as it turns out is a gay piano bar. I was in hog heaven. A cute, straight musician takes me to a gay piano bar? I'm MOVING to San Francisco. We talked and drank, and in our booth that was not so discreetly hidden, made out.

The next morning, Jordan made me delicious coffee, awesome eggs with aged gouda, and handed me three of his CDs. I mentally rolled my eyes. As much as I liked him already, getting 3 CD's from a “singer songwriter” post-dalliance promises nothing but trouble. But I listened on my drive back to LA. and was surprised. Actually, bowled over. His music was amazing. Not objectively, “this guy is legitimately talented” amazing, but the kind of Elliot Smith-Jon Brion music that gets into my head and under my skin. His songs were incredibly well produced, and his voice, and the lyrics.... each song was a new and fantastic discovery.

And so started a confusing love affair, where my affection grew in proportion to my adoration of his talent. It's not uncommon to flame the spark of romantic obsession by listening to songs that serve as your very own movie soundtrack. But now imagine that soundtrack is composed – and sung by - the very object of your affection! The experience was surreal. And I was going down, fast.

After a few emails detailing my reactions to whatever specific song had become my new favorite, I admitted: “Your music is very dangerous. Please let me know if I am being overly... enthusiastic. I suppose the experience and musical aftermath hit a vulnerability vein in me, which was unexpected.”

To which he responded: “I like it.”

I fall in love with talent all the time. Unabashedly. And in my work, purposefully. It is the reason I got into this business, and the reason I remain excited about it. Whenever I hear an executive or friend tell me that they just “fell into” the biz, or that they stumbled upon it after law school, I grow irate. It's not that I think they are undeserving of success, but when your heart and soul is shaped and molded by the arts at a tender age, you feel entitled to getting first dibs.

I wanted more than anything to place and promote Jordan's music. But being somewhat new to this part of the biz, I didn't have the vocabulary to properly position him. So I spoke with his producer, Josh Fix, an uber talent and singer songwriter in his own right. I started listening to music in the car with newborn ears. I was learning so much and it was exciting and fun! But I was also careful to make sure Jordan understood this was not a play to get him to need me (which I have been guilty of in the past). To drive the point home, I told him with all honesty “Please don't take this the wrong way, but I think I like your music more than you.”

I went back to San Francisco to see Jordan again, but this time I knew what he was made of. One morning he pulled a stool to the edge of his bed, and grabbed his guitar. He played one of my favorites (UNTITLED #24), while I sat in his bed feeling both honored and very small. Jordan sings and plays with such grandeur and conviction, it felt as if I was privy to something raw and very private. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before and one of the most intimate moments of recent memory.

Afterwards, we went into his modest makeshift studio, a small closet with space for a computer (and whatever else musicians need to record). He wanted to play me a new song he had just recorded. I stood behind him as he sat at the computer in front of me, playing the track (TIME). It's huge and haunting melody brought me quickly to the brink of tears. I was seeing and experiencing Jordan during a time in my life that was filled with great uncertainty. I had no idea where I was going – personally, professionally - and without a strict employment routine, had very little grounding me. I guess I felt a shared kinship in the vulnerability he expressed in his music. And the lyrics to this song inparticular really resonated for me:

Time, it is a melody.

I hear it on the clock.

It never stops.

And time, time, time....

It is a tragedy.

I'm always a little late. For goodbyes.

But it's always on my mind

When the truth is hard to find

Time won't wait for and it sure won't answer

And time

It is a memory

Made an angel in the snow.

It's hard to let go.

And time, time, time, it's alright to cry, it's alright

You're only learning to fly. And it takes time.

That little closet seemed entirely too small to contain all of that unique sound and heartfelt emotion. It seemed to me downright unjust. Later when Jordan was lying on the bed, I approached him. “You have every right to be angry” I told him “I'm angry for you.” He just looked at me and smiled, later telling me how much what I said meant to him. Then we had lunch at a cool New Orleans styled restaurant. It really was a special and beautiful day.

Jordan's songs are inherently romantic, but he was less accessible to me on a personal level. At one point I told him that knowing him was a little bit like looking into the window of a great restaurant. I was hoping for more of a full course meal. Sure, he might not have been willing to go deeper with me specifically. But I was also curious if it was a symptom. If you're an artist with a vessel to feed, can it render you an empty shell? Is it worth differentiating either way?

I love getting romantically star struck. Generally I find that vast admiration, overwhelming curiosity and pedastal placement are all part of that equation. People say that equation amounts to nothing but a fantasy. I say it is magic.

But I often find myself in trouble, so willing to engage and become a number one fan, that I eventually feel short-changed if not met with the same concrete consideration. And while it is something that I am keenly aware of, generally, I cannot help myself.

Sometimes people will say to me, about moving to Los Angeles and pursuing my career “You went after your dream, how brave, what strength it must have taken, what courage!” But for many of us, it was never really even a choice.

Kind of like falling in love.  

Please check out Jordan's MUSIC and SITE

Also check out the brilliant JOSH FIX's SITE and VIDEO

This is an unabridged version of an article published on HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL

FACEBOOK (PHONE) NO MORE!

This morning I spent 20 minutes, while still in bed, checking Facebook. Every morning I grow increasingly irritated by the amount of time I waste on meaningless social perusal and commentary. I have been working on developing a meditation practice, or starting my mornings with even a small semblance of physical exercise. Taking the time to set your day with intent and direction is incredibly important. All the more so if you are borderline hopeless! I don't know why, but this morning I just BOTTOMED OUT. So I finally took the plunge and took Facebook OFF OF MY PHONE. I feel like I have eliminated sugar coated cereal for breakfast in favor of a high protein smoothie. I am curious to see how the experiment unfolds and if my morning time proves more productive. Of course, I had to post this just to remain accountable.

IMAGE IS EVERYTHING

When you go from making a healthy six figure salary to unemployment, you get resourceful, quickly. In some ways, the obvious restrictions make life simpler. No more shopping, no more Groupon purchases (mine never get used, anyway), no need to read Daily Candy for the latest sample sales or restaurant openings. Some overall basic housekeeping – minus actual housekeeping - another budget cut.

But one day, I received an incredibly tempting email offer, forwarded by my friend Jordan Feldman. Jordan is a tastemaker whom I trust implicitly. Once he went into an almost screaming diatribe about a medium-sized purse I wore to a party. “Are you going to L.A.X after this? Because that THING looks like a duffel bag. I would CHECK it.” Jordan's stylist friend, Amy Keller, was offering a closet-editing session at a “friends and family” rate, for a limited time.

I have always, always, always wanted a stylist. It is the ultimate Hollywood fantasy for girls. As evidenced by every grocery-aisle magazine, reality show, Red Carpet special and of course, SEX AND THE CITY. I longed for a more sophisticated wardrobe, dynamic color and pattern plays, and a strategy for all the clothes I purchased but had yet to wear. But a stylist was a luxury item, and only necessities were included in my budget.

But then I remembered the age-old mandate for success in Hollywood: IMAGE IS EVERYTHING. This was not a trivial motive, it was a strategic career move! Hell, this appointment might even qualify for a tax write off! And so, I sent an email with glee not guilt, and secured my special offer.

Amy the stylist showed up looking effortlessly rocker chic: a little Marissa Tomei by way of an Italian Mary Louise Parker. She was stick thin with brown eyes and beautiful olive skin. I can't recall her exact outfit, but I know that hot pink socks were paired with leopard booties. She was the perfect amount of intimidating. I mean, I wouldn't hire a fat personal trainer, or a suicidal therapist, so any potential stylist of mine had better pull off the impossible and then some.

We quickly established style icons given my predilections and body type.  After pairing a vintage turquoise silk skirt and yellow flutter sleeve blouse with black patent belt and heels, we decided on “Sophia Loren” with a Dolce and Gabanna vibe. Suddenly I had uniforms – and they were fierce. A grey sleeveless rocker tee tucked in to skinny jeans with boots. A leopard print pencil skirt with a black capped sleeve turtleneck and heels. It was just as I had imagined – empowered by my new wardrobe combinations, I finally felt like a fashionista.

Then Amy had me put on my black jeggings. For those uninitiated, jeggings are a jean as tight as a legging. I wore mine regularly with loose sweaters or long blouses. Amy grabbed a small sheer printed blouse. “Here, put this on and tuck it in with a belt.” A sheer blouse, TUCKED IN TO JEGGINGS?! This felt downright risque to me! AND IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH, she had me put on HIGH HEELED SUEDE BOOTS, SCRUNCHED DOWN BELOW THE KNEE.

“This is a chic going out outfit.” she pronounced with confidence.

“Amy, I CAN'T go out like this! I feel like Olivia Newton John at the end of Grease!”

“Lady, you have an awesome figure, what are you waiting for?”

I am not sharing Amy's compliment to incur your envy, or to imply that I am some sort of Victoria's Secret Model. I admit that I am thin. I also admit that I am on A.D.D. medication, and it has vastly supported my metabolism. So in some ways I am lucky, in other ways my mental clarity is just a pipe dream. Which would you prefer? But until Amy came over, I totally took my body type for granted. And if this stylist was telling me I had a figure to show off, who was I not to take advantage of it?

“Are you going out tonight?” It was a Friday, so I actually had plans to meet friends downtown. “Wear this, and just see what happens.” I felt like I was in costume. As a hooker, actually. But I followed my stylist's orders and headed out to a swanky rooftop bar.

Like a good stylist, Amy checked in the next day: Lisa. Did you end up wearing the jean, boots, etc.? Any feedback? To which I responded: Amy, I MADE OUT with a handsome black banker who followed me from the bar to the art show! He was literally OBSESSED with me, which never ever happens!!!!

This is a true story. Granted I had a few tequila drinks, as did he, but without even trying I managed to reel in this super handsome gentleman who made it his mission to chase me to the art opening. Where we were later admonished by a security guard for our make-out in the gallery storage area.

(Sidebar: I am generally not the kind of girl who likes good looking men. I prefer mutts to purebreds, and have historically been known by my friends as somewhat of a chubby chaser. It's not a fetish, but when you choose personality and character over looks, you generally end up with a few extra pounds. And while my former West Elm bed frame was likely not the highest quality support, it bent and then collapsed beneath the girth of a certain gent. AND I complained and got a store credit.)

And so, I incorporated Amy into my limited budget. Now I can show up anywhere, feeling good on the outside no matter how I feel on the inside. Which only goes to show that beauty really is more than skin deep.

So you want to know what happened with the banker, Scott? Soonafter we met for a proper dinner date. Armed with another great outfit and clear-headed sobriety, I checked out our potential.

“So I know you're from Chicago, but where did you go to school?”

“Harvard.”

Suddenly, this date was getting interesting! Scott went up about 50 points given his prestigious education. But he was younger than me, and it showed. He seemed uptight, defining himself by his new job and posturing as a cool dude. So I prodded a bit more. His mother had passed away recently, and he did not get along with one of his brothers, given the aftermath. Okay, now we were getting somewhere. If I see an opening for emotional subtext, I get excited. And start to dig for gold. As the evening progressed, Scott would make an inappropriately-timed but awesome sexy overture when we were mid-conversation. It seemed clear to me that he was transferring a lot of his emotions into... sexuality. Which I found compelling. I really didn't think he was the guy for me, but he was hot and I was unemployed.

By the end of our next date Scott was being awfully... persistent. But given that I now had a tenant in my guest bedroom (cost cutting measure!), I refused to take him home. I wasn't in college, he wasn't my boyfriend, and I didn't want to have to deal with potential awkwardness, or worse yet, real intimacy. And so I made a proposal: “Why don't we just check in to a nearby motel?”

I live in Echo Park, where on any given night a motel's inhabitants could inspire an episode of THE SHIELD. After a brief argument where I refused to give in to the logic of going over the hill to his place, I directed him to the ironically named Paradise Motel on Sunset. It was a cinematic looking place indeed, with a pink neon sign and single level of rooms facing the sloped parking lot. But don't think that I am entirely reckless; I made Scott go in first and suss things out, while I waited in his locked car. He deemed it fine and like a good date, paid for the room. In cash. They only took cash. See what I mean?

The next morning, as I walked out into the blazing hot sun, hungover with my black sunglasses and night-before outfit on, I felt a little like a character from a Tarantino movie. Or maybe Walter White in BREAKING BAD. Or Lindsay Lohan on any given day at all! And it was fun! Plus, if I wasn't going to dinner parties as half of a power couple, I might as well go full out cheap and tawdry. Because in Hollywood, the only thing worse than a bad image? Having no image at all.

Things with Scott didn't last, mostly because he answered the phone “whassup?” and never really communicated authentically. I offered to put him up for modeling gigs (with the chance for me to make commission) and he thought me a lunatic. But I'll tell you this, he was genuinely disappointed when I ended our tryst. I think, deep down, he wanted to connect, and saw some of that accessible with me. Maybe Scott was tiring of his own image, wanting to put it away like a well-worn parka you can't wait to hang up come Spring. While this is not an easy thing to do, this is where a stylist can compliment the work of your therapist. A new look might just liberate you to retire your old persona. And there's nothing superficial about that.

Stylist Amy Keller can be reached via her site AMY KELLER

This is an unabridged version of an article published by HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL

HOPELESS IS THE NEW FABULOUS!

I'm an independent producer who most recently completed overseeing three seasons of an animated series on HBO. And I am going to tell you a secret: I'm unemployed. Sure, I could just stick to the “independent producer” story, and share my list of packaged projects and what makes me so fantastic, and that would suffice and prove perfectly legitimate. But I'm more of a realist than a dreamer, and unless you're in production on a series or film, if you're an independent producer, you're unemployed.

I could also just tell you the truth, but with a good old fashioned Hollywood spin: HOPELESS IS THE NEW FABULOUS!

You heard it here first. Jealous? I hope so.

The last time I was unemployed was likely around 1995. Generally I'm more “exec” than maverick; I require an infrastructure, health insurance, and ideally a 401K in order to feel like a real live grown up. But in 2008, in the midst of the recession, I found myself laid off from a company I had joined just about a year prior, even after setting up a series for them on HBO. My salary was moved onto the budget of the show, and I became an independent producer. By default.

So, I made the most of it. I incorporated, started pitching projects, hired attorneys, and in 2010 bought a condo. I had been saving to buy, well, my whole life, but once hitting the dreaded “freelance” category I was worried about depleting my savings. My realtor (Laura Stupsker at THE AGENCY - 5 star rec!) made the argument: “Buy now! Prices and rates are down, and getting a loan could only prove more complicated in the future given your freelance status.” That was the impetus I needed to push me into making the decision. I acted in faith, not fear, which had been my usual M.O. The work will come!

And so, come 2012, the show I oversaw for three seasons came to an end. I had been planting seeds for months, pushing projects forward and seeking out new opportunities for more permanent employment. And I had a verbal commitment from a top digital network on one of my projects, for series. I had done my due diligence and would not get caught with my proverbial freelance pants down.

But, I got caught with my pants down.

If I knew then what I know now, I probably wouldn't have purchased that series of acupuncture facials, or taken that trip to Bali prior to my show ending. And while money is always an issue, my ship's looming arrival to NO MAN'S LAND was equally as terrifying. But Bali was my plan to gain clarity and perspective, and a much deserved break. Things would be okay.

I returned from Bali in January a complete and nervous wreck. Two months left on the show, lots of irons in the fire, but absolutely no concrete agenda for the next thing. Uncertainty for me is not just a period of discomfort, it's a DEATH KNELL. Like, the equivalent of terror the characters in the SAW movies experience, just not as dramatically vocalized. Money in the bank and a job around which I can define myself are primal needs for me that could supersede all of Maslow's physiological subset.

Now, place this somewhat relatable predicament within the realm of the entertainment industry. An industry so structured on image that to have none in play (i.e. no job) is tantamount to extinction.

Come March, I was unemployed. And my mental state spiraled ever so downward.

Every day I told myself with clarity and objectivity “people get laid off all the time, you are not special and neither are your circumstances. You have to deal with this just like everybody else.” And while there was forward momentum with my projects, none were poised to go into production anytime soon. And more obstacles showed up. Like dealing with a pending lawsuit from a former friend who had been my tenant. As one friend said to me “you're beating the odds. Just in the wrong direction.”

I honestly felt so profoundly lost, so scared, and so alone that I froze in fear, unable to function.

But, just in case you are reading this and I have a project with you, please know that I remain entirely competent and professional! Besides, if you work in this business, it's almost a given that you're inherently unstable in one way or another. So, don't judge.

I am not a survivor, I am a struggler. I am still struggling. But after months of kicking and screaming, I found some strange and diverse tactics to keep me grounded in the most uncertain of situations. Actually, grounded is likely too strong and positive of a word, I would say the tactics have kept me successfully distracted. I look forward to being grounded at some point in my life.

One of those tactics is Kundalini Yoga. Now I'm a big dabbler in spiritual modalities, and while I am entirely susceptible to the newest and greatest panacea, I am almost irrevocably disappointed by a lack of results. And I am a terrible liar. I always feel like Diana Morales from A CHORUS LINE, the actress whose experience with drama improvisation proves disillusioning, as sung in NOTHING (“They all felt something, but I felt nothing, except the feeling that this bullshit was absurd!”). So I do not recall what drew me to attend, but I was desperate for something to do with my morning other than follow up on email inquiries, project statuses and other potential avenues to rejection. I was also developing a project with a famous singer who swore by it, and I am hardly immune to a celebrity endorsement! So I attended a 9am weekday class, because guess what? That's what you get to do when you're unemployed. And it's imperative that you take advantage of the perks when you can.

The class was absolutely packed. So this is where all the actors/writers/unemployed artists spent their mornings, if not at Intelligensia on Sunset or surfing in Malibu! It was a fascinating and diverse group, and included an incredibly handsome/famous/hilarious/charismatic entertainer. Instant celeb endorsement credibility for me! Or at the very least, entertainment value.

It's not easy to explain what goes on in class, because it looks odd and feels odd and actually is odd. We breathe and move parts of our bodies with precise repetition, seeking to unlock hidden stagnancy, repair and strengthen organs, and balance the brain. We chant, and at the end of class, sing a hippy-dippy kind of song. Our teacher, Tej, infuses us with emphatic positive messaging, but she is my type of teacher, substantial and grounded, funny, and focused. She even urges us to get angry! Get out the fear! Kind of like an Olympics gymnastics coach, but with a much more enlightened endgame. And the best thing about the class? Tej assumes that everyone is seriously working through things, and we all get to work through it together. So instead of feeling like an outcast because your life is falling apart, you feel wonderfully accepted by a large group of people who are facing their own reality, their lack, their fear, and maybe their growth.

What happened to me in those early classes was somewhat unprecedented. As I moved through the exercises, I began to cry. These were not tears of joy, but rather a dramatic release of pent up pain, hot and heavy rolling down my face. Ugly crying. Almost-needing-to-leave-the-room crying. Blowing-my-nose-repeatedly crying. But by the time class was over, I felt fantastic. When you have to face uncertainty on a daily basis, there is nothing better than clearing the deck so you can really get to work.

One day after class, I finally introduced myself to Tej to let her know how much the classes were helping me. And once again, I burst into tears. Tej has of course seen it before and been there before. But she looked at me as I tried to compose myself, and said “I know how you feel and know where you are. When I got divorced I couldn't get out of bed for days.” And then she looked me in the eye, her gaze nothing short of imperative and said, “BUT YOU HAVE TO GET IT TOGETHER”. And I stopped crying. It was not an admonishment, but an instruction, akin to a healthy slap across the face. The first thing that got the crying, whining kid in me to finally behave and take some responsibility.

But don't think this class offers an escape from the likes of the business. Like any good producer, Tej knows her audience. She often shares stories of people in need of support, and while some of them are suffering from illnesses, others are pitching projects. Or suffering creative blocks. Or going to auditions. It's a room full of artists at all different levels, and there is comfort in that and great possibility. And inspiration. Here, the posturing is authentic, and positive.

Since writing this article a few months ago, I have been working what I call my “band-aid” job, for which I am very grateful. Obviously there are fewer opportunities for yoga with Tej, but I picked up some weekend classes and introduced a few friends to the experience (including the HJ founder herself, Jill Cutler!).

And then last week I went into a full-blown panic. I was unexpectedly laid off for two weeks. I felt, as usual, unprepared to deal with the lack of funds and structure to my day. So the first item on my work-less week agenda was to attend Tej's class.

As it turns out, around the same time, I received some emails about Tej's classes unexpectedly moving to a different location. She is relocating and regrouping, with the help of earlier mentioned (and lovely) handsome/charming/hilarious entertainer, and several others in the community. Funnily enough, the classes are currently being held on a studio lot. I attended Wednesday morning, and surprisingly, no security guards asked anyone holding a yoga mat for a walk-on.

Once again, Tej shared just what I needed to hear. “I am getting you strong. We have to be strong, right? Because as you can see, things can change in an instant. And we have to be prepared.”

It's a unique situation when the person you rely on for stability is facing change – but doesn't that make the guidance all the more meaningful? As much as our hardships can prove painful and undesirable, with community and context they might just serve a purpose.

It also reminded me of what my friend Adam Newman said about the business, just the day before, “That's what I love about L.A. There is always hope for success here.”

In other words, things can change in an instant! And while you might just go from hopeless to fabulous, always be prepared for the pendulum to swing back the other way.

This article was originally published in HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL