I knelt over the actress splayed on the patio, blood spraying from her forehead. “She’s gonna be fine,” I tried to convince myself as much as the crowd of A-listers that had gathered, their faces the color of the cement beneath them.

Moments earlier, I’d been serving up a plate of pot cookies to Braniston (as in Brad & Jen) at my BFF’s 4th of July party—warning them to “start with a half.” Now I was coming up with my defense strategy, trying to keep the star of 3rd Rock From the Sun from bleeding out. “The head bleeds more than any other part of the body,” I explained, kicking aside rubble from the cracked terracotta pot dotted with clumps of blood-caked hair and flesh strewn near the pool.

Somewhere back in time, before we carried the world in our pockets, just after the 80s and before the 2000s, was the 90s. Specifically, the late 90s—“the day” as many call it. Hollywood was (and still is) a paradox. Check under the hood of movie stars, power players, and bags of money, and you’ll find a frantic swarm of young dreamers clawing over one another to get to the top. They’d gnaw their own arm off to get a movie in theaters, a show on the air—anything to fill the deep void of unworthiness that brought them to Tinseltown in the first place.

My void formed at the age of three when I found my mother dead after my father shot her in the head. I was raised by my grandfather, a prolific Boston bank robber, prison escape artist, and 17-year Alcatraz inmate. I’ve always had the looming feeling that I was damaged goods, a bad luck charm, unworthy. Spend too much time with me and you’re lucky to escape with your life. While other kids were getting picked up from lessons and driven to sports, I was taking the bus by myself to classes for which I wasn’t registered. I’d arrive late, pretend I was supposed to be there, and ignore the instructor while I made up ridiculous tales of how I’d almost been kidnapped on the bus ride there. I was kicked out of Miss Debbie’s school of tap for “incessant chatter” and “inability to tap dance” and the fact that I “wasn’t actually enrolled.”

Like so many of my damaged comrades, I landed in Hollywood where I worked for a film production company. I rose from receptionist, to executive, to writer. I also met my boyfriend Steve. He’d stolen a lamination machine and made all-access passes for a pack of us to be side of the stage at U2. I was in love. I’d never met anyone who shared my penchant for mayhem and dark sense of humor who was actually sexy. It was relationship umami. Cosmic. Unruly. Two Lives of the Party in our own Life of the Party life. He was the only one I saw in a room. We reveled in the absurdity of it all (although the time he moved Stevie Wonder’s microphone just before the singer took the stage at a Grammy after party should’ve been a red flag). For the first time I felt adored, respected, vindicated. I’d finally found someone who understood me. The void shrunk just a little. Steve had quit (and by quit I mean was asked to quit) his job as assistant to the head of a studio to pursue his dream of writing horror movies. Arm in arm, we tore ass toward destiny. But destiny ain’t free… or fast. For a screenwriter, the process from idea to money-in-the-bank is usually protracted and always tenuous. Since neither of us got lucky with a lineage of generational wealth, a consistent revenue stream was in order.

Steve worked the brunch shift on weekends at a trendy Hollywood cafe until the day he realized he was taking a waffle order from the studio exec he’d be pitching that week. He sent the bus-girl out with the food (she’s a famous actor now), quit the gig, and came home to tell me he needed a new side-hustle.

Divine providence in the form of Whit, the lead singer of a two-hit-wonder 90s rock band, sent us to Guillermo, a 6’2“ Puerto Rican genius with life-altering ADHD. Hollywood’s premier pot grower. Our mentor for the next few years. Guerms (as we called him) inspected the second bedroom recently vacated by my gay BFF. He informed us it had the two elements needed to grow a hydroponic crop: a gas hookup and a water hook-up. Who knew those random pipes jutting from the wall were so integral? Dollar signs danced in our eyes. Clearly, this was meant to be.

Days later, Guerms showed up, Sawzall in one hand, joint in the other, ready to turn our second bedroom into one of Hollywood’s premier grow-rooms. Steve and I glanced at one another. “Are we really doing this?” My mental rolodex flipped through my options. The cloying voice of Judy Kramer, our crone landlady in New Jersey, threatening an LA visit to check her “retirement plan” echoed in my mind. Given the frugality with which she approached the maintenance of the property, I wagered she was too cheap to buy a ticket. There was also the matter of the significant prison sentence we risked receiving by growing cannabis in LA at that time. It was illegal under both state and federal law. Private operations were targeted by law enforcement so entrenched in their belief that cannabis needed to be eradicated, they used infrared cameras in helicopters to detect unusual heat signatures associated with indoor grow rooms using high-wattage lights.

I could think of nothing else that was lucrative enough while allowing us time to write. I envisioned my grandfather holding four prison guards hostage after a botched escape attempt from New England’s oldest state prison— the move that landed him in Alcatraz. This wasn’t as bad as that! I nodded to Guerms, scratching the itch of my generational trauma. He fired up the Sawzall, slicing a 12’ diameter hole straight through the carpet and hardwood floor. The 600-gallon reservoir he’d be overseeing us build to water the crop would need drainage, he explained while holding in a giant bong rip.

The room became a full-blown construction zone. Foam core lined the walls. Rubber pond-liner covered the floor, beveling where the floor meets the wall, stopping just under the electrical outlets. The bedroom window faced the street so we set-decorated it to not draw attention from our neighbors. Curtains were hung as if the room was inhabited—but unbeknownst to passers-by, they were backed with black-out foam core to prohibit light leakage, which would disrupt the growth cycle, which meant no crop, which meant no money.

The space was divided into three ecosystems emulating the natural growth cycle of the cannabis plant. The perfect amount of light, water, airflow, nutrients… it was as painstaking as trying to recreate nature, deepening my reverence for Mother Earth.

Entering the room was akin to what I would imagine it would be like to step aboard a spaceship with a huge hydroponic grow room. Blinding white light, incessant mechanical hum, and a crop of healthy weed plants bursting with joy. The “NICU” or clone zone (a leaf with a small stem) began the cycle. Next lived the “teenagers”—clones matured to foot high plants, into the blossom room where twelve 1200-watt grow lights hung from the ceiling above twelve trays of 4-foot plants with buds so dense we called them donkey dicks. This area mimicked summer so the lights were on for sixteen hours a day.

Steve had studied biochem and theater in college and lo and behold was actually using both majors, writing scripts by day and facilitating the ultimate chemistry experiment by night. Calculating the precise amount of nutrient essential for all the growth cycles took skill—too much of any one chemical compound could fry the entire crop. I was the farm-hand and master trimmer which required zero brain power but a solid work ethic because newsflash—it’s BORING trimming leaves off hundreds of plants. Even doing so high off my ass on the product. I’d rush out of a trim session, shimmy out of my plastic work jumpsuit, and pitch studios praying I didn’t have “nose blindness” and could no longer smell the weed I reeked of. I slipped between the two worlds with disturbing ease. Somehow, I compartmentalized the fact that one power surge from our overloaded electrical sub-panel could cause the place to ignite in flames or I could pull in the driveway straight into a LAPD sting operation. Desperation makes everything possible.

One night, we swung the door open to discover the reservoir overflowing, the entire floor flooded with about a foot of water (pond liner is effective!) Without a second thought, Steve waded in to turn off the hose. “You’ll get fried!!!” I screamed. He was focused on saving the crop, switching the breakers off before he realized he was shin-deep in potentially live water. I never say I’m not a lucky lady.

The sound of sirens of any kind—ambulance, fire, police, the ones in my mind—sent us into full panic. And trust me, living in the heart of Hollywood, there were plenty of sirens. There were also a lot of helicopters—LAPD had the esteemed distinction of being one of the first law enforcement agencies in the world to integrate helicopters into their operations in the 1950s. In our neighborhood, there were helicopters hovering overhead at least a few times a week. We crossed our fingers they were just pursuing run-of-the-mill criminals robbing houses and not reading our power output.

Eight months after construction, it was finally time to harvest, we entered with clippers in our gloved hands surveying our crop, a sea of about a hundred and fifty 4-foot-high shiva plants preening from rock wool cubes toward the blinding light. A forest in the middle of Hollywood.

The harvest was a demonstration of our diligence, commitment to our craft, and tribute to our talents. It was so satisfying that frankly, it made us horny. Under the canopy of girthy, happy donkey dicks we made sweet, sweet love—then unceremoniously cut them all down. I hauled brimming trash bags to the living room, laid down newspaper, and embarked on a trimming odyssey. The risk was paying off. Then—DING DONG. The front door.

Through the peephole stood our persnickety gay neighbor, lips pursed like he’d been sucking lemons. “How’s it going?” I asked, slipping out the door so he couldn’t glimpse the stacks of bud. “We’ve got a problem,” he snipped. “Oh yeah?” I’m a terrible actor. “We’ve got a major skunk infestation. We’re gonna need to hire an exterminator before they take over the whole neighborhood.” We’d noticed the smell problem in the front yard when the plants first started flowering. Now, months later, with a hundred and fifty plants in full bloom, the smell made your eyes water. We’d broached it with Guerms, but the industrial-sized charcoal air filter we needed cost a couple thousand dollars. “I know, it’s like the skunks moved in for pilot season. We’re in for whatever you guys want to do. Just let us know.” With that, I slipped back inside and through the peep hole watched him poke around our front bushes for any evidence of skunk action.

Procuring customers to purchase our product was easy. First of all, it was quality bud: uptime, creative, fun. Second, all our friends partook. And their friends. And so on. Actors, movie stars, writers, producers, musicians, rock stars, teachers, grips, professors, studio execs, music execs, waiters, accountants—everyone. We were rolling in piles of cash which we kept in the drawer of my wooden desk. Need crap from Target? Grab a fistful of cash and get everything you need and don’t need. We paid our bills with cashier’s checks then got lazy and deposited straight into the bank, which meant taxes. Luckily, our accountant was rock and roll, with the platinum records on his wall to prove it.

One customer was a famous character actor friend whom I’d known since before his career took off. He’d come by to grab a bag and shoot the shit. I’d sworn off ever asking him to read my stuff after the last time he invited me on a hike to talk about attaching himself to a script of mine he liked. I spent three and a half hours ascending Angeles Crest talking about everything under the beating hot sun, as I agonized waiting for him to bring it up, trying not to appear as the desperate climber I was. When every single one of my artful 40-pound tester-line hints fell on stoned, fallow ears, a viciously painful Hollywood doctrine crystallized for me: just because a friend can help you doesn’t mean they will. I grew indignant, resentful, as I screamed in my head promising never to supplicate myself like that again. I kept that promise too, until a couple weeks later when at my place, baggie in hand, he was once again insisting on reading my latest saying he had a new manager who could possibly get it into the right hands. Ignoring the shrieks in my head warning me otherwise, I hit send on an email with my latest project attached. Worse than a hike through the hottest ring of hell, his response was crickets. Not even a weed order. I was incensed—mostly at myself for being so deeply wounded and pathetic that I would allow myself to once again be duped into thinking he would throw down the ladder I thought I deserved. It took me weeks to work through the fury of betraying myself after knowing better.

Then one day a message (on the answering machine) asking me to deliver a bag of weed to him on the set of his new movie without even so much as a mention of my script. The levels of disrespect. Did he not know how devastatingly desperate for a slice of glory I was like all of us in this ridiculous town?

My thoughts descended on me like psychotic paratroopers. How could I have fallen prey to his empty promises once again? I had no one to blame but myself—which made it even worse. Did he not realize I was risking my life for the glory, approval, and kudos from him and a town teeming with insecure people pleasers like me? Maybe I’d been reduced to just a weed slinger in his eyes—all artisanal credibility lost. It wasn’t fair that luck befell even the most talentless oafs while visionaries with singular POVs aren’t dignified with an update at the very least. The void isn’t gonna fill itself, people. I called him back spewing a toxic message of indignations that included but wasn’t limited to such relevant topics as: ego maniacism, audacity, inordinate amounts of gall, the prancing of a high horse, the spikes that should be welded to the seat of the throne on which fat cats sat, diamond encrusted chalices, patronization, condescension, deterioration of friendships, humanity, common decency, Hollywood schmucks, the razor-thin membrane between luck and talent, ring kissing and my refusal to do so. In a town where survival requires a certain amount of puckering up, delivering such a venomous message was bound to backfire spectacularly. He didn’t speak to me for the next eight years.

At the homestead, I began seeing our clientele as representatives of my failure to rapidly achieve my dreams. I became intolerant of our customers coming for a quarter and staying for the hangout. They’d plop down on the couch and NEVER LEAVE. No one suspected that on the other side of the living room wall was a full-scale grow room. In this way, our Life of the Party personalities diverged. Steve looooved a chit-chat. I didn’t. Day in and day out, I’m in for a “Great to see you, here’s your baggie, hand me the cash and godspeed.” I’d whisk in from a studio meeting or a trip to the hydroponic shop, ready to get down to writing, and Steve would be holding court with a sofa full of stoned randos flipping through the I Ching, which he’d suck me into because who can resist the I Ching? I was getting nothing done and that wasn’t working for me. I had a mom-size void to fill here.

One thing was for sure, it wasn’t worth the $80 we were getting for an eighth. I decided we should only sell quarters at $160 a pop and instituted the use of THE CLOG.

Picture a natural wood Dutch clog—you know, the kind the Dutch wore in the olden days. Our neighbor, a historian from Washington DC and our nation’s leading expert on First Ladies, had gifted it to us after his trip to the Netherlands for the coronation of the Monarch.

We nestled the clog next to the sad potted ficus on the porch (expending all our agricultural prowess on the garden inside) and implemented a new collection protocol. For years to come, customers collected their bag from The Clog, tucking in a quarter ounce or two in the toe part with our clientele tucking their money in there in exchange. Miraculously, it worked. For many years. The Clog was like a magically replenishing bank machine. Of course, there was always the concern our neighbors would see the heavy stream of weirdos very interested in a wooden clog coming to our porch, get suspicious, and call the cops. Once again, luck was on our side, and that never happened. Nor did anyone ever steal money or product from The Clog.

With our bills covered, our lifestyle of movies, concerts, and Target on a whim taken care of, Steve and I decided a trip to Hawaii was in order. Where to find the extra money? The room was already producing full-tilt but Guerms informed us the opportunity of a side-hustle on our side-hustle. When one trims a bud, one inevitably shaves some of it off and those scraps are called shake which can be used to make the most potent of pot cookies. A few baking lessons later, and I was baking the strongest cookies this side of the 405. They were also known as acid cookies and they were chewy, gooey, and delicious.

One 4th of July, my BFF Dan called in an order. He and his wife, a hilarious character actor of screens big and small, needed a batch for Brad and Jen who were esteemed guests at their legendary annual holiday rager.

In the LA July heat, with no air conditioning, I baked the most glorious batch of acid cookies. Every batch came with a warning, “start with a half.” It was my mantra. Friends told me it should be the title of my autobiography. The kitchen was hotter than the oven. Never before had I perspired from the backs of my knees. Worth it to break bread—or cookies—with Brad and Jen.

Through the backyard perched atop the hills overlooking the valley, Steve and I waded through famous people: Sheryl Crow, Melissa Etheridge, Lily Tomlin—when Dan charged toward us in full party host overwhelm, grabbed the cookies, and darted off. “Start with a half,” I half-assed as the crowd engulfed him. I turned to Steve, “He’s gotta introduce us to Brad and Jen after I spent the day baking in a sweat lodge.” Steve looked unconfident and off we ventured in pursuit of Dan to get the respect we deserved as the long-suffering bakers of the best pot cookies in LA. We neared Braniston, glowing and gorgeous, devouring a couple cookies at Dan’s behest. “Start with a ha–” I attempted lamely, when from across the yard, CRACK followed by a series of shrieks. The party stopped. Brad, Jen, Dan, me, Steve, Melissa Etheridge, and Bette Midler all spun around to look.

On the patio, collapsed like a contorted marionette bent at impossible angles, was a tall, sexy, unconscious star of 3rd Rock From the Sun. “Last thing she ate was one of the pot cookies!” someone screamed which was my exit cue. After some hasty damage control, Steve and I muscled through the crowd, out the door, and careened my convertible VW bug home in silence. With the simple act of baking a batch of cookies, I’d leg-swept my life; screenwriting, the grow room, maybe my best friend, quite possibly my freedom. Vaporized. The next day, Dan reported the injured party was fine—it was a minor head wound that so far didn’t appear to be brain damage. Life altering incident averted.

In the beginning, it felt like Hollywood was the answer, the glittering prize that could fill the void in my life. I thought if we could just sell that script, see our names on the big screen, or feel the thrill of “making it,” the emptiness would disappear. And for a while, we did it. We sold scripts. Movies got made. The validation poured in. But the void remained—because nothing external, no amount of success, money, or recognition, could ever truly fill that.

The truth was always within us. The only way to fill that void was through love—first, a love for myself, and then a love for Steve, my soulmate. Together, we had something more valuable than any Hollywood dream: true love. It wasn’t just a romance; it was a partnership, a foundation that gave the whole project of our lives meaning.

We weren’t just hustling to “make it.” We were building something far more profound than a career. We were growing a life—a life rooted in love, trust, and shared purpose. It wasn’t the scripts we sold or the risks we took that made it worth it. It was the life we built together, where even the wildest ventures felt anchored by the undeniable truth that we had each other. Hollywood didn’t fill the void. The love we grew—and the life it created—did.