The thrift shop had a dollar DVD of Grease I’d snagged with glee. “That sounds good,” I thought. A nostalgic romp through high school with Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta.

Popcorn made, dog treats dished out, I settled in.

The show begins with its Fat Albert-y 1970s cartoon to Barry Gibb’s ‘Grease is the Word.’ Flashes of driving fast toward the beach, as my sister and I sing along to the summer radio, whip by so bright I can smell the waves.

Aw. There’s a baby Travolta and dear Olivia in their summer romance. So sweet.

Then high school starts again and the ‘kids’ are back heading in…

Except this time, I’m older, wiser, and world-weary. First, I notice Rizzo—played by Stockard Channing—is definitely not a teen. She’s young. Beautiful. But, wouldn’t be carded at a bar any longer, and in reality, looks like a first home owner with a mommy van out front.

Okay. Okay. It’s just a movie.

Casting aside, I tell myself, that fun song where the boys dance on a classic car, ‘Greased Lightnin’ will be on soon.

I re-settle and adjust my judgmental saddle upon my high horse.

Then the song I loved and had been anticipating begins.

My innards tighten a bit. Um, did he just say “we’ll be getting lots of tit?”

Was that, “the chicks’ll cream?” Certainly I misheard “she’s a real pussy wagon.” Right?

Pausing the scene I Google the lyrics.

Nope. Heard right. Though, Google assures, newer stage productions have changed the more troublesome lyrics.

Next rude awakening has Travolta’s Danny Zuko dissing Olivia’s Sandy Olsen in the company of his friends. Like the special summer they spent was all a trick—a lure to get her into bed. He brags of his conquest. What a lying Farquaad.

He never apologizes or attempts to explain his rudeness.

Sandy is confused but falls back in line moments later when he asks her to the malt shop, where he hides her from the same friends. An old memory of my own emotionally abusive relationship suddenly stings the back of my neck like an angry hornet.

Not yet cringe worthy enough, after crooning about not being a prude like ‘50s purity ring Sandra Dee, who’s ‘lousing with virginity,’ Rizzo gets pregnant. A teen in high school. A terrifying situation. Her classmates immediately ostracize her and she’s now the class slut for putting out.

Wait. What? Didn’t the film just tell girls being a virgin was uncool?

Wow! A still relevant flipping of a social switch! An infuriating misogynistic mixed message, strung into catchy beats.

My popcorn forgotten, my temper at high mast, I stop the film as Olivia shows up in a skin-tight body suit and hair so dramatically up and out Metallica wants her hairdresser’s number.

All these years later I don’t see a cute happy ending. Can’t enjoy the huge finale dance scene. All I see is that Olivia’s, Sandy, has thrown herself away to keep her man. She’s transformed herself into the woman-type he wanted. To what? Make herself worthy of being wanted?

Puke.

This is not the first time my rose-shaded glasses of childhood had been whacked off and stamped on until they were nothing but a dusty heap of shattered memories.

Years ago, I worked on a DVD extra for 1939’s Gone with the Wind. This meant I had to view it a few times, read the book, and then interview celebs and experts on the movie.

I thought I knew the film because mom had a crush on Clark Gable, who played Rhett Butler, and we watched it annually.

Yeah. No. No I didn’t.

Fifteen minutes in, I now understood Scarlett was a spoiled, unlikeable, manipulative shrew in a hoop skirt. A Real Housewife of the Old South.

That Rhett fellow? A smirking smarmy sociopath straight out of American Horror Story.

And, don’t get me started on the film’s grotesque portrayal of enslaved people as happy and content.

Ugh.

Two very beloved movies. Two very different kinds of cultural baggage. And two reminders that the things we absorb when we’re young don’t always survive a nostalgic looksie later.

I like to think … need to think … people grow. Get educated. Broaden their minds. Recognize injustice. Spot biases we once accepted without question.

Maybe revisiting these social missteps is one way to see how far we’ve come. And how far we still have to go.

Whatever …

I’m gonna go re-watch Dexter to shake off my anger.

What movie or show shook you years later?

Buy me a popcorn?

To anyone reading, maybe you could tap the old ‘‘heart” on here so I feel loved (or at least liked) and know you’ve been here. Or heck, subscribe (it’s free or paid) for more tales from my dayz as an entertainment journalist and MS Warrior.

I lurk on Substack a lot. Reading dozens of essays from one woman’s midlife brilliance of starting a small tour group business (I’m looking at you @WeWanderFrance), to jailhouse essays on the problems of our incarceration system.

Humor, health, life-changes.

Often souls laid open. Writing. Sharing.

I honestly feel like I know some of these writers. We meet for coffee and discuss things; albeit the discussions are in my head and boiled down to a ‘like’ and/or comment.

The other day I stumbled upon @clandestinewriter. It was an essay about how no one writes a five-page report anymore. Like, literally handwrites on the paper any more. Or worse, they rely on AI to whip up that due-in-an-hour paper, err, file, or is it code in the cloud—I dunno. No idea how ‘the kids’ get their work handed in nowadays.

Anyway, I laughed aloud. I remembered and so related to the days of rushing to get the pages of homework written out. Mine is the pre-Internet era; a Gen Xr. You couldn’t just Google your way into an instant summery. There was no Word Doc. We read hand held wood pulp, then handed in sheets of wood pulp. We scratched our thoughts down with pens filled with ink.

And, high school was a busy social time for me. Often, the long days behind a desk got in the way of my real life plans. Luckily, I was already a great bullshitter and loved to write. Waxing poetic with my very mature (haha) opinions on any subject matter requiring that long-form report.

In one report I’d taken ‘The Raven’ apart like a taxidermist. My teacher grinned as wide as the proverbial Cheshire Cat that he’d created such an interested student. My classmates, however, glared at me as annoyed as flies peering over at a screened in brunch.

I’d broken the teenage code. The unspoken, “Give ‘em what’s asked. Not a word more or we’ll all be expected to step up our collective educational game.” Going forward in that class, the semi-effort ramblings would now be expected to be mini teenage manifestos on a writer’s state of mind and the nuances of maniacal geniuses.

Though, busy as I was, many times a borrowed Cliffs Notes on the paper due was the only thing saving me from an F. These booklets summed up the hundreds of pages of a required book in just forty to sixty pages.

Simple time saver. Then, general idea begot, I leapt off from there.

What I didn’t know about these grade-saving shortcuts was that you really needed to read the entire thing or you could miss things. Important things. An analog cheat-sheets’ version of comeuppance awaited the sneaky standard lazier version of teenager I came in.

The funniest tangle I had with my all-too-frequent leaning on these Cliffs Notes for a paper’s fast approaching deadline was for my book review of ‘The Great Gatsby.’

The weekend before had been filled with fake ID partying at the Boston comedy clubs followed by mid-afternoon awakenings. So, when Monday morning’s reality slap (via the dreaded 6:30 a.m. alarm) reminded me I was still very much a teenage high schooler, I was report-less.

Unfazed, an hour before first bell, the Cliffs Notes were skimmed as Pink Floyd’s The Wall blasted in the background. Then, I bent over my bowl of Cap’n Crunch, and whipped up a handwritten four page rant on Fitzgerald’s 1920s, jazz-fueled, flapper-may-care prohibition era (touted) tour de force. Homing in on its over indulgences one could argue mimicked our own cocaine-fueled, hyper yuppie-fied 1980s—and so forth, and therefore, stretching out the word count.

A week later, my teacher beamed as he handed me back my pages of hopeful close-to-topic maelstrom of pretty words. Across it’s first page was a large circled A-! And, in the corner, in a lavish red marker scroll, he’d written, “Great work! But, what about the murder?”

Say what now? I knew nothing of a murder …

Admittedly, I still haven’t read the book and only made it half way through the film with Mr. DiCaprio decades later. But, I did become a professional journalist stitching words into paragraphs and those paragraphs into articles, creating a long, viable career in wordsmithery. No Cliffs Notes needed.

Wanna Buy Me a Coffee?

Next, a frenzy began for just the right fabrics to be found and flown to frantic seamstresses who then whipped up enchanted ensembles taken from a designer’s precise, made-to-measure hand drawings. The resulting couture that wrapped up the stars was not so much about glitz and glamour, but the not-so-subtle shout of “look at me World! I have made it to the big leagues!”

When I received the invitation to cover the red-carpet arrivals of the Screen Actors Guild Awards, I leapt at the opportunity. I didn’t know what to do. But that hadn’t stopped me yet. I needed to hunt down something fancy to wear, figuring if I was all dressed up and wearing an official lanyard of permission, maybe I could sneak into the ceremony to watch. Or, even better, schmooze my way into some star-studded after-party.

Melrose Avenue was the only street I knew of that had fancy clothing shops. Sure, there was the famous Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, but I figured even a window-shopping glance of its pricey boutiques would burn my retinas.

I drove to Melrose and ventured into a long, thin shop with two avant-garde, headless, gown-wearing mannequins in the window. The intimate space had a sparse collection of special-occasion dresses. As I looked through the selection, each tag revealed prices announcing I was in the wrong place with my budget. My spirit crept under the bespoke artisan rug. Who knew an elegant dress was this expensive? My reference point was Marshalls.

As I headed to the exit, a young salesclerk asked me what I needed. “A dress for about one-fifth the cost. Thank you, though.” She smiled. “You may be in luck. Follow me.” We walked into the back room where several stunning gowns hung. “This one is perfect for you!” Like Fate was winking at me, the young lady held up a Grinch-green silk gown. She said, “We’re having a sidewalk sale Saturday. This is a custom job, and the lady hated it.”

My mood sank at her word choices: Saturday, custom. The fancy frock was going to be even more expensive than the front’s teasing fabrics of unaffordable. And it wouldn’t even be sold until the day I needed to be in a press pen. No doubt seeing my loss of color, she added, “Look, I get it. I’m a wannabe actor, as they say. I work here because the hours are flexible for auditions. Come on. At least try it on.”

When I saw myself in the mirror, my eyes welled up. Maybe I could max out the credit card. No. I quickly wiped away the tears. “How’s it look?” she asked, pushing aside the modesty curtain. She squealed, “That looks made for you. Really. You don’t even need alterations.” I changed and handed it back, defeated.

With the gown over her arm and a twinkle in her eye, she said, “Follow me.” At the register, she grabbed a pair of seamstress scissors, snipped off its eight-hundred-dollar tag, and handed it to me. “How’s seventy-five dollars sound?” I beamed. She rang the dress up, adding, “It was supposed to be yours.” I thanked her sincerely, trying to maintain my composure, while silently wishing all her acting dreams would come true.

The day of the Screen Actors Guild Awards, I arrived early at the Shrine Auditorium, feeling like a million bucks in my discounted gown. To my surprise, the area was already beehive busy. Dozens of elongated limos idled bumper-to-bumper in the street, while fierce security buzzed around, organized as hornets, guarding every entrance to the grand old Moorish-style theater.

With no affiliation except the website, they’d placed me at the lowest end of the press line. Still, I was there! I stood behind the rope along the carpet dressed in my custom couture silk 1920s-style gown. Beside me, my colleagues dressed in jeans and T-shirts smirked. They looked at me like a candy striper who showed up to a biker rally: sweet, sparkly, and clearly not from around here. All of us in this section were so close to the entrance, and so far from important. We were positioned where few stars would stop.

Undeterred, I stood and held my trusty Radio Shack microcassette recorder ready to interview at least one of the year’s bigger stars. Less than ten minutes at my post, actor extraordinaire Dame Helen Mirren approached me, and I interviewed her. My micro-recorder held proudly towards her replies. If Helen found me insignificant, it didn’t show. As she was answering one of my questions, she lifted her arm and waved back toward the front section of the line. I followed her gaze and saw Sir Ian McKellen acknowledge her with a nod. He stopped his interview with some brand name venue and practically ran to her.

Helen said, “Ian, look at this beautiful girl’s stunning dress!” To me, she gushed, “Dear, it is a showstopper. It fits you like a silken glove. Absolutely perfect! Is it vintage? Looks straight out of a nineteen-twenties speakeasy for the big players.” Ian bent over and grabbed a corner of my hem. “Marvelous! Really. Done with a real eye for detail. The fabric is edible. Simply gorgeous!” For ten solid minutes those two megastars stood at my side cooing, fussing, and feeling fabric. Both pleading to know where I had found this masterpiece. I told them Masse on Melrose.

Helen stood back, looking over my dress from toe to shoulder. She was an artist studying a Van Gogh. She put her hand to her chin. “That’s certainly not off a rack!” I answered truthfully, “No, it was a custom job they said the lady didn’t want. So I got it at a discount.” Ian added, “Well, her loss, dear. The piece is remarkable. Its delicate craftsmanship shows.”

Eventually, as all moments of wonder must end, the dynamic duo continued inside. While still in earshot, I heard them chirping about how nice it was to see pomp put on by the press. If only by me. I floated out of my body on happiness.

My colleagues weren’t smirking any longer.

Our first meeting was during my coverage of The United States of Leland. Ryan was its lead. The film’s interviews were held at a Beverly Hills boutique hotel, and by then, I knew the production studio almost always fed us prior to the chats. And at this point, the free food had become a big part of how I survived meal-wise.

After the interviews, I lingered by ducking into the bathroom, waiting until I heard an empty-room silence. This was a ploy I used to explain why I was still there, should anyone see me. After a few minutes of hearing no one, with the stealth of the Pink Panther, I re-entered the food room. Bountiful platters of gourmet grub lay abandoned on the long buffet table.

To my delight, there was a great deal of perfectly prepared roast beef left behind. Passing over the picked-through breads and salad debris, I headed straight to the messy mound of meat. My two dogs would love it. Improvising my own to-go bags, I grabbed two white linen napkins off the utensil board and wrapped up a couple of obesely stuffed beefy bundles.

Goodies stowed away in my purse, I paused and listened at the door. The hotel floor had the humming electric buzz of emptiness, so I headed to the elevator.

Turning the corner, I saw up-and-coming actor Ryan Gosling, director Matthew Ryan Hoge, and actor-producer Kevin Spacey waiting for the elevator. I stopped short, gauging the probability of a casual turnaround, but Spacey waved a hello. Trapped by my location, I realized how often my life in Hollywood felt like this: precarious and absurd. Forcing myself forward, I swallowed my anxiety. They had no way of knowing why I was still there. I joined the trio.

Spacey gestured to the director, Hoge, and said, “This is Emily, a film reviewer very into independent films. She’s always got a great take.” Turning his attention back to me, he said, “Give him your card! I’m sure he’d love to read what you have to say.” I stared back mute, willing a group of tourists to notice us and start hurling praise toward the obvious Hollywood pack. Something (anything) to keep me from having to acknowledge the request and reach in and under the purloined roast beef slabs for my card holder.

No one came, and my immobility became awkward. In the drawn-out silence, their faces drooped. Eyes shot back and forth between them. Tension grew thick with a crowding of ghostly thought bubbles blooming above the trio. Silently the unspoken anxieties said, “Is she going to write a bad review? Why else is she avoiding handing over a card?”

With no other choice, as nonchalantly as I could, I reached into my large handbag and extracted the two overstuffed dinner napkin parcels that now resembled a pair of bulging, bloody Rorschach tests. I looked around for a side table or trash can as we all took in the carnage in my hands. There was nothing. Having no other option, I handed over the soaked bundles to Spacey, standing right beside me.

I blurted, “They’re for my dogs.” The only sound was the audible pulling and cranking of the world’s slowest elevator. No one commented. And I knew why. Hollywood’s big idiosyncrasy was now working to my benefit. In this town, no one acknowledges these kinds of heavy, eccentric moments. There’s no laughing, no questioning. In the right company, even with bundles of gore on display, everyone just goes with the flow.

Ryan, still more of a newly minted actor, stared at me in curiosity. Silent, but absorbing—perhaps even enjoying the bizarre moment—wondering how it would play out. He was cute enough. But young, in his early twenties maybe? He was dressed casually in jeans and an old tee. His light-brown hair fell into his eyes in a teenage curl. And during the interview, Ryan had come across as shy and seemingly unaccustomed to (and still unspoiled by), L.A.’s crazy ways.

He looked me over and broke into a smile that would soon be his signature grin. I smiled back and lowered my eyes, ashamed. Overall, Ryan seemed comfortable, like it was possible that prior to this role, he had struggled financially and was all too familiar with the joy of finding a good meal. Hoge stood as frozen as a possum fearing it had just become prey. His lips a line where a smile should be. Spacey beamed as if the entire scene were the most natural thing in the world. Oblivious to the micro-tensions playing out all around him, he reached out and held the gory bundles. The situation was defused.

Now accessible, I pulled out and opened a fancy card case, handing the director one of my logo-embossed website cards. He accepted it without movement in his face, glanced down, turned it all around with a theatrical enthusiasm, and shoved it in his suit pocket. Then, as if we four were on a set, and someone had called “Action!” the elevator doors (finally) slid open. I took the bundles back and dropped them into my oversized bag. Rushing my goodbyes, I excused myself to go back to the restroom. There was no way I could stand in the elevator with them after those five minutes of suspended embarrassment.

Less than a week later, after a private film screening in an enormous Sunset Boulevard office building, I met Ryan again. After viewing the film, I stopped to talk with the projectionist and got left behind by the other viewers. Upon leaving the small studio that opened onto a large lobby, I found the area deserted. Directionless, I attempted to retrace my steps.

The building was huge, new to me, and oddly laid out. Disoriented, I was unaware the place had two sets of elevators on opposite sides of the curvy lobby: one set only went down to the parking level, and the other went only to the upper floors. I boarded the lift on the side nearest to me, which only went up. Stepping in, as I noticed how small the elevator seemed, the doors closed and ascended. Looking at the buttoned panel, I realized I’d gone the wrong way. Trapped, I’d ride up, then down, then out across to the other set of elevators.

At the next floor, a young man hopped in. The doors closed, and we descended back to the lobby. The two of us were snug together in this tiny elevator. My mood lifted when I glanced over. To my surprise, there was the actor from last week’s film. Ryan something. Gosling? Having interviewed him and of course having shared the moments of my mortifying (yet hopefully humorous) stolen food situation, I lit up. “Oh, it’s you! Hi.”

Ryan made no reply to my salutation and stood marble-still, his eyes glued forward, focused on the sealed-shut doors. It was clear the kid did not recognize me from the Leland press event. But instead of the fake Hollywood schmoozing, pretending he did until it came to him, Ryan appeared to retreat inward. I was facing him, and before I could explain who I was, and remind him we shared a memory, the elevator doors opened, and Ryan darted out and away.

I almost yelled after him, “Are you kidding? I handed over two thick bundles of blood-spattered napkins with you standing there the other day! You don’t remember me?” Sensing his discomfort, I stopped and pretended to read the lobby directory for a few moments so we wouldn’t meet again at the other set of elevators. He was an actor, and I didn’t need him to think I was one of those pushy press sorts. Anything but that.

For twenty-plus years, since that quick second meeting, I assumed that those strange moments were because Ryan’s mind had been elsewhere. I thought maybe he’d just had an important meeting with a big agent, and bigger things had occupied his thoughts. He had no time to stop and talk to some press lady. Or perhaps he was so deep in thought he didn’t even realize I’d spoken. He was busy daydreaming of a future when he’d be able to sign the line on a seven-figure contract.

It wasn’t until I wrote about this experience that I had an epiphany.

Maybe those roast beef bundles had looked more like a warning than a snatched snack. Perhaps Ryan very much remembered me, and his blood ran cold at my sudden reappearance in that tiny, lonely elevator. From his point of view, he was an almost-famous actor trapped in a confined space with this same, possibly deranged woman who kept bloody parcels in her creepy oversized handbag. The shock of seeing me again, in yet another unlikely situation, probably led him to consider me to be a certifiable stalker.

As with Blondie drummer Clem Burke, with whom I’d had my first new-to-Hollywood lesson in celebrity versus civilian found too often in the same locations (story for another time), I now think I understand Ryan’s reaction that evening. Of course, with either guy, that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Hollywood was always a mind game. One minute you’re the hero smuggling roast beef for the dogs, the next you’re the villain in Ryan Gosling’s psychological thriller.

Subscribe now

Dear Paid Subscribers. Last month, besides warming my spirit with your abundant generosity, your monies went to food for myself and the dog. Thank you.

To anyone reading, maybe you could tap the ‘heart’ on here so I feel loved (or at least liked) and know you’ve been here. Or heck, subscribe (it’s free or paid) for more tales from my dayz as an entertainment journalist and MS Warrior.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

Well, nowadays, AI takes a writer’s style and spits it out for school kids. Reworks bad stories into plausible pieces. Joining the billionaire’s liar club is Substack. There’s some AI ‘thing’ happening here now too.

Lately, I feel like I’m in a Venus Fly Trap plant. I have stress from every corner of life pressing in … now here? Will it allow AI to steal my style? Give a content creator fodder for their faux efforts?

Or will AI accuse me of a generated story because of a — ← this being the new scarlet letter (or en dash) of the AI content creator I’m told.

Newsflash! The en dash has been used for decades — especially in comedy writing/essays with less-than-subtle points to make.

AI hoodwinked me by sounding human in an email, advising the wrong ‘fix’ to a VPN issue I had with KDP. Are you sitting down? The closing of the account, as instructed, ended up meaning I am not able to publish on Amazon — really. One account, per lifetime. No human support if you make an AI directed mistake. You’re done.

So, I hate, loath, and double despise AI.

This feels like back when I wrote as Emily Blunt. A pair of creeps (in 2003) stole my reviews and posted them as their own. They literally copied and pasted and threw their names on them on their website! I know this because I’d linked Al Pacino’s name to an earlier review in one of the reviews they stole, and it went (naturally) to my live page! My attorney friend sent a cease and desist after they emailed me a high-flame gaslit, ‘What are you talking about? Those are by us!’ reply to my heated request for removal of all the theft.

Am I overrating now? ‘Cause it very much feels like the kid at the next desk is looking over at my test paper, and will use my A+ to move onto an Ivy League school — and invite his whole team. Sell my schtick.

Think I’m being a tad paranoid?

Here’s my conversation with Alexa minutes ago:

“Alexa is AI stealing my writing?”

“No Erika. Your writing is safe.”

“Alexa, you’re AI so why should I believe you?

“You’re right. While I answer your questions and assist in requests, your online writing is being pulled into data streams by AI without consent or compensation, and this has many writers upset.”

She didn’t sugar coat it. She didn’t deny it.

Try it. Ask her. Then when she replies with a tale of what you want to hear, question her.

Oops. She cracks immediately: the programmers didn’t build the Trojan Horses of oak. These ponies are more straw — for now.

Uggghhhhhh.

I may be done. I mean posting my writing here. If you’re a paid subscriber? Don’t worry. When I close, your card’s no longer charged.

My next story about Ryan Gosling was/is scheduled for August 4th. But for what? To teach AI my slant?

My memoir, Not That Emily Blunt: Secrets, Celebrities, and MS, is just vanity published and available. Many of you have got it. The Gosling story is in there. If you want a copy it’s $20 postage included (takes like 14 business days). Just message me. I can take PayPal or a gift card on Amazon or Walmart; they hold wishlists for sanctuaries I support.

Or maybe HAL using my sense of humor decades after I’m gone is a modern kind of legacy?

Becoming disabled is hard - in all the ways. A few years ago, 2020, when everyone was Zooming, I met a Canadian support group.

A guest mental health counselor suggested we all be kinder to ourselves.

Write an email to ourselves.

Remind ourselves we still matter.

And why.

A pep talk to our souls.

The group is gone now …

But, I was cleaning old emails and found this wonderful old ‘note to myself’ assignment.

I forgot all about it.

We should all send ourselves one of these.

Maybe a few.

Then forget about it.

Or them.

Maybe you too, will re-discover it one ‘bad day’ when your spirit needed a nudge.

Here’s what I opened.

A nudge of kindness to myself:

So, just a note, as suggested, to remind you, you're pretty fuckin' cool. Even now. Remember all you've done. People may not know, or care, but, that does not make it any less important. The dogs saved, animals helped, kids who had their experiences broadened by a 'whacky' auntie, friends who know you are there (yes, even now), your determination. Sure, everything is hard now, but, you show up! You are your word...what people say is their opinion - it does not make it true. Look at those who actually know you...and love you. Your chosen family. Fuck the real one. If they did not share blood would you even care? No. So, don’t let them bother you. (name deleted for privacy) will leave you enough for a newer van. This one will be fine until then HAVE FAITH. Your karma is strong like steel. Love ya kid.

Now …

Homework For Everyone!

Don’t worry, it’s the good kind.

Write yourself an email.

Or journal it.

Or text yourself.

Just be sure it’s the kind of uplifting note you’d send to a great friend in a slump.

What would you want them to know about themselves?

Read it.

Read it again the next day.

Then, leave it.

Maybe someday you’ll see it again.

Or forward it on a schedule to arrive as far out as it can.

Trust me. It’s a nice hug from someone who really is ‘on your side.’

Even if it doesn’t always seem it.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

1. I have been in love with music since I’ve been able to hear. Beatles in surround sound by my crib. Later, anything British or popular. Then, 1500 albums in, diversified taste. As a teen, I toured briefly with The Clash. In 1994, I finagled my way front row at The Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge stop in Miami.

2. Films were next, at 4 years old I began watching old gangster films at The Exeter Boston on my dad’s weekends. My favorite films? Impossible. I rewatch Nights of Cabiria, Murder by Death, and Harold and Maude though. So…

3. My book preferences are memoir and crime. The two genres, not true crime. People fascinate me, and a good twisty mystery/crime novel can leave me in awe. These days, Audible gives me a bedtime story every night.

4. I grew up in the Boston area. I was immersed in Disco, Punk rock, and all the glorious 1970s-1980s stereotypes. I’ve worked hard on making my ‘Rs’ pronounced. Tired of being asked to say, “pahk da cah in hahvard yahd.”

5. I’ve written under the pen name Emily Blunt since 1990; for Elle, Mojo and others. Mostly celebrity covers. When the actress got famous, I’d say, “Not that Emily Blunt.”

6. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2004 after an extreme case of optic neuritis. The symptom burst forward after watching The Aviator in a sub-zero theater. My vision, in one eye, was flipped upside down.

7. I’ve won a game show, played a murder victim on a low-budget crime series, and worked on Warner Bros. DVD extras interviewing celebrities about films.

8. My progression now has me in a power wheelchair. I’ve adapted, but it is isolating. Zoom keeps me in community, and nature keeps me sane.

9. I have an Australian Shepard. She’s my first rescue without trauma. She was very loved since puppydom. Piper. She’s wonderfully dramatic and has a great sense of humor.

10. I decided to write my memoir because truth is stranger than fiction…but, I screwed up with Amazon’s ID verification (combo of having on a thing called a vpn on & MS cogfog), and listened when their bot insisted I had to close the account. When I did, it was ‘Sorry, one account ever. You can not publish with us.” I had 2 mths of being thrown around. Finally I just gave up for mental health. If you want a copy, I can print via ‘vanity’ and ship $20 total; message me.

Okay. What’s something about you? Why do you … or what about that time …

Comment below.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

I thought, what was that all about? My pants legs were soaked, the smell of beer pungent. With a stack of napkins, I wiped the hoppy wetness from my ruined sneakers and patted the front of my jeans.

My older sister had taken me to this hot spot, Santarpio’s Pizza, and, that day, someone had bought me—her twelve-year-old tagalong—a beer. She came over and adjusted my shirt. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just getting to be all high and mighty and better than baked beans. Know what I mean?” I didn’t.

That afternoon in 1977, everyone at her gathering of The Beautiful People had been fussing over Steven Tyler. His group, Aerosmith, were local gods. Yet seconds after Tyler’s dramatic exit, he was forgotten. The polyester-clad, gold-chained group regained their nonchalance. Shifting back into poses, draped across the eatery’s red pleather-backed chairs, their glances drifted outward again. Hunting for their next infatuation.

At the time, I thought the flamboyant, angry man was a fun-ruining dink. The reality? Steven Tyler was the nicest adult there. This “Boston Bad Boy,” offstage, was a responsible guy who thought giving a kid booze was uncool. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll? Sure, provided you’re the age of consent. But at twelve, I wasn’t interested in nuance. I just knew my dazzling sister’s world had rules no one explained.

After this “Tyler Incident,” I started to notice how adults, especially the flashier ones, could fool you with surface shine. And no one embodied that more than my sister. She was mercurial as a rainbow: glittering, unpredictable, and gone before you could prove she’d even been there. My sister is about twelve years older than me, and was my cool, in-the-know best friend with a sporty car and cool places to go.

Ya wanna buy me a beer?

When I was in elementary school, she’d come get me out to play in her world. Slinking into the school office, flipping her frosted, ironed hair, she’d begin her spiel of the day: “Erika has a, um, a doctor’s appointment at one. I’m supposed to fetch her. My mom said … I hope my mom called. She didn’t? I’ll tell her to ring again when we get back … from the doctor’s.” At my classroom door, my sister would give me the coded wink as she stood beside the pursed-lipped secretary. “Come on Erika! We’re late!” Gathering my things, trying to straighten my smile, I’d move with practiced disinterest toward the exit.

These little adventures with my sister were unpredictable, but always about being seen in the right place at the right time. There was no such thing as social media dictating the day’s obsession. Yet she and all her twenty-something friends had these weird waves of frenzy—popular spots where the in-folk flocked. It was some form of mass telepathy. I reacted to it all with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever looking for someone to play ball.

A place called Frank Giuffrida’s Hilltop Steak House was high on our list of simply-must-do. Whenever we entered, a rich scent of grilled meat hung in the air like a beef chandelier. The restaurant was like being immersed in the film Blazing Saddles. It had enormous saloon-themed dining areas with villains scowling out from their “Wanted” posters from wide, knotty plank wood walls. We’d sit on brutal wooden benches shoulder to shoulder with half the population of Massachusetts, waiting for over an hour to be seated. Every few minutes, even though we knew it was coming, as loudspeakers blasted, “Franklin, party of four, please make your way to Oklahoma City for dining,” a line of us would spring up as if simultaneously stuck in the buttocks with a pin.

(continued in memoir out August 2026)

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

There was a morning press conference and having heard through the grapevine that all those extra journalists had been flown in, I arrived early. I wanted to be sure to get a good seat in the big hall. My experience so far showed me that, overall, press are pushy people. A part of their game I wasn’t so great at.

After another ID check, a media lanyard, and the five-pound film notes were in hand, I finally looked around the noisy check-in suite. A cacophony of clinking dishes and scraping silverware accented the hushed mumbles of the teeming space. Reporters filled every corner, practically sitting on top of each other. Grabbing a sticky bun and avoiding eye contact, I scurried away to the hotel’s special-event room.

The gigantic conference hall was empty except for five hundred cushioned chairs sitting in wait. Dust motes hung unimpressed by the enormous guards positioned at every entrance. A sense of creepiness hugged me as the rug’s recent shampoo of chemical flowers wafted up and stung my nose. Nodding at the door guards, waving my credentials, I headed in and forward. I jumped into a front-row seat on the right hand edge of a small stage with a long table set up for the film’s talent.

Within minutes of my arrival, the hall filled with a nervous hive hum as the swarm of press shuffled in, filling seats. The air turned humid with the stench of eggy morning breath. Moments later, a side door opened and the room fell into anticipatory silence, but for an occasional seat shift or stifled cough.

Four more unfriendly guards stepped in and spread across the front of the stage. Facing us, they folded their arms, scanned the rows, and dared sudden movement.

Following them came Johnny Depp, Keira Knightley, and Orlando Bloom. They were talking low amongst themselves, smiling, sharing soft giggles, like children back from a day at the park. The stars settled, adjusting the dedicated microphones placed before them. A studio rep stood up to remind everyone about the rules of engagement: no personal questions, and only one question for each journalist who received the microphone.

This gathering, while much larger than usual, was not my first rodeo. I had quickly discovered that studios were extra paranoid about unwanted personal questions being snuck in at press conferences. Only those who met the criteria of being “known and trusted” would get the opportunity to ask an unmonitored question. There were too many of us for them to control. This favoritism-based choice would be their only hope.

The interviews began, and not two minutes in, my theory proved correct. A studio agent who knew me handed me the microphone to ask my one allotted question. I was ready. But my inquiry’s origin story began long ago, in a town far, far away.... As a kid, my crushes jumped from celebrity to celebrity like a jittery flea. Yet only two were the “Big Ones.” The ones I fully intended to marry when I grew up: Andy Gibb and Keith Richards. Not simultaneously, I wasn’t delusional.

One day, my undying devotion to angel-faced Andy Gibb evaporated. His posters got the boot. My maturing heart spotted Keith strum-stumble through a video for “It’s Only Rock and Roll.” Shaggy hair. Mischievous grin. Those soulful brown eyes. I was a goner.

The point of my nostalgic digression is that when I saw Depp’s portrayal of Captain Jack Sparrow, I immediately felt he was channeling Keith, whether Depp knew it or not. Sparrow had the marvelous devil-may-care swagger and casual bedazzling look of a 1970s Moroccan-scarf-wearing Keith that this gal recognized instantly.

Taking the mic, I stood on reluctant legs. My heartbeat pounded in my throat so hard I could barely speak. To Johnny Depp, I said, “Can you tell me if musician Keith Richards influenced the mannerisms or development of creating the character of Captain Jack Sparrow?” A thousand eyes ran towards me like little sandpipers. Their stares slapped me (and I’m paraphrasing the glares here): “Keith who? Oh, that old rocker guy? Ha! Stupid girl, Jack Sparrow has no guitar.” The room held its breath in hungry anticipation of my humiliation. Eyes swung toward Depp, ready to absorb the nectar of his scoff at my ridiculous inquiry.

But Johnny lit up. He leaned forward toward me, “Yes! I thought of Keith because I was trying to figure out what pirates might have been like. Their lifestyles, back in the eighteenth century. And I thought, oh man, they were the rock-and-roll stars of the era. On the road to some degree, freedom, adventure, women, outlaw behavior, all that stuff … and you think, who’s the greatest rock-and-roll star of all time? There are so many options, but to me it’s Keith Richards hands down.”

For the briefest of moments, I had the stone-faced studio public relations agents tickled into legit smiles that their superstar was enjoying himself. Even Keira and Orlando grinned at me with approval. The rest of the conference is a blur.

WATCH MY PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN RED CARPET COVERAGE: YOUTUBE

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

Things were getting worse. But, after having adjusted my give-a-shit-ness of what others thought with the cane, I boldly rollated forth. For me, it was walk safely or don’t walk.

To my chagrin, several of the interviews took place in two separate suburban Gone with the Wind museums. They were old places and nearly impossible to navigate as a disabled person. Taking in the steep stairs, looking as impassable as scaling a mountain cliff, I wanted to quit. But when I spoke up, the understanding staff shifted furniture, unlocked side doors, and got me through.

What collections they had! Giant premiere posters, hundreds of authentic items used in the movie, and dioramas of the film’s characters in costumes worn on camera. We filmed for hours. I drank coffee to keep my fatigue at bay.

Celebrity-wise, I interviewed Senator Max Cleland and media mogul Ted Turner.

Max was a delight. His apartment walls, adorned with countless fancy framed photos of himself alongside distinguished dignitaries, celebrities, and military generals sparkled like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. And he certainly didn’t let a little thing like having been blown up by a grenade when serving in combat, and losing a few limbs to the explosion, stop him—no siree. This Max fellow went on to spend his life in America’s service, and he was a joyful, nice man.

Max was also quite in-the-know regarding the minutiae of Gone with the Wind. As we set up lights, took room sound, and settled in, Max said, “It’s one of my all-time favorites. I may know every line in the film by heart!”

Then he quoted a few parts (playing all the roles) as if upon a stage. His joy was infectious.

I thought I’d seen every version of toughness a man could display. But then came Ted Turner. This guy was a whole new species: a titan of media, a mercurial mind, and allergic to small talk.

To get to Turner’s metropolis-based lair, I had to navigate through the Tenth Circle of Hell. This is a secret level that Dante fellow neglected to warn anyone about.

And this ring of torment came rushing at me as a hyper-aggressive six-lane, suggested minimum speed of ninety-five miles per hour, tangle of highway.

Compounding my immediate dislike for this Nuevo Gotham locals simply called “downtown Atlanta,” was my lack of more than half an hour of slumber the night before.

The hotel had its only accessible bathroom suite designed so inappropriately that the bed’s headboard literally rested up against the elevator’s loud-as-a-freight train thirteen-floor shaft. Every bang-bosh scrape thumped through my pillow from dusk till dawn.

The night’s noise bath, mixed with the aforementioned jaunt through vehicular hell, meant that by the time I’d captured the elusive parking space near Turner’s monolith, my MS had begun a terribly timed tantrum.

The crew set up while I ran to the bathroom at least four times. My bladder felt an urgent need, and I was terrified I’d wet myself during the shoot. The “bladder issues” experience was on page one, paragraph two, of every pamphlet warning the newly diagnosed. And it chose that day to make its debut into my life!

Turner moseyed in. The man was handsome, with charming, twinkling eyes. A wealthy-from-Montana rancher type of fellow. Casual yet with an undercurrent of “enough of that dang quibbling, let’s get down to business.”

To me, he exuded the aura of a man who rides horses but has someone else saddle them. I saw Ted as a steadfast cohort. That one phone call you made to bail you out at four in the morning. Still, the slight shadow in his eye seemed to warn, should you cross him, you and your descendants would go into his bad book.

As he sat down, we said our hellos wedged in a small conference room crammed with shoot equipment. When I tried to explain the question format to Turner, my explanation was unclear at best, and worse, to Turner it seemed rude.

I thought I’d been clear, informative, and nice, explaining the questions needed to be answered as a statement. None of the inclusion style you see on television. Those answers you hear that start with “well, as you know…” or “like you said…”. I added, “pretend I’m not even here.”

It’s an awkward way of conversing, but it’s how documentary sound bites need to be.

The result was not my best interview; Ted was tight-lipped. It was like extracting molars to get a sentence out of him. I’d say, “Can you talk to me about purchasing the legendary film?” Blank face. “I liked it.” Full stop.

I asked, “Can you talk to me about Scarlett? How she was quite a woman of her times?” Ted drawled, “She was a pip.” I rolled my eyes inwardly at his replies delivered with disinterest, as its Best Film of 1939 Oscar sat gleaming on a shelf behind him. It was a pricey, purloined nugget of his affection for the film. His personal “my precious.” Yet I was getting clipped, bored replies.

Later, while the crew and I ate thirty-five-dollar bison burgers at Ted’s Montana Grille in the building’s lower level, one of the crew explained that Turner’s shortness was my own doing. Through a mouthful of expensive meat, he said, “I knew what you were trying to say. But yeah, it sounded a bit sharp.” Blurry brained with exhaustion, I’m sure he was right.

There had been no prospect of a rescheduling, so I pretended to be fine. Truth was, I’d felt like I was dragging along my carcass in a broken-wheeled barrel.

Ironically, at the end of the interview, after we had torn down all the equipment, I had retrieved my rollator from out of sight in a corner. “I have MS.” Just an offhand comment, a way to excuse the rollator’s sudden appearance.

Turner froze for a beat, then the hardness drained. For the first time all day, I saw not the mogul or the horse-ranch billionaire, but just another man who knew what frailty looked like. His entire demeanor changed. I wondered if I’d shared my situation sooner, would the interview have gone differently?

Driving home, sitting in my car at a rest stop that same night, I shut my eyes and rested my head on the steering wheel in defeat. The struggles of the weekend leached into my marrow until I finally crumbled. I could no longer shoot interviews.

That quick, that was it. The gallivanting was done. My heart hung heavy as an anvil.

My whole life was getting harder, and it was time to stop denying it. I needed to make peace with my small-town newspaper gig. Let that be enough. Max’s joy, Ted’s bluntness, each had their own way of surviving. Mine just happened to come with mandatory adaptations now.

Still, there was life to be found in the smaller things I could still do. Cue Elton, baby: I was still standing. A little crooked or a bit wobbly, and some days there were wheels involved, but I was still (mostly) standing.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

It felt wrong. Smarmy. Big Rockstar’s Little Brother (BRLB*) was his own person.

Shoot ahead a few months … BRLB was touring with the Big Rockstar. He emailed and told me he was doing a solo gig at L.A.’s famous little joint, The Mint. Would I like a couple of guest passes left at the door. Sure would. Thanks!

By then, my review work, under my nom de plume Emily Blunt, was being read but still didn’t really pay. Anything extracurricular had to be weighed against buying dog food. A gal has priorities.

And this was when L.A. was still new to me. It was a huge city, with parts—like any big city—that were a tad, um, not for the faint of heart, or unarmed. Naturally, at the time, the club was located right smack dab in one of these “Enter at your own risk,” spots on a map. Like some Indiana Jones’ Temple, in a zip code of pure predicted doom.

Dreading going alone I invited a struggling comedian acquaintance to come along. Safety in numbers. And, of course, she too loved the guest pass idea.

Nighttime fell like a hooded villain brooding in a dark corner. And true to reviews, the neighborhood felt like we had exited into the West Coast version of After Hours. Minus the art film lighting, but plus the very real possibility of a carjacking. I was about to suggest we turn back when The Mint’s neon sign beckoned from between boarded-up storefronts. Our oasis.

Just inside the original 1937 iron door, I told a young lady I was on the guest list. She chewed her gum, fussed with papers on a clipboard. Then, without uttering a word, she stood and walked away.

A few minutes later, returning holding what looked very much like the same clipboard, running her pen down a bit she drew a line through my name. “Go ahead.”

The club was cozy—dressing rooms at TJ Maxx cozy. Its deep worn oak bar, with its beveled old-fashioned mirror, was short but plentiful. A smaller gathering sat drinking. Conversations murmured along. Sudden laughter punctuated enjoyment like the morse code of any bar. We chose a corner booth by the side of a petite stage. My friend left and went up to the bar. I thought she was getting us drinks. Instead, she took a seat, struck up a conversation with the bartender, and stayed.

BRLB jumped on the stagelette to play.

Subscribe now

During the first set break, I went up to BRLB and introduced myself. He stared a moment. Unknowing. Then he asked me to step aside. They were spreading out tee shirts for sale. After three rows were set up, I tried once more to introduce myself. His overzealous merch slinging friend grinned and held up a bright yellow shirt. “Oy, this’ll fit you. Jus’ thurtee bucks!”

$30? For some random bright yellow tee? No name. No tour info. Nothing even eBay-able. A big fake smile planted on my face, I replied, “I have to say no. But thanks.” The swag hawker’s face fell. “Then move aside, eh?” BRLB smiled at him.

Stung, and annoyed, that I had this non-confrontational spine, I scurried back to our booth. My friend whined, “Can we go yet? The music’s okay, but.” Knowing this was my week’s outing without major costs, I said, “We drove all the way down here. Can we stay a little longer?”

With an exaggerated sigh, she agreed. To ease the tension tightening between us, I went and charged a cocktail for her. A fresh drink before her, she tapped her fingertips and looked around for someone else to talk to.

Off I popped to have a puff.

Smoking wasn’t a regular habit of mine. But in Los Angeles, the smoking area was basically a curbside office for the entertainment industry. If you stand there long enough, you’ll eventually meet a screenwriter, an indie director, an actor, or someone who once almost worked for David Lynch.

BRLB burst out of the club, slamming the club’s door so hard a snapping sound cried out from its hinges. Spotting me, he began finger pointing. Shouting. “What the fuck? You just leave your friend in there alone? What kind of asshole are you?” Turning to go in, he stopped, whipped back to me and finished the verbalized venom. “Get back in there!”

Stunned into obedience, I am ashamed to say, I followed like a scolded third grader. What was this personality trait I had that allowed men to talk to me like this? Why hadn’t I told him to fuck-a-doodle-do all the way right off?

Rushing over to our table, the friend was sitting in the booth, a half empty drink in front of her. Quite safe. I caught my breath. Told her I’d just been yelled at for leaving her in unknown peril. With all the innocence of a lamb, lifting her eyes to meet mine, she said, “I have no idea why he went and got you. I told him I’d be fine, all alone.”

Buy me a cup of coffee?

Naturally, the next set started immediately.

Our booth was sitting too close to the stage. We were trapped like kids in a very different house of blues. Any attempt at departure would have interrupted this eruptive man-on-a-stool now strumming his acoustic guitar like a security blankie.

My face burned hot while my ears vetoed the music.

As soon as I saw BRLB’s guitar being raised above his head hinting at the completion of play, I leapt up. Outside, as I reached inside my purse for keys, BRLB launched out of the club. Again, there was his smacking of the poor ancient door into the wall. Then, without so much as a hate-you-all glance thrown towards the six of us loitering, he stood at the curb. Eyes averted. Shifting sporadically. An insane meercat.

Down away, out of the dinge, a ridiculously elongated limo turned the corner. It slowed to a stop. A back door opened from the inside. BRLB jumped in and slammed the door. The limo drove off in a huff. If accelerating away down an empty street, with six disinterested souls as witnesses, counts as a huff.

Later, as I lay in my bed, I felt disappointed by BRLB’s behavior. But more disappointed with myself. My allowing his tantrum without response. I was delivering a response now. Flawlessly. To the dogs and ceiling. First, a slicing retort about how, sadly, not every family member could be guaranteed the talent gene. Shuffling. Another response bubbled up. This one I felt sure Oscar Wilde would approve of. It was something about flamboyant cads and flattened chords being hoisted upon polite society.

I shot up, and deleted BRLB’s review with a silent, but satisfactory, “So there. Asshole.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d let someone louder than me run the room. But it was the first time I realized I didn’t have to. Even if the reaction was delayed. Snuggling back under the blankets, I made a pinky-promise with myself. Next time a celebrity (or anybody) treated me like that, I would stand up for myself.

Immediately.

Okay … after the free guest passes were used.


*No celebrities were harmed in the typing of this memory.

🎬 YouTube (Red Carpet Coverage): @NotThatEmilyBlunt

Remember The Omen III: The Final Conflict?

No?

That’s okay.

It sure remembered us. Because somehow this 1981 horror flick has crawled out of its dusty VHS tape, brushed off its polyester clad shoulders, and stepped into our real-life timeline.

If you’re over 40, you’ll probably remember Damien. He’s Satan’s spawn, a creepy rich kid with a megalomaniac’s ego and master of the, “oops, someone I no longer needed or liked just died again.”

Classic horror villain.

Well, the little antichrist is all grown up, wearing a politician’s lacquered smile and sporting an enamel flag pin. His whole human skin suit says Damien Thorn is now a respectable adult—as far as those outside his inner sanctum of underling demons know—and he’s cozied up to the President of the United States.

The most powerful position he can plausibly rule.

See what I’m seeing so far?

If you do, The Omen III suddenly plays less like horror fiction and more like a prophesizing political documentary.

Though as the film’s made in the pre-internet era, Damien isn’t posting hissy-fit tweets or brag-blurting his evil plans on social media. No. He’s quietly assembling a team of yes-men, collecting power like it’s Pokémon, and giving us scenarios that make you mutter, “No way people would allow this! Where are the checks and balances? He’d be headed to jail not The White House.”

And, in the film, Hollywood made Damien—played by pre-dinosaur chasing Sam Neill—GQ shoot ready. No studio exec is green-lighting the antichrist with, say, cankles and a comb-over. You must make him likable enough, beguiling enough, that you’d believe half the country would follow the guy while ignoring the seven plagues popping up all around them.

The film weaves us through a subplot: Damien discovers God’s sent down a new Christ child to battle for our souls (yeah, the kid’s got to grow up quite a bit…but, hey it’s a movie). So, Damien holds a rally with a group of disciples and orders them to…um…yeah, King Herod the newborn babes. And really, nothing says “blindly following” like biblical infanticide.

Swap the horror of innocent babies being ruthlessly targeted to the horror of innocent immigrants, complete with sacrificial lambs, being targeted, and suddenly the movie is less giggle-it-nervously-off and more, “Holy shit! Nostradamus would be choking on his quill with all the allegorical foretelling in this flick.”

Hollywood, of course, gives us a good-triumphs-over-evil ending. Delightfully, it’s a woman journalist who takes down Damien Thorn. She finally sees that her interviewee-turned-boyfriend is Satan’s ushered in son. So, she scores some ancient daggers from a priest who knew-it-all-along, stops the End Times plan, and the credits roll.

Yeah, that’s clearly not going to happen in our reality. Yet eerily, again, the film gets our timeline almost right. A woman could stop “Damien Thorn” given the chance. Not with a holy dagger but with the bravery and truth she wields.

In our horror show, there are a thousand women standing by, lined up to testify like it’s the Boston Marathon of Justice. They’re just waiting for the starting gun.

Think I’m reading too much into a kitschy trilogy’s final film I just re-watched for a little brainless weekend viewing? Turns out the Bible itself kind of backs me up in several of its editions’ references.

Antichrist End Times Checklist:

• Works through deception? Check.

• Demands worship? Yup. Check.

• Gaining economic and political control? Check.

• Natural disasters plaguing the earth? Big check.

• Spectacle of false peace? That’s a check with an indelible red marker.

Fiction is fun. Allegory turned brutal. There’s no studio exec insisting on a gleeful conclusion here. No swelling soundtrack. Just we the people who must keep from becoming expendable supporting characters in the real-life horror film that’s playing out in surround sound right now.

Very now.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

At five o’clock sharp, I arrived decked out in full freelancer sparkle: a thrift shop bridesmaid dress embellished with my grandmother’s flamboyant brass deco necklace hanging heavy around my neck. I’d even ironed my hair.

Struggling in heels, I headed towards the private theater.

Studio workers, milling about in jeans and T-shirts, looked me up and down. Catching my eye, they glanced back down quickly—like they’d seen something they weren’t supposed to. A blithe phantom from the past?

No one else I saw was fancied up. Looking down at my costume, sweat beaded my forehead and dread wrapped my heart. Did I have the wrong night? Perhaps I shoulda been at the other end of the lot?

Still, I’ve always been told it’s better to be overdressed than under. I soldiered on, hoping the idiom was true.

I opened the theater door and stepped into a different dimension.

A butler in a crisp tuxedo met me just inside the illusion.

Bowing his grey balding head slightly, in a proper PBS-Upstairs, Downstairs-Agatha Christie-film British drool, he said, “May I have your name m’ lady?”

M’Lady.

I answered as he put his arm through mine and walked me three yards into the grand hall.

The “hall” was usually a big generic entrance lobby. That night the space was unrecognizable. Hollywood elves had spun their magic on this once mundane entryway, and the studio had spared no expense.

A small quintet led by a baby grand piano sat in the corner sprinkling Gosford-era tunes. Above hung a dazzling chandelier with its million crystal teardrops casting a spray of twinkles over the bustling faux ballroom.

Every visible corner held three-foot cream-colored porcelain vases overflowing with gem-toned flower buds accented with forest green palm fronds.

Along one long side wall lay an enormous feast with a double carving station manned by two more straight-backed tuxedo-sporting servers.

The space shimmered with overwhelming beauty.

Subscribe now

As my awe grew, the butler released my arm and stood to my side. Raising a white-gloved hand to his mouth, he asked for the properly attired crowd’s attention with a signaling cough.

The room’s soft conversations stilled to silence as all turned toward us.

When everyone had given up their attention, he then introduced me to the room as if I were a visiting duchess.

“Miss Emily of the Blunt Reviews.”

I resisted the urge to curtsy. Barely.

They raised glasses in salute, then turned back to their conversations.

Flutes of champagne on silver trays were offered by a roaming maid straight out of the film’s era. She was dressed in a puffy black dress with a white apron and cap on her bobbed hair. Her dimples winking as she silently raised the tray for my selection.

Another extra, er, manor servant, followed, holding up petit fours two inches tall with delicate scroll work of icing wrapping around the dark chocolate shells. In her other hand were tiny paper plates with cocktail napkins pinched between her fingers—quite a stunt!

Buy me a demi-flute of bubbly?

The transformation gave the impression we had found ourselves, not in a Century City studio lot, but somewhere north of London, attending a high society soiree at Aunt Bertie’s little countryside palace.

A peek and part of upper-class bygone manor life.

Every few minutes, for the next half of an hour, we were all asked to stop a moment as each new guest was announced. The atmosphere was so real, I expected a corner radio to suddenly crackle to life with Churchill wishing us a happy new year.

Everyone played along.

Reaching for snacks, I caught snippets of merriment. One stage whispered, “Oh, yes a touch of nibbles and liquid nourishment indeed. Thank you ever so. Much obliged.” A baritone floated over from someone schmoozing over one of the film’s stars, “Certainly! He’s a pip of rare standing. Fine fellow.”

Most attendees (perhaps actors) were in flapper dresses with jeweled headbands, or tuxedos adorned with penciled aviator mustaches not stylish since WWII.

I was in love. With the absurdity. With the commitment. With Hollywood’s ability to turn an empty room into a shared hallucination.

This evening added to the deepening adoration of my new hometown. I had never been privy to this kind of opulence; real or fake.

Wishing the night wouldn’t end, after an hour, the butler coughed us to attention again. The music stopped, and the theater doors opened.

Dream over. Time to watch the film.

When we emerged, the party set had been broken down.

Not a petal remained. Once again, the grand hall was just a large entry leading to a plush private theater. Even the glittering chandelier had lost its sparkle. It now hung unlit, useless, between the ceiling’s recessed rows of wattage.

The side walls were bare but for newly hung framed posters of the film we’d just seen.

The freshly vacuumed rug was mundane and mum. Subtle indents from the carving station were the only evidence that something had recently stood there—quiet proof, like crop circles, it hadn’t all been some mass illusion.

As the smaller group of us walked toward cars, we gave off a time-travel-y vibe in the now cricket-quiet sprawl of the giant closed lot.

It was pumpkin o’clock.

I drove home barefoot, dress wrinkled, surrounded by the highway’s muffled drone. Smiling, half-awake, and still twirling in my mind to the quintet, tasting the bubbly, I knew I’d managed to carry a bit of the night’s magic home with me, to keep forever.

Hollywood. So dazzling. So fake. So utterly cool.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

The Wilder movie taught children many important life lessons while simultaneously making us wide-eyed, hearts full of hopeful wishes that there were such a thing as a chocolate river, and an edible candy garden with little crunchy teacups holding a few sips of soda.

First, we meet Charlie Bucket—the sweet, poor boy everyone rooted for immediately. He lived with his four elderly grandparents, all sleeping in the same bed with filthy Dickensian sleepwear (which… let’s acknowledge that is still a sobering, sad, sight), and an overworked mother who was doing everything for everyone, always.

We watch as children around the world find one of the Golden Tickets. Each child’s persona represented a different parental nightmare along with at least one kid we young viewers recognized from our own playground.

There was Veruca Salt, the rich, entitled girl who wanted everything now and didn’t care who she stepped on to get it. We all knew a Veruca. Honestly, we still do. They’ve just grown up and run HOA boards or venture-capital firms. Gender optional.

Velkommen Augustus Gloop, the Austrian kid whose entire personality was “eating.” Just pure gluttony in lederhosen. I’m still deeply confused about how after being underwater for long airless minutes, and after showing up in the clear tube-line, apparently, we were to believe he went on to pop out fine, somewhere. That scene raised questions my childhood brain wasn’t emotionally equipped to process.

Next came Mike Teevee, the kid who watched too much TV. Today we’d call it over binging, but really, he’s the proto–iPad kid: staring into a screen, oblivious to all human life, loudly narrating everything he’s doing to some online gamer friend. Truly ahead of his time, and, for us kids, a much less subtle barometer of parental annoyances.

There was the constant gum chewing Violet Beauregarde. Who knew gum chewing was a childhood crime? Though, later, she is loudly smacking away until she’s literally rolled away, ready to pop, as she’s filling up and out with blueberry juice. Moral? Don’t chew loudly?

As each child finds a Golden Ticket, they’re immediately approached by a creepy man named Slugworth—complete with an ominous facial scar suggesting some kind of villainy to our little minds. He whispers in each kid’s ear he’ll pay big for a small yet-to-be-marketed Wonka candy called an Everlasting Gobstopper. The whole subplot planting the seed of corporate espionage in children.

Very chilling for most, instructional for some.

The premise was perfect: five Golden Tickets, five lucky kids, a year’s supply of chocolate, and access to the super-secret eccentric Wonka factory. Honestly? Peak fantasy. Pretty much nothing has topped it since. Okay, London’s Harrod’s bountiful food hall came close. But that place wants real world bags-o-cash to indulge in the fantasy.

Anyway, once inside the factory, each child quickly reveals their worst traits and is removed one by one in what can only be described as wicked yet whimsical industrial accidents, punctuated by the Ompah Loompas’ telltale songs. Meanwhile, we—the viewing children—are being gently taught about the many forms of pure brat we may possess. The demise of each brat, mixed with the songs, told us loud and clear: don’t be greedy, don’t eat everything in sight, don’t smack your gum, and don’t stare at screens all day.

Basic character education, but with candy, and songs. Brilliant!

Even Charlie, our moral compass, messes up. He steals Fizzy Lifting Drink with his Grandpa Joe, causing them to float up a thousand feet toward a giant whirling fan. They escape only by burping—something that had children everywhere giggling uncontrollably at the body function. But, phew, he and grandpa are safe.

Now a spoiler alert! If you haven’t seen this movie, avert your eyes.

Buy me a Wonka bar?

At the end, all the other kids are gone thanks to their forementioned bratteries. Now, brat-free habited Charlie expects his reward of a year’s worth of Wonka bars. Instead, Willy Wonka absolutely loses his mind, shouting that Charlie gets nothing because of the Fizzy Lifting Drink incident. According to some microscopic clause of the contract he signed to tour the facility—Article 17, Paragraph 54—the two tasting the fizzy drink, then trying not to be shred into limb bits by the giant sky fan, grabbing the sides of grab-free stainless steel, everything must be sterilized, and Charlie is disqualified. “Good day, sir!”

Devastating. Truly. A chocolate-scented childhood betrayal surpassing, say, a hunk of coal found in your stocking after being one helluva good kid all year.

But being the bestest boy ever, Charlie quietly turns back, places the stolen Everlasting Gobstopper on Wonka’s desk, and walks away. Slugworth’s not getting his million-dollar glob of formula, Charlie’s not getting his $10,000 payoff. Integrity wins the day.

But wait.

Wonka slowly reaches for the Gobstopper as we all hold our breath. Suddenly his face changes from rage to joy. SURPRISE! It was all a test. The misbehaving kids failed miserably and will probably be okay, while Charlie wins everything. The chocolate. The factory. The approval of an unhinged candy genius.

The lesson? Tell the truth. Stand by your morals. You’ll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.

Now, does this work like that in real life? Absolutely not. But in that moment? Every kid in that audience thought, Well damn, guess I’m gonna be honest forever. No Slugworth’s gonna make me steal for profit or monetary gain. No way! No how!

Honestly that’s not the worst takeaway from a movie involving murderous candy machinery and a slightly deranged confectioner.

The film’s still reminds me to stay the path even when a crooked one may be faster. Chew gum quietly, with my mouth shut. And over fifty years later, it’s still my refuge on trying days. A big bowl of candy in hand for sensory immersion.

You got one? A film that’s your happy place? Or that taught you something to use later in grown-up land? Ora good giggle—god knows we could use it right now.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

📸 Instagram:@not_that_emily_blunt

This year, it’s the politicians standing up to the bullies. They’re fighting for our rights, our democracy, sanity.

With my eyes wide and focused, I hear things like, “Get out of our city!” and “If our lawmakers won’t stand up to this, we’re all in trouble.” Swooning, I go on to the next… I’d pin up their images on my wall if I didn’t have fancy midlife-crisis wallpaper that cost more than my first car.

There are men and women. Like my crush on Pink— a flutter because she’s so cool and I’d want her in my posse after the apocalypse.

My latest heroes: Rep. Jasmine Crockett, Congresswoman Pramila Jayapal, Governor Newsom, and Mayor Frey. There are others. But these are the pin-ups … no disrespect to their partners. I’m not a stalker or the sort to cyber-stalk. Their words just give me the warm and fuzzies. A salve for the blatant rolling over I see in almost every corner of our suffocating democracy.

I’m lucky. I grew up in the 1970s, in a city where we’d study American patriotism, history, and the determination to be rid of kings and tariffs, then school-bus over and visit the Boston Tea Party exhibit (complete with a big pirate-worthy schooner!), Concord’s battlefields, walk the Freedom Trail. Read about Paul Revere’s wild horse ride—okay, a tad embellished—but the soul of the tale? All what-we-originally-intended as brand spankin’ new Americans.

Buy me a chunk of cheese for sanity

I learned how we were all immigrants; the streets ran with gold our forefathers were told. Hard work, and community, paid off and how Freedom of Speech was not just allowed, but signed, sealed, and protected.

They glossed over the land grab from the Indians, but spoke fondly of tribes and their cultures. Without mocking (or irony), we learned about their kindness and welcoming. Their embrace, and survival techniques. The textbooks also bragged about how New York was bought for what amounted to my weekly allowance money. The contradictions, even then, a bit confusing for my young mind.

Yes, now I understand fully things were not fair, or equal …

Our textbooks also taught about the violent mistreatment of my African American neighbors, unfathomably dragged here. How a few heroes ran an underground railroad, which was not an actual subway, but a route to freedom. I was taught that freedom wasn’t exactly legit. It came with more cruelty, and for that our country felt sort of bad. Most places.

Then came the Civil Rights chapters. A great man lost his life for daring to ask for equality using the very free speech we’d just learned about. And according to the textbook, that’s where racism ended. Everyone held hands.

Now I know the racism remained in too many, awaiting this catastrophic shift in inhumanity to be allowed to be un-tethered again; re-imagined, a playbook opened and dog-eared. Racism didn’t disappear; it smoldered, waiting for permission to come frothing back like a raid of Tasmanian devils.

Right now, as before, anyone with darker skin is an open target. This time sanctioned by the same government I’d been taught had fought for equality for all men…

Except dark men.
Except women.
Except trans men and women.
Except pregnant women.
Except poor men.
Except poor women.
Except anyone with a foreign-sounding accent.

Last week, a group of unqualified, armed bullies—sanctioned by our own President—descended upon another American city. This time, people using their Constitutional right to assemble (protest) watched a peaceful woman shot dead.

That peaceful protester was then vilified by our government. The videos capturing her murder were ignored. The killer swaddled and rushed away to a safe house. The cover-up, blatantly fogging, and stifling, our air. Then they did it again—to a nurse—a man rushing to the aid of another. He was executed. Again, we saw, on video. Again, a coverup. Vilification. Our breath gone. Our belief in Our Rights shattered.

I grew up allowed to have a bank account, allowed to own property. Use my wheelchair in most public spaces. Hell, take birth control, vote. Never once, ignorantly, wondering if these fundamental rights I enjoyed had been hard-fought for, protested for, bled for. The result of bravery from people long gone who spoke up, and out for these rights.

Rights our current President and his branches are eroding, for all of us … well, not white men. Not rich white men. But Americans, hopeful want-to-be Americans, hard-working immigrants (legal or not) hoping to find their place in the sun.

And right now, we’re heading toward a total eclipse, unless my “crushes” grow. Unless more men and women in positions of power stand up, speak out, and stop this madness.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

📸 Instagram:@not_that_emily_blunt

They can all be emotionally devastating if you’re alone. No Norman Rockwell painting awaiting your arrival. No Godiva chocolate cocoa offered up in a Santa adorned mug. Not a wide-eyed kid clutching a wrapped gift Santa left behind.

What there is? A family fractured, kids now trendsetters, moved away, running their own shiny shindigs. Or as many other reasons as the “Twelve Days of Christmas” without any partridges squatting in a near-by tree, you’re plan-less.

Buh-freakin’-humbug.

But let’s take off the mistletoe shades and rewrite the plot to that Hallmark movie of the mind. It’s all fake snow, a costume department’s cozy sweater, and words few ever really utter.

Buy me a hot cocoa?

In reality, each of the celebrations is, at its core, the celebration of spirituality. Whatever that means to you. And that? You carry with you every day. Okay, maybe some days the news has you questioning if sanity and basic kindness have shat the bed. But even so. Most of us live with a stubborn amber of hope for goodness to prevail. A belief in humanity. And this is the “time of year” we’re forced to admit it.

If you’re alone, reach out. Call a friend. Set up a Zoom hello or Facetime. Friends busy? Cook or eat or order (and freeze until) your favorite foods acknowledging you’ll be probably be fragile and in no mood to face creating a meal. It’s called comfort food for a big endorphin-filled reason.

Hit up Google: volunteer at a soup kitchen if there’s one in your town. Stop by a Blessing Box in your town if your in need, or in the giving spirit. Leave a new pair of PJs or a bag of heavy socks. Or take some good cheer left with someone else’s hope to help.

The “point” is, it’s just another day. But also, very much an emotional powder keg waiting to implode at the next fa-la-la you’re not involved in. Don’t let it. Or let it, for an hour, then, regroup.

We’ve all had those Christmases that didn’t show. Being chronically ill, for me, every holiday is a big old Secret Santa bag of hit or miss. I’ve had years to adapt as progression snags my merry. Now I plan accordingly: favorite cheese on deck; favorite movies queued (Jim Carrey’s Grinch, Guy Pearce’s A Christmas Carol). Emergency joy kit, assembled.

Where ever you are as the Eve of Christmas approaches, I send you a toast. A smile. And a wish that you find some joy in your time here.

Here’s a little word ballet about my first non-by-the-book experience….

I was brand-spankin’ new to Los Angeles and had no idea the town seals itself shut tighter than a dominatrix’s latex onesie from late November through January 15th. Translation: make plans or prepare for a season heavy on self-pity, brooding, and staring at your phone hoping even your least favorite relative rings.

That first Christmas, optimism still intact, I figured I’d at least take my out-of-town guest out for an unplanned festive-filled brunch.

Round and round we drove. A hoity-toity ghost town. Snowless streets were draped in lamp garland and jewel-colored ornaments like set dressing for a holiday movie nobody bothered to show up for. Christmas lights blinked away weakly in the broad daylight. Less sparkle, more meh. Parking lots sat empty beside festively adorned closed restaurant doors, each plastered with some version of: Have a happy holiday. See you next year.

Overhead, plastic reindeer were frozen in mid-flight, as if Santa had been shot down somewhere over Beverly Hills. Now they’d been strung up and abandoned to make humanity’s extinction feel more seasonal.

It didn’t work.

We’d slept through the apocalypse— all lost, but the Ghost of Christmas Attitude.

After an hour of fruit(cake)-less wandering, we surrendered and went home. There, grocery-less and mildly starving, I opened a couple of cans of soup, dressed up with a stray chopped carrot … nothing too fancy, and kinda perfect fit to the ambience of the day.

I dug out a CD of holiday music, a compilation with wildly inconsistent levels of cheer, knocked on my neighbor’s door to see if she had any homemade limoncello left. She did.

Sipping soup and tangy vodka, we collapsed onto the couch to watch the 24-hour A Christmas Story marathon.

The dogs were thrilled. We were home. They’d had an extra-long walk—an entire park to themselves—soup was shared, and popcorn was cooling in the microwave. A rare afternoon of full-on attention and a junk food feast!

It wasn’t the fanciest Christmas, but it was the least commercial. A lesson, too. Your holidays don’t have to look like that Norman Rockwell painting. Sometimes the most memorable ones happen when you’re new somewhere and realize that home is what you make of it; where you belong, whatever that looks like.

Let go of what it’s supposed to be. Grab the unhealthy popcorn. Put on the aggressively sentimental movie. Be grateful for the dogs’ joyful eyes. In their world, this was the best holiday imaginable. The apocalypse was kinda perfect.

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

📸 Instagram:@not_that_emily_blunt

My days as an entertainment journalist sometimes went haywire … but few spun so wildly off the axis of human dignity as the Max junket.

The film, a disturbing drama about an art dealer named Max (John Cusack) and an up-and-coming nobody named Adolf (worst human in history) Hitler, played by Noah Taylor was no romp in comedy. Picture pitching this to your boss: “It’s a buddy movie, but one buddy commits genocide.”

I signed in and marched to the hotel suite for round-table interviews with Cusack first, then Taylor.

Wanna buy me a coffee?

Cusack, for anyone who survived the 1980s, was the quirky-romantic king: trench coat, mixtapes, big feelings. Say Anything still looms large; that boombox scene is practically the decade’s defining snapshot. Like everyone my age, I always thought Cusack was adorable — but he’d never made it onto my rotating Rolodex of celebrity crushes. (A twirling rave club of fluttering infatuations featuring both Andy Gibb and Keith Richards).

Then Cusack waltzes into the interview suite — jovial, charming, tall — and suddenly my tween-age hormones woke up like, “Oh! We still do this?” And right there, smackola in the middle of his handsome face, was an un-Hollywood’d, make-up free, all-natural, Great-Gazoo-meets-elf ski-slope nose that was so unexpectedly adorable I instantly imprinted on it like a baby duck.

He sat down beside me. To my horror, I blushed. Like, middle-schooler who brushed against her crush in science class blushed. I wanted to fan myself with the press notes.

I had prepared to break the ice using our shared love of The Clash. I mean, I’d been invited on tour with them in ’84. If I could slide that into conversation, I’d get the kind of quotes Mojo magazine would pay me for.

But my brain had other plans.

My awe-struck, schoolgirl-collapsing-in-on-herself emotions jammed the signal. My tongue tied itself into balloon-animal shapes. And what fell out of my mouth — forgive me, Joe Strummer — was: “Joe Strummer’s voice makes anyone think they can sing.”

Not what I meant. Not even close to what I meant. It came out with a bizarre backhanded tone, like I was insulting the man who shaped my soul and half my wardrobe. It was a nightmare faux pas. Like my MS met with the unexpected, unprofessional, raised eyebrow of attraction and stun-mixed to project this succinct reworded/wrongly-worded verbal bile.

My real thought, the one I had hoped to elegantly set forth, was how Joe’s unique voice shouted about rights and wrongs. Made “us” think and act with humanity and passion.

Too late to repair.

John Cusack looked at me like I’d just crawled out of the woods with hair in my teeth from the baby squirrel I’d just finished eating.

I froze. I spiritually left my body. I would have physically left the room, too, but couldn’t.

The other journalists, blissfully unaware that I had just committed rock ’n’ roll blasphemy, launched into their questions. I said nothing. Not a syllable. I sat slumped beside Cusack under a self-inflicted Silence Spell, like an evil wizard (me) had cursed me (also me).

Cusack delivered crisp, thoughtful answers about the film, including one that stuck with me: “Consider the alternate history if Hitler had been a talented artist and found fulfillment in that field.”

Meanwhile, I considered the alternate history in which I did not insult Joe Strummer in front of John Cusack.

Then came Noah Taylor. This Brit was pale as the sharpest white cheddar and radiated the vibe of a man who had spent several months inside Hitler’s psyche and would like, very much, to not have to talk about any of it, ever, again. I didn’t blame him. We were both having terrible days, in very different genres.

I never interviewed Cusack again, so the do-over never came. If it had, my first words would have been: “Hi John, lovely to see you again. I’d like to issue a formal apology to Joe Strummer and the entire nation of England.”

Joe’s a bona fide hero of mine. And somewhere in the afterlife, he’s probably shaking his head, chuckling, “Ya. It was a shite moment … we all got ‘em. You’re a’right kid.”

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

📸 Instagram:@not_that_emily_blunt

Want to but me a latte?

By turkey number five, even the hosts’ smiles began to wilt like end of dinner parsley garnish as scents of sage and rosemary filled the home with the enthusiasm of a malfunctioning smoke machine.

A dinner gong sounded (yes, an actual gong), and we entered a grand dining room.

Before us, lined up on a long dramatic polished mahogany table, as if competing in a Miss Butterball pageant, sat seven robust basted, browned, deli-bought swanky turkeys—and absolutely nothing else.

Not one side dish. Not a rogue cranberry. Nadda.

There was only one polite thing to do.

So, sixteen of us sat down, pushed in our chairs, and tucked in to gorge like hyenas of the Serengeti who’d stumbled across a large spread of well-nourished plucked and prepared birds.

In an ironic nod to part of the American tradition, each of us ate until waist buttons needed the post overindulgence unfastening.

After dinner, we played a Japanese card game called karuta. Well, they played. I just clapped along when anyone else did.

Guests wandered in and out of the kitchen, where a busy countertop offered drinks and a small island of store-bought pumpkin, apple, and pecan pies I’d brought.

My offerings went untouched, untasted, and uninvited to the main table at any point.

A desert of desserts, the pies sat there, looking saddened by their exclusion—if possible by a pie—as they congealed on the gorgeous white Corinthian marble countertop. Beside them, in contrast, the thirty-plus jewel-colored bottles of fancy spirits danced about lively as Cirque du Soleil performers in the hands of the reveling party goers.

At the wonderful night’s end, we each received five pounds of rolled-up turkey meat in improvised Ralphs' to-go grocery bags. Most guests looked baffled, their expressions a giveaway gaggle of “What does one do with this?”

Not me. I knew my dogs would dine like royalty for weeks off the frozen bags I’d create from the night’s one ingredient mega-banquet.

The feast reminded me that even when traditions get lost in translation, joy can be shared in unexpected ways.

Happy Thanksgiving—whatever that means to you.

Whatever gives you a reason for thanks.

If you’re alone, why not redirect. Maybe do some giving to a charity you admire. Or volunteer to bring others happiness. I hear tell it’s contagious.

And hey, if you’re not feeling grateful at all—if there’s no happy family gathering, just a big bag of heavy-hearted boulders you’re dragging along—I see you.

Positive toxicity is real. Pretending everything’s fine is exhausting. The holiday is an American myth, but the retained ritual of connection isn’t.

So, let’s create a table here, in the comments. Let’s get those glorious gratitude endorphins ramped up.

What are you thankful for this year? Even if it’s tiny. Even if it’s darkly funny. Even if you’re not thankful and just want to say what you hope changes by next Thanksgiving.

Here are the things I’m thankful for: friends, my dog, birds, electricity, Audible, making it to 99% vegetarian, still being able to write, and a roof over my head.

If you enjoyed my little word ballet, please like and/or subscribe! Gosh, restack even. Karma bubbles. Thank you 😉

Subscribe now

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

📸 Instagram:@not_that_emily_blunt

Adapting to, and thriving in, Hollywood’s eccentric ways, I found a hangout in The Hollywood Forever Cemetery.

It’s not as weird as it sounds.

Years ago, the cemetery’s board of conservationists—Hollywood-slanted, of course—came up with a clever way to fund restoration: nighttime film screenings projected onto the Cathedral Mausoleum’s crypt wall, as big as a drive-in movie screen.

The money from those screenings helped maintain the resting places of long-forgotten Silent Era stars, many with no living relatives left to tend their graves.

I went often. But my favorite evening was for my 40th birthday in 2005, when a group of us gathered to watch The Shining. Its screening took full advantage of the macabre setting and created the perfect creepy backdrop for The Overlook’s shenanigans.

As the sun dipped below the crypts, we gathered on the broad Douglas Fairbanks lawn facing the grand Mausoleum turned screen.

Spreading out our king-size blanket, we snuggled in between a growing crowd of two hundred other living souls. Then, as this was a picnic kind of gathering, out came the cartons of takeout sushi spread beside a cooler of ice and mini bottles of sake.

After my third social sake, MS crashed the gathering, like an uninvited frat boy dropping a keg on my foot at a dinner party. After ignoring a twitch in my left leg, when I went to get up, the leg would not respond.

Panic prickled my every pore. Leaning over to my friend Daniel, I whispered, “My leg won’t work, and I gotta use the girl’s room. Can you help me?”

Without hesitation, he said, “I got you.”

Then he swept me up into his arms. I was a milk maiden being carried to safety from a burning shack on the cover of a romance novel. Putting my arms around his neck to hold on, he carried me across the wide lawn, down a cemetery road to the rows of porta-potties. Every few steps, people called out good natured “Attaboys” from surrounding blankets.

Once facing the long row of cramped commodes, he put me upright as onlookers grinned at our romantic arrival. He braced my shoulders until it appeared I was steady. Then we waited in line for my turn; his arm looped through mine in case I had a wobble.

I opened the filthy pod and glanced at Daniel.

“I’ll go in with you if you need,” he offered.

I shook my head.

“Okay. I’ll stand right at the door and wait.”

Bracing myself against the acrid-scented plastic sarcophagus, I pressed my hands against the side walls as if holding them from crushing in on me. I squatted, hovering over the gaping hole below as my heart battered, scared as a captured sparrow. What if I wasn’t strong enough to rise.

But I was and shakily emerged.

Daniel wrapped his arm around my waist. “Take your time. We’ll wait until your leg’s cooperating.”

When we finally got back, his boyfriend joked, “Oh good, they’re back! I thought it was a runaway bride kind of deal.”

The others stared forward at the film. The group hadn’t even considered that the whole carrying me away thing might have been something serious. My friends knew of my condition, but my outward appearance still did not announce I was ill.

Sitting down, Daniel handed me a bottle of Japanese beer and watched me closely as the night went on—his injured offspring.

I didn’t stop drinking or consider leaving. Like those around me, I was still very much in denial of my condition and had no intention of letting MS stop my fun.

Want to buy me a coffee?

A few months later, the unpredictability of MS would make itself known during a high-profile interview. And again I’d be swept up by kindness.

I met George Clooney to interview him for the film Good Night, and Good Luck.

He sauntered in like he owned the joint, looked each of us at the press round table squarely in the eye and radiated a warmth that felt custom-tailored.

George was the walking definition of “Old Hollywood”—the looks, the charisma, that gravitational pull of a bona fide, “They don’t make them in that mold anymore” Grade A+ movie star.

I shook his hand, nodded professionally, and then immediately forgot every intelligent question I’d prepared because, well, George Clooney.

Jokes aside, the day of our talk—as was happening frequently now—my leg was not cooperating with the scheduled plans.

At least that morning I got a warning as the appendage had dragged a bit while I walked the dogs.

So, before I’d left home, I had added a walking cane to my ensemble.

Back then I still had a bit of that ridiculous shame that comes with using an assistive device. The odd denial stage of making a burden for myself over being my own loudest advocate and not caring what others think. Cane equals weak. No. Cane equals caring for yourself.

But I wasn’t mentally there yet.

After the busy round tables, as I headed to the elevator, I felt a rushing wave of weakness taking me over. Preferring not to crumble on the hall floor, I ever so casually propped myself against a wall trying to blend in, like a side table.

George noticed and rushed over.

Leaning on a section close to me, he asked, “Hey, you okay? I saw you kinda fall against the wall. You need anything? Can I help?”

I replied, “No, thanks though.” Then I explained, “I have MS and needed to stop.”

George didn’t flinch. “Sorry to hear that. MS is a sonofabitch thing.”

Then, with that Clooney ease, he added, “Have you heard of UCLA’s MS education program? It helps you understand more—”

Before he could continue, boom! A younger journalist barreled into our conversation. George and I watched him shuffle, clearly thinking of some illness to use as a wedge into our conversation.

“I’m sick too,” he blurted. “Dry eye. Might need to see a doctor.”

George raised an eyebrow, gave me a half-smile, and said, “Gotta go.”

As he walked away, he added, “Make sure you call them. They’re a big help.”

The next day, I rang the UCLA neurology department. A disinterested receptionist curtly informed me there was a lengthy waiting list, and she’d take my name.

But after being put on hold a moment, the woman came back all singsong friendliness. Suddenly there was a spot for me, I could start Monday.

I felt and still do, that George had a hand in my fast-tracked inclusion. The sudden shift in tone reeked of celebrity strings being pulled. Because I’d gotten that, “Oh, your name is on the guest list. Come right in,” reaction only a celebrity’s endorsement held.

He probably had his personal assistant make a quick call in case I followed through. George seemed like that kind of gentleman.

Regardless, he’s the one who told me about the course. His external beauty seems to mirror his internal beauty.

Those UCLA courses covered everything: coping strategies, mental wellness, mobility adaptation, even medication overviews. They didn’t just teach us how to live with MS. They taught us how to live better. To take what we’d learned and enhance our quality of life.

For the first time, I began to understand my prognosis. And how to take care of myself with intention, not fear.

Looking back, that cemetery night taught me a crucial truth: being carried across a lawn by a friend doesn’t make you weak, it makes you smart. You’ve worked out you need to ask for help.

Later, George Clooney’s perfectly timed intervention proved that kindness and advocacy sometimes show up where you least expect, like between movie stars and mortals.

Turns out, MS didn’t break my stride. It just taught me to lean on, adapt to, and keep moving. I finally understood it’s not brave or strong doing it all alone. It’s brave and strong finding the right people, the right tools, and the courage to use them.
———————————————————————————————————

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

📸 Instagram:@not_that_emily_blunt

Hey. Wanna buy me a latte?

I’m awaiting my editor for polish on a whole memoir manuscript, but thought I’d share a quick anecdote that’ll probably get cut.

In 2002, I’d read about an open audition at the comedy sketch show Madtv. Like most of the creative children of my era, there was a secret dream to be on Saturday Night Live. This show was like its younger cousin, still wearing braces.

I had to go. Try.

The night before my audition, a friend said, “Have a drink before you go to calm yourself down.” Imbibe I did, at 9 a.m., on an empty stomach. With a tendency toward binge drinking, I downed a half bottle of vodka with a splash of orange juice.

There were no butterflies or stage fright, just the old insecurities of “No one wants to hear you” ringing in my ears.

It was my first time on studio lot as possible employee, and my heart pounded like I was on a blind date. The security guard at the gate waved me in. A tad tipsy, I drove extra slowly, while taking it all in. Unlike in my dreams, or films that show bustling action, there were no ornate sets rolling by, or costumed actors rushing off to sets.

It was dull: just sprawling acreage littered with identical beige cinder block cottages, a few with under watered trees beside their entrances.

I parked and headed in, pretending to be sober. Directed to wait, I found a seat beside a couple of equally uncomfortable hopefuls in a stifling fresh paint scented hall. Our knees bobbed in time and quick smiles were exchanged from the cheap folding chairs.

My eyes rested on the bright white wall’s display of a dozen framed headshots of MadTv cast members. Each peered out with flat smiles. The line of photos looked less like a professional comedy troop, and more like bored faculty members of a private school, just trying to make it to tenure.

After what had to be an hour, a girl, who appeared to be just hitting puberty, approached.

“Follow. You’re next,” she muttered toward me. Then she looked down to the floor as we headed, not to a comedy audition, but to the principal’s office to face my suspension.

Entering a small windowless office of cinder block, the tween perched herself on a stool, wrote something on her clipboard, and motioned me towards a barren space. Once I was situated, she raised her head and looked at me like a crow eyeing a vulnerable hatchling it had spotted for dinner.

Finally breaking her silence she said, “Try to be funny, please.”

Underarm sweat pooled and a transparent gummy worm of perspiration grew upon my upper lip. So many of us can be hilarious with friends. Forcing the funny? That’s an art.

After an hour-long five minutes, holding down a flutter of panic, I pulled out a Meg Ryan impression. Meg choosing a coffee: all aw-shucks, her lip quirk, with a neck extension twist, and finished with Meg’s version of the Princess Diana coquette eyes up thing, sighing.

The tween deadpanned, “Now that’s funny.”

It wasn’t my greatest day, and I never heard boo from them.

Self-disappointment gnawed at me over that need to throw back a bottle of drinks to force down my inner critic. I’d just moved 4,000 miles to reinvent myself, and my self-doubting baggage had clearly stowed along for the trip.
—————————————————————————————————-

Excerpt from my upcoming 2026 memoir: The Other Emily Blunt: Secrets Kept, Celebrities Met, and Surviving MS

🎬 YouTube: @NotThatEmilyBlunt

📸 Instagram:@not_that_emily_blunt