Holly Northrop Blog

The funny thing about shooting in Manhattan is that every day that I am on the street it is inevitable that I will see some form of celebrity. This city is crawling with them. So much so that I've done the sidewalk dance with a few on them and I've even had my photo taken with Colin Farrell at the insistence of Jasmine who was screaming in my ear via the cell phone.

So about a week ago, when I was down around SoHo shooting graffiti and street scenes, I walked past Heath Ledger and thought nothing of it. Why would I? Sure, it's cool to see these red carpet people, but this is New York and we don't fawn. It's one of the few times that we smile at someone but then we just move on, which is what I did. I smiled, he didn't, I moved on. Even with a camera around my neck, I never shoot their photo, except for that Colin Farrell thing. It's just not my interest.

I've seen Olympia Dukakis on Broadway trying to hail a cab in the rain with her husband standing under an awning. Martha and I had lunch a few tables over from Susan Sarandon and one of her son's who is the spitting image of his father. I've walked past Candice Bergman on the Upper East side, and I've seen Parker Posey (and her mouth) at least four times in the East Village. I was in a restaurant sitting by the door when William DeFoe walked in looking for a table, and at work I sat one cubical over and listened to Vincent Gallo yak on and on about some idea he had for a piece he was writing for the Voice. Considering that he is such a fucking Republican, the whole event bothered me more than anything. I couldn't wait for him to leave.

Law & Order (all versions) is forever filming all over the Village, once right in front of the Voice where I had to walk past Ice-T to get in the building. He actually said to me, "Hey baby, what's up?" as I walked in the front door.

Christ, I've even seen Jodie Foster standing on the corner of 9th Street, obviously waiting for someone.

I saw a split second of Robert De Niro in Tribeca and walked right on into a weird sidewalk thing with Andy Garcia on 42nd street for the premiere of Ocean's Eleven. I've seen dozens and dozens of various band members wandering around the Village; most surprisingly to me, because I've stood next to him on the street in three different cities; John Doe. I watched totally amused as Michael Stipe ran around Lafayette Street shooting photos. He's another one I seem to run into a great deal, so much so that I've seen him do a double take when he sees me. It's the bright red hair but now I think he thinks he knows me from somewhere. Or that I'm stalking him.

I used to walk by Patti Smith's house every day on my way home and because of that I walked right by her at least three times. One of the funniest things I have ever seen was Sebastian Bach acting like a total screaming fucked-up asshole on St. Marks Street in the middle of broad daylight.

I am sure there are countless other folks that I've walked right by and never noticed or have forgotten about over the time I've lived here. I guess the weird thing about seeing someone like Heath Ledger a few days before he's found dead is that much like everyone else on the planet it simply weirded me out to hear he was dead, and yet Britney and her English doppelgänger, Amy, live on and on and on.

Britney walks around under the steady strobe lights of paparazzi flashbulbs; kind of like a disco, only she is at a germ-infested gas station smoking cigarettes near the gas pumps. Hanging out at gas stations is not such a good image. It's just one coke line away from Truck Stop Whore.

Then there is Amy, sporting her new Dr. Frankenstein bob; all 80 lbs of her pacing around her apartment looking for a kitten and smoking crack. Are you fucking serious?

You know, just the other day I stood next to Sylvia Plachy at The C Lab while I was picking up film. I smiled at her and she ignored me. All totally fine, except that she used to work at the Voice, and we saw each other countless times (and I've met her son, Adrien Brody) so some kind of acknowledgement might have been nice. But whatever, it's fine. This is New York, and we only smile at folks that are more celebrated then we are. It is the natural pecking order. Besides, as long as Martha is happy to see me, well then, that's all that matters. I'll be her superstar if she'll be mine.

The very first time I was ever laid-off from a company was in Denver, Colorado, (Aurora, to be precise), in September of 1987. It was a small design shop consisting of an owner; a female Art Director (an odd sight for the decade and someone I considered to be a mentor); and a female bookkeeper. All were full-time employees. I was hired as freelance contract work. Specifically, I was hired to paste-up the Yellow Pages.

There was a typesetter who came in twice a week to print out galleys and galleys of type that I had speced. Specing type is an art form unlike anything that goes on today. It's a mathematical formula involving a pica pole, words and the ability to problem solve without approval and/or praise.

While this wasn't my first job in my chosen field, I had previously worked at a print shop, it was the first job that I liked the folks I worked with and enjoyed, for the most part, coming to work.

I was young and had so very much to learn about business.

I worked there for roughly a year and a half. Once the Yellow Page contract was finished, I moved on to bigger and better projects. Things like hi-comp work, where I was able to play with Letraset films, papers, Pantone Books and press-type. Mostly I did hi-comp work for Coors Beer and AT&T. It was a good gig and I was happy.

Then somewhere around the beginning of spring 1987, the company hired a bearded hippy guy, who I considered to be a slimy fuck. He was a fast talker and knew everything about everything. He also had a knee-slapping laugh that sounded more like a bark, bark, bark, and a snort, then anything normal. The hippy guy was hired to help out on an enormous production job; pasting up direct mail pieces. You know, that junk mail shit everyone gets, discounts on dry-cleaning, and half-off on pizzas? Well, I've actually made those.

After a few months the direct mail contract was finished, and much to my annoyance, this hippy guy stayed.

Not only did he stay, he started going out to lunch with the Art Director, something that I had never done. The Art Director would slam me with work and then have closed door meetings with the hippy guy. Considering that the office space we all existed in was about the size of a one-bedroom apartment, having a closed door meeting of any kind was weird. Sometimes I was the only one who wasn't in a meeting.

As spring turned into summer, the work started to dry up. 1987 was a weird year for business. Reagan was president and in the middle of the Iran-Contra Affair, the stock market was going nuts, (and eventually crashed i.e. Black Monday) and the economy was starting to suck. I spent a great deal of time at my desk painting personal projects and turning up my radio to avoid hearing the Art Director and this hippy guy laughing at each others jokes.

Then on the first Friday of September at 4:45, I was called into the Art Director's office and asked to close the door. I sat there, all of twenty-five years old and wide-eyed like a puppy, notepad in hand, thinking we were going to talk about a new project when she folded her hands together on the table, put on a sad face and in a soft voice said, "We're going to have to let you go."

Go where? I thought and then it occurred to me that something very bad was happening. I immediately asked about the hippy guy (like this was important) and the Art director informed me that it was just me that was being let go.

I couldn't believe it. I was devastated but more importantly I was blindsided and I hate that. No one likes to be taken by surprise but I vowed to never, ever let something like this happen again. Oh sure, I can be laid-off, it is after all, the nature of this business, but not without seeing it coming first.

But back to September of 1987.

After leaving her office, I grabbed a cardboard box that was full of reams of copy paper, dumped the paper on the floor and started packing up all my shit. All my tapes, art supplies that I brought from home; rulers; orange triangles; a set of Rapidograph pens; a pica pole etc.; all jammed into a box along with my radio and Violent Femmes, Patti Smith and Husker du tapes. Intermittently I was spewing profanity at the hippy guy by telling him to 'fuck off'.

As I was just about to leave the office for the last time, the Art Director asked to see what was in my box. I was horrified. I completely understand this thinking now, but at that time, I was personally offended. I could not believe that she would think I would steal something. Standing in the small lobby, while the bookkeeper, hippy guy and the owner stood guard, the Art Director dug through my box of crap at a slow, meticulous pace. I just stood there with my mouth open, trying not to cry.

Then on top of that she pulls out a metal 12" printer's gauge claiming it to belong to the company. Hippy guy made a gasp and the owner took a step closer to me. I explained to her that it was mine, that I had brought it from home and I used it instead of theirs because the numbers on mine were easier to read. Theirs was faded. She then made me walk back over to my desk and show her the other one.

Once I got out of there, I threw all my shit into the back of the Dodge Omni coffin car that I drove, (yes I even drove then) and cried.

Being laid-off that time unleashed a shitstorm of events that were impressive only in their combined determination to punish.

Because I was always contract freelance and never considered a full-time employee, I was unable to collect unemployment. So right out of the gate, Jim and I were screwed, living from shitty paycheck to shitty paycheck, we had maybe twenty dollars in our checking account. Oddly enough on the day I was laid-off, in the mail arrived a brand new MasterCard with a $3,000 limit in Jim's name. Our grocery store just started taking credit cards, and so there you go.

Three days after I was let go, I was pulled over for going 45 in a school zone. I started crying as the female cop gave me a ticket. She was unmoved. After I got home from that horseshit, Jasmine's pre-school called me to inform me that they had had a Chicken Pox outbreak at the school and were sending all the children home for two-weeks, could I please come get my kid. I called the doctor and he said that there isn't too much that can be done at this point but to watch Jazz and if nothing happens by 'Day 10' then all should be clear.

'Day Ten' Jasmine woke up with a pox on her back. Three days later, I woke up with a pox on my shoulder. I'd never had chicken pox as a child and had no idea what I was in for. The first few days I felt weird but was able to take care of Jasmine. She was covered with Chicken Pox and I covered her in Calamine Lotion. She looked like a three-year old chalk child. Jasmine kept scratching at herself so I duct taped mismatched oven mitts to her arms. She was covered from her fingers to just under her armpits. She looked like a floral and plaid penguin. Yeah, I know, ok but you weren't there. In the end, this is why she doesn't have scars all over her face.

Just about the time that Jasmine was due to go back to school, I started to get really, really sick. I had pox all over every part of my body and could not stop throwing up. I was so sick that I was puking up bile. I spent all day for several days in the bathtub filled to the top with Aveeno oatmeal bath. The last day Jasmine was home with me, I had set up two child gates at each end of the hall so she could only be either in her room or in the bathroom with me. Those were some good times.

The toilet was next to the tub and every few hours I'd wake up in cold water, the parts of my body that had been in the air completely dry, sit straight up and throw up in the toilet. Jasmine would hear this, knowing I was awake and come running in asking "Do you feel better, mommy?" and "Can I have some juice?" Then she would then run back into her room where I'd hear her playing with her toys singing "Mommy is sick. Mommy is sick. Sick, sick, sick." over and over again.

At this point, I had been unemployed for about three-weeks with no hope of even getting close to any interview of any kind soon. I had over eighty-seven crusty chicken pox on my face. I know this because one day, when I was able to sit on the couch for hours on end, I counted them. It was around this time that two other things happened.

I'd been sleeping on the foldout couch for days, coughing up phlegm and running a mean fever. One night, as Jim sat in the chair beside me doing bong hits and watching The Outlaw Josey Wales together, I seemed to have stopped breathing and had he not been there to bring me back, I'm not so sure I'd be around today.

It was about this time that my mother called to let me know that they were coming to visit. Now, I can count on one hand, (and still have three fingers left) the number of times they had visited us over our then, five-year marriage. In fact, if I count the total number of times that my parents have ever come to visit me anywhere, I still don't think I would use up all the fingers. Even more disturbing is when I really think about it, that visit, was the third to the last time that I would ever see both of them alive together in the same room.

So let's review. I'm unemployed and feel totally betrayed. Jim and I are charging food on a credit card that we will never be able to pay back. While I had stopped throwing up, I look like I've had acid thrown in my face and simply cannot be seen in public. My parents are coming and I have a $100 speeding ticket that we need to pay, in cash or they are going to put a warrant out for my arrest.

Yet, somehow, we moved through it all. Jasmine went back to school. I got another job, be it a sucky one but at least I was working. We paid the speeding ticket and soon after, I caused a multi-car accident during rush hour on University Blvd while on my way to an interview. Boy did that end my desire to drive. My parents came and went (literally) and Jim's parents ended up begrudgingly paying our MasterCard bill.

All this memory stuff has come up because of two things. My time at the Voice is coming to an end, (something I've been out in front of for sometime now), and that makes me sad, scared and unusually hopeful. The other thing is when I was putting on makeup the other day, I noticed a chicken pox scar on my face and surprisingly, it made me smile. "Mommy is sick. Mommy is sick. Sick, sick, sick." Indeed.

It's good to know that the writers strike has had no effect what's so ever on the new season of The L Word. That show is the only thing worse then a reality show. Any reality show. Within a span of two-hours I went from laughing my ass off at Stephen Colbert spinning around to Prince's When Doves Cry to then sliding on over to the no laugh zone of Rachel Shelley's weepy performance as Helena; the heiress who having been cut off from her wealth by her mother, is now recently jailed for stealing her ex-lover's money. That's right, there is going to be a woman's prison storyline. I swear to god this show is written by men.

Another breakthrough plot line is the 'movie within a movie' idea. It's so cutting edge that I'm bleeding. This fucking mess of a plot now has us, the viewer, reliving the whole suck-ass first season via Jenny, the dipshit writer whose book, "Lez Girls" was optioned into a movie. Oh and she gets to be the director and have a "career-challenging on-set relationship with one of her stars". It's like a buttered shit sandwich.

Can we just have a shred of believability here? I mean come on, just a shred. I know those pesky word things get in the way but does everything have to sound like a setup scene for porno?

After it was over, I realize that I had been grinding my teeth for 45 minutes and now had a splitting headache. Not just any old headache either. It was more like a back of the head, occipital lobe kind of thing. As if I'd witnessed something that had reactivated a brain tumor.

In earth shattering news, Kelly McGillis is scheduled to join the cast this season. More proof that it sucks so bad to come out in Hollywood, it is just easier to seize lesbian roles and keep your mouth shut. Or open, depending upon your point of view.

I'm amazed that Sarah Shahi made it outta there and landed as a regular on one of my favorite shows from last season, Life. I guess it helps if you are disturbingly beautiful therefore enabling casting directors to look past that hideous L Word spot on your Filmography list and to give you a fair shot.

The L Word is a kiss of death on good acting. I'm sure I've said this before, and it is worth pointing out again, that show has managed to take an actress that I consider to be fantastic, (Jane Lynch) and make her look like a terrible actor. No matter what she's in, she's incredible, except for The L Word. This season she's Cybill Shepherd's girlfriend. There's a joke there but I'm just going to move on.

I know what you are thinking, so turn the fucking channel and watch something else. Or better yet, read a book. My answer is not that simple. I am compelled to watch this crap because, again, it is the only game in town and they just might have a hot sex scene. That's it. That is all I can expect from them. No one is pregnant this season so we have a shot at not seeing pregnant sex, which was so disturbing last year that I'm still not really over it. Wait, I just realized it wasn't last season that the blonde chick was pregnant, it was the season before. See, it scarred me so much that it only feels like yesterday. Ten years from now, it will still feel like yesterday.

I want this show to be better. I really do. I want them to stop dipping into the well of clichés and really push the boundaries of plot. This is Season 5 for these 'tards and they have done nothing, absolutely nothing to be proud of. They have frittered away cable hours and viewers intelligence all the while patting themselves on the back in their vacuum world of formula bullshit. The L Word's character bios speaks for itself.

I'm done, I'm done. Its' January and we all know what that means. It's a new season of The L Word! Hurry, mute that fucking theme song!

Is it wrong to want to buy a $400 brown leather messenger bag? Without the whole, rational of, Jesus Christ Holly it's $400 or Jesus Christ Holly it's leather; pushing all that aside is it wrong to want it? I most certainly don't think it is worth $400. I mean what is? I can't think of anything other than some kind of electrical appliance that would justify a $400 purchase of one item.

I can spend a great deal on $10-$20 purchases but balk at anything over $50, except the Sundance Ring Bag. From the catalog page, it spoke to me. It somehow convinced me that its 'big, bold and handcrafted rich, rugged brown leather' was going to make my life complete. It's 'vintage inspiration' would make me feel young again, comfort found in my 70's hippy heritage.

Never mind the loose knowledge that I have of what goes on in a tannery. I mean talk about a long, toxic and filthy process. No matter, that bag spoke to me.

Yes, that is right you have guessed it. Martha has been out of town for several days and I've been home alone with nothing more then my thoughts to keep me in stitches. And I have to say, coming straight off of the whole Martha/Jazz dynamic it has been welcome chunk of solitude. Sometimes, they are like two cats in a pillowcase.

I am such a crazy little bee when left alone. I worked on my site, cleaned the house, and watched those types of movies that would drive Martha crazy. I stayed up way, way past my bedtime listening to music at ungodly levels while finally putting all my vinyl records away. I had quite the stack going on, an odd mixture of Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Kramer's The Guilt Trip, which is just fantastic by the way.

One of the perks to living in a house I suppose, I can be squirrelly all night long and who's going to notice? One night I was up so late, fucking around with bulb exposures on my Holga and popping a handheld flash at various things around the house, that even the cats had gone to bed, sleeping on top of the covers waiting for me to settle down.

But now, the reality of life returns as soon as Monday afternoon when I will be in the dentist chair having the hole in my mouth filled. I just hope that after a visit to the dentist a $400 purse does not seem like a reasonable purchase when compared to the bill. Usually the price of my dental work skews almost everything else. I've had one-hour visits cost more then our monthly rent at the high-rise.

Ah yes, the high-rise. Probably the coolest apartment I've ever had. I miss the high-rise. I think we all do. The only thing wrong with that apartment was when the neighbors would cook this horrifically stinky food. The stench would ooze out of the cracks in the door jam and no amount of hi-test incense or air freshener could make it stop. I don't know what it was but my god it was retched. I think I compared it once to what cooking a yak in bleach might smell like.

But I can't have a darkroom in a two-bedroom apartment. I feel like I'm living my very own Green Acres but only in my own head. I am equally Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert, having a fondness for both Manhattan and a Hooterville way of life. When I'm in Manhattan I'm in my element but when I'm home, holed up in my house for days on end, I'm pretty happy too.

I suppose I have a lot of duality in my brain. I think that's part of the problem, or so I'm told.