By Lisa T.
4.7
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The podcast currently has 10 episodes available.
Watching John Carpenter's classic 1988 dystopian film in late 2024 hits different.
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A treatise on the history of the use of the word "fart" as a universal ice breaker.
At the ripe old age of 44, I recently moved back home after a 22-year bout in Hollywood, in which I attempted the wildest maneuver of my family’s entire existence (at least to my knowledge)—to break into writing for TV and movies in Hollywood. The sheer audacity of believing that I could level jump in such an extreme way came mostly from a place of lifelong confidence in my academics. Prior to moving to Los Angeles sight unseen, the furthest west I had been was in Alabama.
When my mother tried to tell someone at my preschool—I believe it was—because I was four-years-old, that I was reading signs on the road, they dismissed her by saying, “Well, a lot of children her age recognize brands like McDonald’s or Burger King.” It was at that point that she revealed that I was rattling off billboards that read, “Luxurious Condominiums,” and quite probably following that with whatever the price of luxurious condominiums happened to be in Central Florida in the early eighties.
I was subsequently tested thoroughly in kindergarten, after which time it was suggested that I skip grades every other year, Doogie Howser-style, until I swiftly completed high school. My parents agreed that I should skip a total of one grade. My strongest skills included decoding and mastering standardized tests, which, in the U.S. school system, is considered the height of academic ability. From there, school was pretty much smooth sailing for me.
While I didn’t aspire to or achieve all A’s, my grades were solid, and I could always deflect any deficiencies by pointing out that I was already one year ahead of my peers. I even attended a German Gymnasium (university-bound high school) for four years when we lived there as a U.S. army family, which is where I became fluent in German and proficient in French.
My parents met in high school. My father was raised in a trailer park by a single mother with two younger brothers. He had a deadbeat dad—an engineer of some sort—who was rarely in the picture, and famously did not pay child support. From a very young age, my dad mowed lawns in the trailer park in exchange for a reduction in rent. He was a source of income for his family for probably most of the entirety of his life. As big as he was, he was never as invisible as he would have liked to be.
My mother is the oldest of six, a family of immigrants from Colombia. She excelled in school, was a Girl Scout, and boasted a flawless native accent in both English (American) and Spanish (Colombian). Gregarious and energetic, she was a familiar sight on the football field, running around and encouraging the crowd during games as the school mascot, Little Willie, complete with a coonskin cap for hootin’ and hollerin’ placed atop her long, dark hair. Never shy about raising her hand in class, she was confident and loved sharing the answer, if she knew it.
The two families knew each other, and when my parents (both the eldest of their broods) came together, they managed to harness the building momentum of the Boomer Generation to achieve a level of financial security that I’m pretty confident was beyond anything anyone before them had achieved, on both sides.
They both attended and finished college, earning themselves the coveted degree that back then, practically came with a guarantee of success. My mother, I believe, was the first in her family to do so. My father, a gentle, but physically intimidating 6’5” blonde, blue-eyed dreamer, struggled to find his focus. He attended several educational institutions before managing to finish at the small, but prestigious private school in central Florida, where my mother had achieved her degree years prior.
I represent such a combination of the two. However, my mother’s ability to excel in the structured environment of academics instilled in her the confidence to take on capitalism and thrive in a way that I simply have never been able to do myself. Instead, I struggled with the same challenges that had plagued my father until he finally landed on a career that seemed completely out of the realm of what was possible: airplane pilot. It was, sadly, the job that ultimately took his life a few short years beyond my current age, but the prescient planning that he did just before his untimely passing provided my mother with the windfall to propel her to use her mastery of process to maintain her financial independence and freedom ever since.
Losing my father the spring break before my college graduation in a plane crash changed the entire trajectory of my life. Prior to that, I was uncertain what my next move was after graduation. The degree I received that year was in journalism, from a public university, with a minor in film studies and French. I had a notion that I wanted to be a writer, but as anyone who has pursued a career in writing knows, there is no clear or direct path to financial security and success.
I remember talking to my guidance counselor in college, who told me, quite frankly, that writers were required to become experts in two arenas in order to have a viable career: writing, and some other topic in which you had to become professionally knowledgeable, so that you could get paid to write about it.
I asked what the most lucrative writing career was, to which she replied casually, “Oh, writing for film and television.” What a delightful surprise it was to hear that the funnest-sounding writing job also paid the best. I literally never even considered becoming a journalist, as it seemed that it was an occupation on the verge of disappearing altogether. If becoming an expert in all things film and television were the assignment, I was more than up to the task.
I feel like my story resembles that of many former long-time “aspiring” something-or-others consumed, processed and rejected by the City of Angels. After toiling for years, I finally called it quits. Truth is, though, in October 2023, I started posting pro-Palestine satirical comedic reels on my Instagram, which is when I truly burned any and all bridges I could possibly have had left in Hollywood.
Subconsciously, I knew exactly what I was doing. I had been in the process of deciding whether or not to go all in on trying to sell the half hour comedy series I had been developing called Neighborhood Council, but my heart wasn’t in it. Selling any part of myself has always felt so cheap to me. If you like what I have to say, then speak up and buy it. That’s the energy I’ve always had about my work, much to my own financial detriment. I’m not saying it’s the best perspective to have, but it’s the truth about how I’ve always operated.
When last October hit, I felt obligated to speak up about Palestine, as soon as I felt I had educated myself sufficiently on the subject, which, as it turns out, doesn’t require that much additional historical context to be crystal clear how one should feel about the subject, ethically. I was more shocked at my long-time glaring ignorance on the matter, as the situation seemed quite obvious once I had engaged in a single day of thorough research.
My Instagram account had amassed a following between thirty and fifty thousand (I forgot the actual number at the time) by taking on anti-celebrity worship and pointing out instances of hypocritical injustice, all with fart jokes peppered throughout. Additionally, I had a few blue check industry faces that I knew would see my posts, and whom I was hopeful would take the time to absorb the information I was cheekily and sometimes sneakily sharing in my posts.
I felt it would make zero sense for me to blatantly choose to ignore the issue of genocide in Palestine—not to me, and certainly not to my followers, who were following me in the first place because of my willingness to be bold.
Shortly after I had folded in Palestine into the issues I tackled in my daily Instagram reels, I started getting accused of being antisemitic, racist, and a host of other things I can’t remember right now. However, with a long-time career of working in social media and web writing in general, my Internet skin is thick and pretty impervious to insults and jabs made by randos online. If they ain’t payin’ yo bills, don’t pay them no mind—or so I’ve heard.
But it wasn’t the comments and direct messages insulting and/or condescending to me that were the real problem. It was the deafening silence from my industry peers and friend groups. To be clear, there are more than several individuals in my circle whom I witnessed take a similar path to mine, choosing to be vocal, rather than to sit quietly and pray that nobody look to them to see what their opinion was of the situation in Palestine. They inspired me to keep going—to go even harder, because they proved they were willing to come along for the ride.
I understood that what I was doing was ensuring that I “wouldn’t ever work in this town again.” And I was fine with that. I found myself becoming increasingly more disgusted with the (at least to me) obvious singular objective of Hollywood to support Zionism by upholding the perceived victimhood of all Jewish people through film and television in order to maintain the justification of the existence of the settler state of Israel through widespread, systematic blackmail and intimidation.
Unlike many writers in the industry I seemed to meet—aspiring and otherwise—I had actually taken many film classes in college, as well as throughout the course of my career. As a result, I started putting pieces together by looking back in history at how it was Jewish gangsters who originally founded what we refer to with nostalgia as Tinsel Town. If my perspective on how the movie business started is considered antisemitic, then it’s literally only because I have the audacity to point out facts and patterns about the industry that they themselves have proudly admitted time and again.
I have since gone down so many rabbit holes (which I plan to explore here on the Lisa Farts You Substack in many subsequent articles, I’m sure) that have led me to the general conclusion that Hollywood preys on children. Not only does it prey on children, it is not some sort of accidental collateral damage considered part of the price of making movies. It’s the whole literal point.
For as long as Hollywood has existed, there have been child movie stars. Shirley Temple and The Little Rascals represent some of the earliest faces anyone ever saw in early films. In fact, one rabbit hole that sucked me in pretty quickly was about The Little Rascals cast and their storylines. The cryptic secret society symbolism and episodes involving the young orphans and elderly rich couples are just a few aspects of the deep dives that I’m planning to cover.
I’ve personally never been comfortable with the fact that just because Hollywood is perceived by the mainstream public as “glamorous,” somehow employing child labor on a regular basis is socially acceptable and legal. Every time I’ve seen an actual newborn on screen, I have cringed at the thought that this innocent creature is experiencing some of its first hours on the planet on a cold film set surrounded by strangers and bright, glaring lights, all while having a small piece of its soul stolen by a camera recording. If parents were willing to inflict this, what else were they willing to agree to allow to be done to their as-of-yet still innocent children?
When I was able to fully accept the dark truth that all Hollywood money is, in fact, blood money, I could no longer attempt to pursue a career in the entertainment industry. Thankfully, I was in a position to simply walk away, hoping to lick my wounds from the financial beating I had taken over the past couple of years.
Once I had made that decision, I became completely unemployable in entertainment. To be fair, over the past five years, I chose to isolate myself, first because of the COVID lockdown. Later, I realized that my disengagement from the system at large had given me an opportunity do what I had always desperately wanted to figure out how to do, which was to get off the hamster wheel and really think about what it was I was pursuing without any outside influence. All illusions that I could “craft a cozy little career of my own” eventually faded away into the background as I found myself drifting into a more bleak but realistic reality that actually, finally made sense to me.
But what of my Instagram account? Earlier this year, I boasted 100k followers, but I am now currently holding strong at 94.2k as of the writing of this article as a result of regular shadowbanning and other social media tactics of suppression. As a result, I haven’t been able to make a living through monetization, but it has kept my message crystal clear.
My anti-overconsumption stance has made it all but impossible for me to sell anything either. However, I am currently working on a signature, small batch “Lisa Farts You” t-shirt featuring an original design of mine as a limited edition wearable art piece. It’s taken me years to craft an idea for something to sell that I can morally get behind. More on that in a later post. Stay tuned!
All this to say, I don’t think my situation is all that unique at the moment. So many other aspiring writers, directors, actors, producers, and [insert Hollywood dream job here], have gone into significant debt simply trying to survive these past several years in an industry that already requires you to pretend to be better off than you actually are. Fake it till you make it, baby.
Those of us Hollywood hopefuls have all been hedging our bets that the years and dollars invested into our ability to be readily available when our life-changing opportunity would finally present itself, only to find that the career dreams we all had were actually walking night terrors.
With less multi-cam sitcoms on the air, and above-the-line strikes routinely pushing out those at the bottom of their organizations every couple of years, increasingly fewer coveted writer spots have existed year after year. Fewer opportunities, consolidation of merged corporations, competition with digital media for eyeballs, and the ever-looming threat that A.I. could take your assembly line, robotic, “creative” job away from you, has all but made survival utterly hopeless in Hollywood for most except a select few.
As more and more names are being named in connection to the Diddy human trafficking case, entire careers are being firebombed in the process. As the Hollywood empire continues imploding to quietly die a messy, terrible death in front of our eyes, I hope that perhaps my story will inspire those still unwilling to walk away to ask themselves if all of this is still what they want. What could a dream possibly cost these days, given the state of inflation? Whatever it is. It ain’t worth it.
California’s film and TV industry is in crisis. What can be done to fix it?
This is the maudlin headline alert from the L.A. Times (to which I no longer subscribe, but from whom I still get headline alerts) that popped up on my phone yesterday afternoon.
“Oh wow,” I thought to myself. “I can’t believe they’re actually acknowledging it’s over.”
For the past twenty-two years, I was a member of the throng of guest workers who had relocated to Los Angeles, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and hungry for a piece of real estate, with a freshly printed resume in one hand, and a college degree in the other, to justify my cutting to the front of the line over the less fortunate working class locals.
Ever seen that silly movie starring Christina Aguilera and Cher entitled, Burlesque? Kudos to you if you haven’t, but if you have, then you might remember the scene in which a hopeful starlet-to-be, played by Xtina, cheerfully purchases a one-way ticket to Hollywood because not becoming a star is simply not an option.
Much like the Dirrty girl herself, I believed that I was talented, hardworking and inventive enough to defy statistics, and achieve my dream of a successful career in Hollywood. However, unlike her character, my dream was decidedly more behind-the-scenes, but no less seemingly unattainable: I yearned to be a TV comedy writer.
More specifically, I wanted to be a showrunner of my own hit comedy series on a major network. Crazy thing is, I do believe that after I had acquired my ten thousand hours of working in assistant positions, taking endless writing classes, tearing through script after script, performing improv live for audiences on a weekly basis, I probably had reached a point where, damn, I guess I had actually become overqualified for the job.
But what I naively hadn’t realized for two whole decades was that literally none of my qualifications mattered. In fact, being overqualified, talented and in possession of way too much confidence and self-worth, I had all but guaranteed that I wouldn’t get picked.
Because the truth about Hollywood, I learned finally and unequivocally in a very abbreviated amount of time post-October 7th of 2023, was that vampire rules applied.
You must be invited inside, or you simply may not cross the threshold.
They also really want you to do stuff that you don’t want to do. The entertainment industry has such a boner for nonconsensual nonsense, even for the lowest of stakes. It all takes place on a spectrum, of course. It’s not all Harvey Weinstein obvious shenanigans I’m referencing.
In fact, I managed to obliviously stay pretty clear of all but some pretty tame misbehavior and abuse for most of my career. Nobody escapes trauma-free, of course, but I did get away quite unscathed compared to most of my peers.
So, it’s here, from my safe vantage point of my family’s home far-far away where I have oh-so-recently relocated that I’m writing with a mix of both morbid curiosity and deep nostalgia about the only writing subject that has ever afforded me a living in Hollywood:
Celebrity Gossip
You see, prior to my “finally getting serious about my TV writing career” in the past decade and change, I had an entirely different career altogether. For about a decade or so (on and off for several years there, like any guilty pleasure relationship), I earned a living by writing for an entertainment gossip blog called: A Socialite’s Life (which was eventually branded to SocialiteLife.com because: brevity.)
A lovely man named Michael Prieve—still the gentlest, kindest, fairest boss I have ever had—started the website from his home in the chilly Midwest. He created the character of Miu von Fuerstenberg (a fictional distant relative of Diane’s) who was fond of LBDs and dirty martinis. He started posting photos of celebrities and snarky commentary, and the site quickly grew in followers and ad revenue.
By the time I found the ad Michael had placed on Craigslist, looking for a boots-on-the-ground writer in Los Angeles to help him scale back on writing duties to focus on managing the growing site, his readership had started to rival that of a modest grocery store rack gossip magazine. We hit it off immediately over my phone interview, and I would proceed to work with Michael in some way, shape or form over the span of about ten years.
So, imagine my delight when I realized that the form of writing that I had elevated above my comedic muckraking (which was writing for TV and movies, because, let’s be honest, I also wanted to write those too, with an eye on directing, but I digress) was nothing more than Zionist propaganda intended to keep the world distracted with cheerful clowns and seductive sirens while WWIII rages on in multiple locations around the world in the form of genocide, mass enslavement and brainwashing.
And so, here we both find ourselves.
I can all but guarantee you’re here now because you’ve enjoyed my tongue-in-cheek Instagram reel celebrity voiceovers, which means that you know that I’m a big fan of one Ms. Jennifer Lopez AKA JLo AKA Jenny from the Block AKA “I don’t know her.”
The Latin Explosion
As a woman of a certain age and ethnic heritage, I remember all-too-well the era in the late 90s and early 00s when Jennifer Lopez exploded onto the pop music scene, along with several other pop stars, in a wave of Latin artists known collectively as “The Latin Explosion.”
While managing to sound like my personal experience of eating seafood at a Mexican flea market in downtown Los Angeles in the summer in my early twenties, that spicy wave helped Jennifer surf onto the radio and music video charts, cresting with her win at the 2000 Grammy Awards.
Did you think I meant that she won a Grammy? Oh, absolutely not. That would be ridiculous. She was nominated, but I’m talking about how she won big with the now iconic, green Versace dress she wore with the sheer fabric and plunging neckline.
And who was it she had on her arm at the event? None other than her now ex-fiancé Sean “Diddy” Combs in a signature all-white suit, just like he would sport at his many white parties at sea in international waters with a star-studded list of international celebrities.
I think I remember once reading a gossip item that Star Jones was rumored to have ruined a white couch at one such party by accidentally smearing it with her heavy makeup. Or maybe it was just a random white couch at a random celebrity party. In any case, there seemed to be miles of white fabric being used all throughout the early 2000s and beyond just to keep the many famous guests in attendance clothed in their signature pristine white outfits.
While many of those on social media platforms may be too young to remember firsthand these events play out on our television sets and choppy web browsers, not only do I remember it all—I often had to write about it.
In a case of Happily Never After, JLo and Diddy ended their engagement a year after her splashy Grammy appearance in the green dress, and Jennifer hasn’t been nominated for another Grammy ever since.
Since their relationship, she seems to have gone from one high-profile relationship to another, perhaps hoping to distract herself and the public at large from the fact that at one point, she and Diddy were ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED.
Considering his recent arrest and the horrifying video footage that you’ve surely already seen of Combs abusing his long-time ex, Cassie, in a hotel hallway, it’s no wonder that I assumed that JLo would be currently sweating bullets now that she no longer has the shield of a stoic-looking Ben Affleck on her arm.
I remember the first time around those guys were an item, and I’m only now realizing that it seems pretty convenient that she got herself attached so quickly to Ben Affleck after her split from Diddy. Ben managed to radiate the kind of “aw shucks” regular American guy movie star quality that JLo seemed to so desperately need by her side.
Why would she so desperately need him? Well, a fact that is only now seeming to become more important to the general public is that both JLo and Diddy were both arrested in 1999 as a result of a shooting at a club in NYC earlier that year that heavily involved the high-profile couple.
While it’s unclear to me if the original articles published about the incident are still available online, social media and podcasts are keeping the oral tradition of gossip alive by allowing industry insiders like Jaguar Wright, Suge Knight and Katt Williams to spread their gospel to the general public about what sort of nefarious dealings they allege some of your faves have been engaged in for decades, including—but not limited to—Jennifer Lopez.
So, dearest commenters who have been asking me in the comments of my Instagram posts for context when I’m dropping my very cryptic industry references, here is where you will find it. I can already tell I’m going to have fun getting back into the longform/blog post version of what I love doing already pretty much every day on my Instagram account.
If you’re interested in delving into the depths of all this ridiculousness with me, while also being open to some pretty fringe ideas of what is going on behind the scenes in Hollywood, and how it can help you to understand the logic behind the controlled chaos in which we are currently living—politics, war, celebrity worship, and espionage—you should definitely subscribe. Come, let’s unravel this awful mess together.
XOXOYour Gossip Girl
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Although Gwyneth has been avoiding it, she’s finally forced to revisit her encounter at Belinda's family home in order to get her hands on an intensely personal item of Belinda’s at the behest of Dr. Moreau. Hugging the corners of every twist and turn, Gwyneth narrates the vistas of her journey from the heavenly hilltop upon which she dwells, down into the very pitiful bowels of this City of Angeles where Belinda’s house insists on existing.
With all eyes on Gwyneth, she can't help but give the public what they want, which is a no-holds barred, hard-hitting investigation into the disappearance of America's favorite housekeeper, Belinda.
Written, voiced and produced by Lisa Timmons.
Gwyneth Palcho's investigation of her memories of what happened to her missing housekeeper Belinda lead her on a manic race to the Goop laboratory for answers. But before she can get there, she has to take a tour down memory lane lead by her subconscious to the origins of the lab, as well as its illustrious head scientist, none other than THE Doctor Marlène Moreau.
With all eyes on Gwyneth, she can't help but give the public what they want, which is a no-holds barred, hard-hitting investigation into the disappearance of America's favorite housekeeper, Belinda.
Written, voiced and produced by Lisa Timmons.
In this fourth episode of Gwyneth Palcho's investigation of what she may or may not have done to her housekeeper, Belinda, Gwyneth uses her sensuality and infamous sex kaboodle full of toys to distract her husband, Brad, from realizing that something is amiss. Our fearless podcaster also stumbles upon a memory of a former employee whose permanent disappearance into her mansion's tunnels may or may not have had something to do with a wish Gwyneth made with a genie. You'll have to listen to find out.
With all eyes on Gwyneth, she can't help but give the public what they want, which is a no-holds barred, hard-hitting investigation into the disappearance of America's favorite housekeeper, Belinda.
Written, voiced and produced by Lisa Timmons.
Podcaster and true crime self-investigator Gwyneth Palcho uses her quick-thinking problem-solving skills in this third episode of YO SOY BELINDA: THE BELINDA THE HOUSEKEEPER STORY to quickly dispose of Belinda's body, while also conjuring up a solution for her ski trial situation with a simple shift in attitude. But not before she takes a detour down memory lane as she takes the listener on a tour of her HALL OF EXES, a shrine dedicated to the three past major romantic relationships of her life--before her current hubby, Brad Falchuk, of course. With all eyes on Gwyneth, she can't help but give the public what they want, which is a no-holds barred, hard-hitting investigation into the disappearance of America's favorite housekeeper, Belinda. Written, voiced and produced by Lisa Timmons
Fictional Hollywood royal descendant turned self-proclaimed wellness guru Gwyneth Palcho stars as herself in this true crime serialized audio podcast entitled, YO SOY BELINDA: THE BELINDA THE HOUSEKEEPER STORY. With her housekeeper mysteriously disappearing just as her newest product rolled out called, "Belinda in a Bottle," Gwyneth finds herself under the most intense scrutiny of her career. This pilot episode kicks off the series with the question on the tip of everyone's tongue: Where is Belinda?
With all eyes on Gwyneth, she can't help but give the public what they want, which is a no-holds barred, hard-hitting investigation into the disappearance of America's favorite housekeeper, Belinda.
Written, voiced and produced by Lisa Timmons
The podcast currently has 10 episodes available.
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