Thursday, March 17, 2011

My Imaginary Relationship with Ryan Reynolds

Sometimes when I’m just sitting around, doing nothing I find myself wondering what it would be like to date a celebrity. I think we all do this- fantasize what it actually would be like to be with our favorite star. To actually have them be a part of our lives. But I think the difference between me and the casual “dreamer”, if you will, is that I don’t just think about what it would be like to kiss them or have sex with them. No, no. In fact those things never really enter the equation when I think about them. I tend to obsess about all the little intricacies that would be involved in our relationship. For example, let’s take one celebrity I was thinking of today: Ryan Reynolds.

Now, I’m not exactly head over heels for Ryan Reynolds and he doesn’t normally make the top 5 list of celebrities I would sex up. I generally like my guys with a clubfoot or an eye patch. Some physical deformity that says he’s not completely out of my league and also might be a pirate. Even in my wildest dreams my tastes tend to run to the more obscure and somewhat more attainable. And thus, Ryan Reynolds’ perfect features are a real boner killer for me. However, this fact does not stop me from thinking about what it would be like to be in a relationship with him.

We meet when he comes to my office to meet with some producers. (Also, in this imaginary relationship, I work at a production company.) He’s left waiting for way too long and thus is prey to my insipid questions about Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place. He says: “You know, I was in Van Wilder, Waiting, Adventureland…I was Deadpool.”

I ask him about the Halloween episode where “Evil Berg” turns out to be Mimi from The Drew Carey Show.

Eventually, he develops Stockholm Syndrome and asks me out on a date. Only then, is he called into his meeting.

Before the first date I call all a few of my friends to tell them that Ryan Reynolds asked me out on a date. And they in a massive show of support and encouragement all answer: “What?”

To which I of course I reply “I know. Can you believe that People’s Sexiest Man Alive 2010 asked me out on a date?”

My friends: “Nope.”

But he did and now he is contractually obligated to hang out with me for at least three hours on a Thursday night. (Thursday is the new Saturday, made possible by the fact that you can watch all the good Thursday night tv shows online now.) I made him sign a contract when he asked me out that said he had to show up.

Thursday night I rush home from work, poo, shower and shave all the appropriate bits. I go through at least five different outfits until I hit one that actually fits me. Then it’s just a matter of negotiating LA traffic to the decided upon meeting spot: The Olive Garden, a place I suggested in one of our interim phone calls claiming that it would be an “ironic” choice, but really it’s just because I love cheesy pasta and shiny breadsticks. Also, it smells exactly like how I imagine Prince’s Chateau smells like, which is to say: heaven.

I arrive at 8. He arrives at 8:15. I live closer and we agreed that I would get there sooner just to put our name in. There is always a line at The Olive Garden.

He orders whatever’s new, but probably something low fat as I imagine it’s hard to maintain rock hard abs. I order the Fettuccini Alfredo. This is important because it means for the rest of the night I will be clearing my throat because of the mucus that forms after I eat such things and anyone who is going to date me should get used to this. If I won’t give up cheese for my doctor, I’m not giving it up for you. I ask him if it was weird that his ex girlfriend used to fuck Uncle Joey from “Full House.” And here for the second time we hit upon what will be one of the central recurring problems in the relationship of Mr. Reynolds and me: I know way too much about him and he knows nothing about me.

Our second date is at an archery range. I accidentally shoot a small dog which has been left to wander the area by it’s incredibly stupid owner. I am inconsolable. Ryan must hold me to keep me from bursting into hysterics. He is impressed with my sensitivity and the snot trail I leave on his shirt.

We’ve been dating for a few weeks when he invites me over to Sandra Bullock’s house for an “awesome grilling time” (his words, not mine). I harangue her with questions about Practical Magic, Speed, and While You Were Sleeping.

“What was it like kissing the Bill Pullman?” I ask.

She politely drops a heaping pile of potato salad on my plate.

I watch Sandy’s (yeah, I can call her that) child while she and Ryan do dishes. Sandra makes little jokes about the 12 age gap between me and Ryan, that are really just desperate pleading cries that say “Hold me! Love me! Hold me!” Ryan gets pissed off at her catty jokes and we leave.

On the car ride home I ask him what that was all about and if he liked Scarlett Johansson better as a blonde or brunette? He glosses over my questions. There is massive tension in the car. Finally, I address the elephant in the room…err…car.

“Is this because I sold our sex tape to TMZ?”

“We don’t have a sex tape.”

“I pasted our faces over a video of two dogs doing it.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”


“Okey dokey.”

All my worries are allayed. Nothing is wrong.

Years go by. We go antiquing. I wonder if any of the songs that Alanis wrote were about him. He EGOTs. We form a jam band with Gary Busey and Helen Mirren. I make him watch every single episode of American Pickers. We are Hollywood’s “it” couple.

Ultimately, our relationship ends in an argument where he calls me a “star fucker” and I call him “Canadian.”

I try a few times to get him back. I do the boombox over the head thing. I pretend to be pregnant. I hire a hit man to pretend to try and kill him and then I “rescue” him from the hit man. The last attempt works temporarily, until I make the fatal mistake of asking what it was like having floppy hair in a Melissa Joan Hart made for TV movie. And then it’s really over.

I hear he's dating Sandra Bullock now. Who could've seen that one coming?

Some relationships burn with a fiery passion that cannot be contained even within the bounds of a vacuum. Some simmer at a low heat for years on end. And some never even ignite to begin with. My relationship with Ryan was a volcano-hurricane-supernova-microwave dropped into a rollercoaster hot tub and punctuated with bouts of extreme happiness but mostly it involved a lot of settling and reality show watching.

At least in my head anyways.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The Perfect Man

Oh, the things that go through my head before I go to sleep.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Fictional Argument between Orson Welles and Herman J Mankiewicz Regarding “Citizen Kane

Welles: I wrote most of Kane! You’re just being a dick!

Mank: HEY! That hurts my feelings.

Welles: I’m sorry. I guess I was a little out of line.

Mank: It’s okay, I understand. You’re under a lot of pressure.

Welles: No one understands…

Mank: I understand.

Welles: You do?

Mank: Yeah.

Welles: I love you.

Mank: I love you, too.

Welles: I’ll see you at home.

Mank: (whispering) Hurry back. Mi amour. Hurry back.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Fan Letters #2

I found another fan letter that I Dane Cook. (Oh, the shame.)

This one is circa July, 2006, before I had facebook and myspace was still a "thing."

So, I've been one of your million friends (hyperbole, but not by much) on Myspace for awhile now and this is my first time messaging you. I've been watching Tourgasm and stuff, and I saw that you actually check your messages, so I thought that there would be a good chance that you would actually read this. I just wanted to tell you how cool I think what you do is. You're really funny and you have a remarkable ability to find the extrairdinary humor in what others see as mundane. I was watching Tourgasm tonight and it was by far my favorite episode. You said that you never really had any close friends growing up, but that you always had your family and that now you have some close friends. This kind of gave me some hope, because I'm the same way. I don't really have any close friends, but I have my family. This gave me some hope that I may someday be, for lack of a better word, normal,and that all my failed attempts (I mean this shit went so fucking wrong, the only thing you could do was laugh your ass off) at an effective life are building towards something greater. Thank you for being such a BAMF and giving me a little bit of hope. Keep on doing what you're doing. You are doing it right.

SUFI(in the good sense)
-Kim Schwartz

Holy shit. That was some depressing stuff.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Old Fan Letters

I've been looking at old stuff on my computer, trying to get rid of things I can't use as well as trying to see if I can reuse anything. Anyways, I stumbled on a couple fan letters I wrote and sent to Jimmy Fallon back in 2002 when he was still on Saturday Night Live and I was crazy about him. These letters are horrible.

Fan Letter 1:

Dear Jimmy Fallon,

I am a fan of yours and a frequent viewer of Saturday Night Live. I think you are cute, talented and funny (in a good way). You were wonderful in all of your MTV appearances, especially on the MTV 2001 Movie Awards.I think it is great when you occasionally play the guitar and sing during Weekend Update and I love the Sully and Denise sketches. I would really appreciate it if you would send me an autographed picture of yourself.

You can send it to:

(address omitted)

I hope you stay on SNL for many more years and I hope you read this letter.

Your Fan,

Kim Schwartz

P.S. I gotta go to Cumbahland Fahms.

Simply Awful.

I mean, that "Cumbahland Farms" line, I know it was a reference to that Sully and Denise sketch they'd do, but man, it's What was I thinking?

Fan letter 2:


Dear Jimmy,

You are such a hottie-bo-bottie. I saw you on the VMA's last night and you were so funny. Your parodies were wicked creative. I also got " The Bathroom Wall" the other day and I've already listened to it like a million times. It is so funny. My favorite tracks are "Road Rage", "Gotta Get A Fake I.D.", and "Roommates". I like your Beastie Boys take on "I Can't Play Basketball". I love your work on SNL and I can't wait to see you in the next Woody Allen flick. The day of the VMA's Carson Daly actually called himself a Massive Tool, modeled after your impression. I was wondering if you could send an autographed picture of yourself to me. I would very much appreciate it.

I have a few questions for you. Who are you looking forward to being on SNL this season? Who would you like to perform with most? What do you do to keep awake on Tuesday night when you write all of the skits? Were the pies supposed to hit you before you finished the news story about the clown? Did you know that Roberrt Deniro was going to be therefor your "Meet The Parents" review? What's your favorite movie? I hope you have a wonderful year on SNL.


Kim Schwartz

P.S.:Enclosed is my address.

P.P.S.:There's a new anti-Yankees t-shirt that says "Yankees Suck" on the front and "Jeeter Swallows" on the back. Just thought you might want to know that.

What. the fuck.

I'm embarrassed to be me.

I never heard back from him, but I can't really blame him. These are the ramblings of a crazed fangirl, who apparently really wants a signed autograph or she'll die.

Over the past 9 years, my celeb crush on him definitely waned, but that didn't stop me from entering a video to his intern contest in 2009.

I may be certifiable.


I grew up in the northeast United States where the weather in one day can be seventy degrees and sunny, thirty and snowing and finally twenty and raining because it’s too cold to snow. It was also where summer heat and winter cold were equally fatal. One finding themselves in the northeast during summer would think “How could it ever be cold here?” while those encountering it during winter were likely to have a similar, yet opposite reaction. I grew up in a place where a hurricane was no big deal unless you were a fisherman and tornadoes and earthquakes were non-existent. A place that got its share of coyotes and skunks, but never rattlesnakes, black widows or scorpions.

My neighborhood was the right place, neither in the “bad” part of town nor the “rich” part, nor the condominium housing sections whose identical houses were reminiscent of a Stepford community. My neighborhood was a complete mix of houses whether they housed college students on their seasonal sabbatical from the real world or the elderly lifers who had nothing, but reality. There were no kids on my street rather just their grandparents, which came in handy during Halloween, for my sister and I, alone reaped the benefits. The no adults gave out neither pennies, nor toothbrushes nor staplers, but rather full-sized candy bars. Thank you, Jebus.

My house at five Linden, was well over one hundred years old and had the type of floating balloon structure that is considered a fire hazard today. The house, originally servant’s quarters for a larger estate had been transformed into a one family residence, then a two, then back to one. The evidence of this was made apparent in the deadbolts on the doors leading to the upper floor. (It occurs to me now, that had my parents been psychopaths, they could have easily locked me and my sister upstairs and torched the house. Thank god, for small favors…and anti depressants.)

It seemed that my house had been made for lead paint and any other type would shed from the clapboards in a year’s time. Lead paint having gone the way of snuff in the public eye, (stupid kids and they’re paint eatin’ habits) my dad was forced to foot the bill of repainting the house almost every year. That is until we got siding, my house lost most of its charm and became what looks like Barbie’s dream house if she had an affinity for neutral colors. The relatively hazardous structure of my house coupled with the new vinyl siding and the fact that we hadn’t had a fire extinguisher in the house for at least two years made me feel like I was living in a powder keg.

We had changed the carpet at least five times within eighteen years: from blue to beige to mauve each of which, I’m sure, one can still find in closets. From there it was beige burber then back to every ones favorite: mint green. Carpets which were meant to never be stomped down, but had flattened in less than a year after their installation. The old counterweight rope windows could not be opened unless the ropes were greased with wax and even then, the most stubborn ones, the ones that were painted shut, refused to budge. There was the “Crayola”-colored carpet which once presided in my room. The one that could have been seen if I ever bothered to clean up or weed my collection of stuff. The carpet looked horrible and came from Building #19, but it was mine and it was there.

I can’t help but long for those functionless windows and pointless doors with deadbolts that kept no one but a sibling playing “Hide and Seek”, out. The impractical wooden clapboards and the horribly uncomfortable not to mention ugly carpet from “Building #19” that lined my bedroom; I felt strangely proud of these things. The dilapidated back porch that I fell off once and which was great to make a sled run on when it snowed - I miss its peeling paint and crossed beam design. I miss all of these things mainly because they’re gone, not because they held any special meaning, but just because they’re gone and have left nothing but maybe a crack in the wall or a piece of photographic evidence that they were there. When thinking about where I lived and coincidentally, where I still live I can’t help but think about and steal a quote from the last episode of “The Wonder Years”:

“Things never turn out exactly the way you planned. Growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you’re in diapers, the next you’re gone, but the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul. I remember a place, a house like a lot of houses, a yard like a lot of yards, on a street like a lot of other streets. And the thing is, after all these years I still look back in wonder.” (Daniel Stern –“The Wonder Years”)

Now, five years after we moved out of that house, there hasn’t been a night that I don’t dream that I’m right back there. In these dreams I’m always happy to be there. I feel at peace with the world, like nothing bad could happen to me. That I have nothing to worry about because I am there and that’s all that matters. That’s all I’ve ever been trying to get to; back home. Back to where it all started, like if I could go back and live there, I could fix everything. In these dreams that I have, everything is wonderful, but just for a moment, then I realize; Something is off. Something is missing. Usually, it’s that the bulletin board that used to hang in my room has been stripped of its years of clippings or that the backyard is a beach in California or that the upstairs kitchen doesn’t have enough random clutter in it. It doesn’t matter what it is; there’s always some clue that it’s all just a dream and I figure it out. I always figure it out. And in that moment, I hate that I’m so smart, because I just want to be able to stay, but no one can stay home once they figure it out.