middle of hollywood

I don’t know if I can fully express what Carrie Fisher means to me, but she is and always has been my hero. I was three years old when I saw Star Wars: A New Hope, and her performance as Princess Leia has massively impacted my life ever since. Obviously, I wouldn’t even have this blog if it wasn’t for her, but the more I have learned about her through the years, the more I admire her. 

As a writer and a woman who suffers from mental illness myself, seeing Carrie’s successes has always served as an inspiration to me. She is an award-winning author, an outspoken advocate for mental illness, a girl who grew up in the middle of Hollywood craziness, who was exposed to body shaming at 19 and became a huge advocate for body positivity as an adult, an extremely loving mother and role model to her daughter, and an inspiration to millions. 

I don’t really know what else I could say about her. There’s not really a away to put it into words. I just want her to get better. Please, keep her in your thoughts.

Whenever Hollywood needs a “brown skinned” Middle Eastern looking villain, they have NO problem finding a slew of them to fill the role, YET when trying to cast someone to portray the great Persian poet Rumi who came from what is now Afghanistan, they pick a blue eyed fair haired Leonardo DiCaprio? What kind of bullshit is that? Rumi, much like Jesus, was NOT white!
—  Mike Hanini Odetalla

anonymous asked:

you've never heard of the la brea tar pits? unfortunately no one has drowned in them yet

no i havent heard of the fucking tar pits from the dinosaur times that actually exist in this the year 2016 in the middle of fucking hollywood like what the fuck

“The first time I saw them after they got divorced, you swore you still thought they were married, nothing changes, their looks, the way they greeted each other.”

 - Bob Hope

500 Million Reasons

As the continental flight finally landed at its destination, Roman immediately felt the smog hit him straight in the nostrils and nearly gagged as a result.

Yup, good ole Vinewood. Why the hell was he back here again for anyway? He may have grown up here, but he damn sure knew he wouldn’t receive a warm welcome here.

Shuffling his way through the airport, Roman quickly made for the transportation exit, hopping inside a taxi. As the taxi took a back road to avoid all of the LA traffic, Roman took off his shades, trying to clear his mind. So. Much. Shit.

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( continued from here@gangstersbumboy​. )

      It looks as though he’s stepped into the middle of a Hollywood crime scene, the room an intricate mess of blood and broken glass, and he’s unsure if he should still piss or just step out now. No wonder no one came running — either they knew what they saw when Teddy went into the washroom after a bloke, or they just genuinely didn’t hear the guttered screams over the bass line thumping through the club.

      Eggsy decides to take his chance. He walks over to one of the clean urinal, unzipping his fly. Besides, Harry might be pleased if he made ‘Mad Teddy’ his acquaintance, might give them some insight in the Krays that they’ve been working on for months now. 

      “Some of the bartenders. Ah, probably ain’t so bad. What’d the bloke do to deserve somethin’… somethin’ like this? Crawl up the wrong tree?” He tries to play it cool, avoiding eye contact as he pisses, trying to keep awareness of anyone walking up behind him. Last thing he wants is a glass shard in his back.


Today is Earth Day! In honor of Earth Day, and of my commitment to celebrate (and grow my own!) kale with Naked Juice, I want to tell you a story about a garden. A secret garden, in the middle of Hollywood.

When I moved to LA in 2013, I was used to walking as my primary mode of transport. In San Francisco, where I lived before, I hadn’t even owned a car. I walked. I took (gasp) the bus. I Ubered. In LA, though, a person without a car is a human disempowered. Still, I was determined to walk my neighborhood, to get to know the streets and hills surrounding me. Call it stubbornness, call it foolishness, or call it sheer luck, my strong willed desire to walk the land where I live delivered me to the gates of Wattles Community Garden.

A sprawling acreage of avocado orchards, honeysuckle, eucalyptus, roses, herbs, fruit trees, and individual garden plots, Wattles was nestled behind a high chainlink fence grown over with flowering vines and studded with the overeager branches of fig trees. I walked by it for weeks before I grew brave enough to peek around the fence and find the sign at the entrance.

Read more and get the recipe here.