Liverpool, England – Early Spring – A few years ago… 2am

Springtime in Liverpool, England is a lot different than springtime in Los Angeles, CA.  Let’s put it this way… Springtime in Liverpool is a lot COLDER than springtime in Los Angeles, CA.  In fact, at 2am it’s freezing.  Carla and I had just rocked the famed Cavern Club in Liverpool, England (where The Beatles cut their teeth).  Two hours ago we were onstage rocking the house to the sounds of our LA-based pop-punk band, The Trainwrecks.  Now we were basically “homeless,” cast out of our hotel room and left to fend for ourselves in the cold Liverpool night.  We were in a semi-state of shock standing on the curb with our luggage in one hand and a fresh hot bag of take-away fish-n-chips in the other.

This is the story of how we ended up in this spot…

The Trainwrecks left their home in Los Angeles, CA a few springs ago to spend 10 days touring jolly old England.  Things were going well.  We were having a great time playing some good shows and making new fans and friends.  Carla (our bassist & backing vocalist) learned what “black pudding” really was after eating 3 helpings; 3 helpings too late.  Just to give you an idea, black pudding looks like a thick, smallish hash brown but tasted a little too bitter for me.  Our manager, Krista, refused to even try it.  Matt, the merch guy, didn’t bother trying his either.  Carla somehow took a liking to hers so the rest of us dumped our black pudding portions onto Carla’s plate.  She happily plowed through her newly acquired puddings.  She was about to take in the 4^th one when Matt decided to look up the exact definition of black pudding.  An evil grin went across his face.  Black pudding is dried, congealed pigs blood…  As we all laughed it up, Carla almost puked on the breakfast table right then and there.

The Trainwrecks are by no means rich.  To save money we decided to double bunk in the local hotel in town.  We had a 2 person room with 2 twin beds.  Not exactly luxurious but at least the room was relatively clean, dry and warm.  So there were 4 of us in a 2-man room.  No big deal, right?  We found out the next night, it would actually  be a very big problem.

Fast forward to the next night: 1am. The Trainwrecks are stepping off the Cavern stage dripping with sweat and a  sense of accomplishment (another rocked house!).  We had played our slot in the International Pop Overthrow Music Festival.  The room was packed and the fans were great.  We hung out, sold some merch, signed some autographs and had a beer or two with our new friends of the Cavern Club until things wound down.  Once It was time to go we packed up our crap and piled into the rental van.  Carla and I realized that we were pretty hungry and suggested a stop for some late night greasy food.  The others in our entourage were eager to get back to the hotel and wash away the sweat and smoke (peeps could still smoke indoors in England).  So, we dropped them off and Carla and I were off in search of a late night food establishment.

We found the perfect little “hole in the wall” late night fish-n-chips take-away place.  The “restaurant” was a narrow space with two tables and a counter set in the back.  There was a tattered curtain that concealed the doorway behind  the counter to the kitchen.  There was a line of 8 people or so waiting to place their orders.  Every single person in this place was trashed… except me.  I thought we’d be witness to about 3 separate drunken brawls inside this tiny hole while waiting for our food.  Miraculously, we slinked out of there without seeing any blows thrown.  English people get quite ornery when they’re drunk and hungry.

I was so looking forward to diving into the greasy fish-n-chips, showering and passing out in a warm bed.  We parked the van and shivered as we walked across the parking lot.  Puffs of steam poured out of our mouths every time we exhaled.  We had one copy of the room card key (Krista and Matt had the other copy).  The card was out in anticipation of entering the building.  But the entrance to the hotel lobby was locked…and our key was not working… huh?  We had gone in and out of this building with no problems for the past 2 days but NOW it’s broken?!  There was a buzzer next to the door marked “Front Desk”.  We pushed it and a distorted voice came out of the small speaker above the button.

“This is the front desk…”

“Hello, the door is locked.  Could you let us in, please?”

“Sorry, the rooms are all booked up.  You’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“We already have a room here.”  There was a long pause.

“What’s the room number?”, he sighed.

Carla and I looked at each other in exasperation, “Room 351.”

A longer pause occurred.  Then the reply came, “There’s already someone in that room.  Sorry.”

Carla and I were dumbstruck at this point.  How stupid was this guy?

“We realize that, they are with us!  They’re our roommates!”

“You can’t go up there.”

“WHAT!?!!!” gasped Carla.

“Come into the lobby for a minute, please.”  The speaker crackled.

The door buzzed and we entered the hotel lobby and was greeted by the desk clerk.  He looked like he could have worked for the secret service sporting an earpiece,  suit and tie.  We got about 3 steps into the lobby before he jumped into our pathway blocking the elevators.  He glanced down at our food baggies in our hands.

“Sorry, mates.  There’s already 2 occupants in room 351.  Fire code only allows 2 persons in that room.”, his cockney voice and eyes directed right at me.  The frustration was written all over me & Carla’s faces.

“I don’t understand.  We all stayed in that room last night!”, I begged.

“Then whoever was working last night wasn’t doing their job!  I’m not gonna lose my job over this.  You can’t go up there!  They can come down here if you want, then you can go up…”, he offered.

It was at this point I was beginning to realize how things worked here.  They obviously have a “curfew” after midnight where they lock the front door.  The day before we all walked in and out of the hotel at our leisure because it was before midnight.  Goddammit.  So, here we were “caught” after hours unsure how to remedy this.

Carla decided this was enough, “Ok, how much will it cost to rent another room?”

“ALL the rooms are booked for the night.  You can either tell your friends to leave or you have to leave now.”, he said.

Because of the International Pop Overthrow being in town.  All the hotels were booked up… Oh boy.  We were screwed.

“All our stuff is up there!  How are we supposed to get it?”, I asked, feeling my voice getting shaky with panic.  I felt like I was lost in an episode of the Twilight Zone, “Are you sure we can’t just stay tonight.  We’ll pay you the money and you can just keep it.  Where are we supposed to go?  All the hotels are packed!”

The clerk shrugged his shoulders and shook his head “no.”  We were completely stunned.

The clerk called up to the room and had Matt come down while I went up to fetch the luggage for Carla and I.  I just could not believe this guy was going to let us walk out into the freezing night with nowhere to go.  This clerk was so uptight, he wouldn’t even let me carry my food up to the room because he thought I was gonna “party”.  I was blown away dropping the food on a coffee table in the lobby not sure if I should laugh or cry.  In a few minutes, I came back down to the lobby with me & Carla’s luggage completely baffled at how this evening was unfolding.

I headed to the door with Carla behind me.  I turned and looked back.  The clerk was paying very close attention to us like a prison guard as if we were going to try and make a break for the elevator or something.  I caught a haunting look from Matt. He watched Carla and I as we stepped outside letting the freezing cold pour into the lobby like a tidal wave.  He looked at us in a strange way like as if he wasn’t ever going to see us again.  We might as well have been walking to a rocket that would launch us into outer space.  We were totally lost.  What the hell was going on here…

So, we ended up going back to the cold van, gobbled down our fish-n-chips and slept in the front seats.  The van was small and the back was packed with our gear and now our luggage.  We used sweaters, hats and gloves to keep warm.  We did not sleep well.

We woke up around 6am when the sun began to rise and walked over to the neighboring hotel just to see if there was a chance someone had checked out already.  It was incredible!  They had one room available.

This clerk (who was so nice unlike that other jackass) apologized, “We’re very sorry, there isn’t much of a view in that room.  We hope that’s ok.”

As far as we were concerned if the room didn’t even have windows, we would take it…  Sleep came like a drug.

www.thetrainwrecks.com

Garner Knutson

Ever since moving to Los Angeles, CA in 1994; Garner has been very active in the music scene locally, nationally and globally. He has toured across the United States several times, toured Mexico once, Australia twice & England twice. Garner was fortunate to find work as a studio drum technician assisting many international acts such as The Cult, Blink 182, Pennywise, AFI, Goo Goo Dolls & many more. He has contributed to writing, recording & performing with Los Angeles acts The Piper Downs, Idalou and other side projects. Also, Garner founded his very own band, The Trainwrecks, handling all the songwriting as well as leading the charge in recording & performing. Most recently, Garner opened his very own recording studio in Los Angeles; Secret Door StudioS. It is a dream come true for him to have his own place to write, record & rehearse. Expect Garner to be active in music from his home base in Los Angeles for a very long time. Please feel free to “LIKE” his band, The Trainwrecks, on Facebook! www.thetrainwrecks.com Trainwrecks on Facebook

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I love Alan Ruck.  If you’re wondering who that is, you can’t be my friend.  Let me put it in 80’s teen flick speak – he’s Cameron from ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.’  Yes, him.  You love him too, right?  Too late.  We still can’t be friends.

Growing up in the 80’s, as my friends dreamed of frenching the “hotties” of Sixteen Magazine like Rob Lowe, Charlie Sheen, Matt Dillon and Sean Penn, I quietly snuck around loving their little brothers.  Always playing the more enticing and definitely more dangerous characters, Chad Lowe, Emilio Estevez (yes, I know he’s older than Charlie but he’s shorter, so shut up), Kevin Dillon and Chris Penn all got my pants wet. From the first time I saw them, I became a life long, die-hard fan.  And just like my other friends, I also dreamed of making out in the rain with each and everyone one of them.  But unlike my friends, because my crushes weren’t ever about looks but rather their acting ability, I might actually have a shot.

Okay, so in the twenty years I’ve lived in L.A., I’ve actually come face to face with two out of the four.  Chad Lowe smiled at me once as he passed me on a golf cart on the Fox lot and it took two free beers sent over to get Kevin Dillon to meet me at the old L.A. Athletic Club.  Both were nice and adorable, like I always suspected they’d be.  Tragically, Chris Penn passed in 2006 at the age of 40.  Emilio is the last for me to meet but honestly, he’s too busy directing amazing movies, I wouldn’t want to take him away from any of that.  And of course, I lost my chances to hook up with any of them when I got married, so unless I get cast in a movie playing their stalking dental assistant, it isn’t going to happen.  Regardless, it doesn’t mean my love for any of them has faded.

The reason why I love the character actors so much is because they play it real.  They look like real people, they talk like real people and act like real people – good or bad.  They generally have the better lines, a wider range of roles and because of the nature of batting clean-up, are way more honest in their portrayals than leading men and ladies. I guess I can call myself a whore for character actors.  I’ll take it.  I’ve been called worse by better people than myself.

Even though Alan Ruck is no one’s little brother (I think, maybe I should check IMDB), he’s still my favorite character actor.  My love for Mr. Ruck was at first sight and not in a John Hughes movie.  Listed as his second credit on IMDB, ‘Class’ starring Rob Lowe and Andrew McCarthy as prep school best friends and roommates who get caught up in a SAT cheating scandal as well as the affair Andrew McCarthy’s character has with Rob Lowe’s character’s mom, is classic 80’s teen flick.  Yep.  Boy, do I miss the plots of an 80’s sex comedy.

Since my dad worked for the cable company, from the time I was born, I always had cable.  And not just any cable – “all the channels” cable from the second they began airing.  At the beginning, Cinemax had so little programming, ¾ of their air time was just spandex/leg warmer women on top of lighted podium stages doing suggestive aerobics (remember that) poses pursing their shinny red glossy lips to camera as it rotated around 360 degrees around them.  Try scrubbing your brain of the memory of catching your adolescent brother hanging with your father watching that.  You can’t!

Regardless, we had access to everything and everything, we did watch regardless of our age or the rating.

In ‘Class,’ Alan played one of the prep school student friends who helps, interrupts and supports the sexual antics of our main characters.  A little trivia!  Sitting next to Mr. Ruck at the poker table (not a metaphor, as in poker table of life – they actually have a poker scene in this movie that will leave your sides laughing), in his first acting role pre-‘Sixteen Candles,’ is John Cusack.   Boy, the number of times I’ve thought about being in that sandwich – phew, need to rest…

Okay, here’s the thing.  Even though a secondary role, Alan stuck out.  He probably had a total of twenty lines, but every one of them commanded attention and made you want to see what else this guy could do.  Oh, he could do so much, much more.  And proved it in his first credited film which is also the very first ‘Bad Boys’ film and has nothing to do with the stupid, vapid Jackie Chan franchise.  Released in 1983, it starred Sean Penn and centered around New York City juvenile delinquent gangs in turf wars.  When Alan Ruck’s character Carl is killed, Sean Penn’s character Mick, in retaliation, kills their rival gang’s little brother.  The leader of the rival gang is Paco, played by a very young, very brooding Esai Morales (and has never stopped).

First Mick is sent to juvenile hall where he has to still defend his turf and honor.  But when Paco takes revenge back home and rapes Mick’s girlfriend, an incredible part by Ally Sheedy, he’s sent to the same juvenile hall and the thirst for revenge boils hot as the turf war moves inside.  You won’t sit still through the last third, I promise.

As a twelve year old, watching a world I didn’t know or would ever know, this movie rocked my world.  Completely devastating me when Alan’s character Carl, so snarky, so badass but so likeable, is killed.  He set my head and pants on fire.  This film did open my eyes in identifying bad boys, but it didn’t stop the pining for them but only from a safe distance.  And even though I wasn’t brave or stupid enough (there’s a fine line sometimes) to date these guys, I became fascinated with the actors who played them.  In my head, as I went to sleep, I fell for them and created worlds where they and I existed together, usually with me visiting them weekly in jail.  So watching Alan Ruck play a tough thief, pretending to be killed was all too real.  It was the first time I actually cried over a human character dying on screen (many times for animals but never people).  I felt betrayed, I couldn’t understand it, and I sobbed for three hours. Please, watch this film (or catch it on Sundance, as it is the only cable channel that plays it) then talk to me.

And like all good things, Alan Ruck came into my life a third time.  This time, it cemented my love for him for eternity.  That character I desperately fell for is of course, Cameron from John Hughes film ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.’ 

Playing a put-upon, nervous, hypochondriac, who just wants his dad’s attention — that kind of role can be tricky.  Go too big and it’s not authentic.  Go too cool, and it’s arrogant and no one will give a shit.  Alan portrayed Cameron with so much truth and honesty; I still get a heart beat in my pants some 25+ years later.

To be a true John Hughes fan, a lot of things must be real in your life – unpopular, awkward, unsure and scared but also artistic, frustrated and brave.  You must also be at a point in your life when all your qualities have put you in a spot where a change needs to be made in order to survive life.  That’s what Cameron represents, the point in a person’s life where being ignored is no longer acceptable.  Where the ease of your best friend’s life to have everything go his or her way will send you packing unless you don’t stand up and get your own moving in the direction you want.  In the span of 100 minutes, Cameron became an icon and the face of a hero for any kid out there who felt put upon.  He’s the everyman’s wingman who should be the lead.

I fell in love with Cameron and by the end of the movie, all I wanted to do scream at the screen, “I won’t treat you like shit.  I’ll love you Cameron, just the way you are.  Come here, let me hold you.”

Yes, I love Alan Ruck the actor but I have no idea what he’s like in person.  But I do know Cameron and he’s the ideal.  Cameron became my first true boyfriend and I spent way too many high school classroom days dreaming of the dates we would have.  I measured any boy interested in me (there weren’t many) by their Cameron Factor.  My preference for dark haired, moody guys who like hockey is a direct result of Cameron (the other preference of Jewish guys with curly hair is from my first screen crush Richard Dreyfuss in ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ but that’s a different article).  Alan played Cameron so vulnerable, on the verge of flipping everyone off and running away to follow Depeche Mode.  And you hated Ferris for being a bad best friend.  I clearly remember muttering to myself, You don’t deserve him Ferris, you just don’t.

Luckily when I met my husband, he passed the Cameron Factor with flying colors.  It took twenty-one years, but I found my Cameron.  And in my vows to my hubby AJ, I ended them by saying, “You’re now my Duckie, my Lloyd Dobler, my Cameron.”  AJ knew exactly what I meant.

I finally got to meet Mr. Ruck in 2008.  He came in for a casting on a show I worked on.  When our eyes met, my brain couldn’t process what I was looking at.  I gasped and ran down the hall to my friend’s office.  As soon as the door closed, I began to hyperventilate and cry.  Once my friend talked me down off the ledge, I walked up to Mr. Ruck.  His face turned worried, thinking I might be a stalker.  After I explained how much of a fan I was, what Cameron meant to me, and the whole wedding vows antidote, he politely thanked me and went about his life.  Damn, it.  I walked away hating myself for being such a super freak.  I was devastated.  It took me over twenty years to meet Mr. Ruck and I blew it.

A few weeks later, his wife Mariel Enos, came in also to audition for our show. I confessed my earlier barrage of passion on Alan, telling her how much I was worried that he thought me crazy.  She laughed and confessed he had told her about the whole incident and not to worry, he was so flattered.  She then leaned in and whispered to me – Don’t worry, I stalked him for six months before we got together.  I understand completely.

It made me love him (and now her) even more.

Mr. Ruck has played over eighty roles since playing Cameron, but to me he’s still that lug of a guy I’d be proud to call my boyfriend.   I always cheer when I see Alan Ruck’s name in credits and I relish the screen time we get with him as an audience.  Especially when he pops up in TV shows or movies like playing a high school principal in ‘The Happening.’  For a good chunk of you, you see Alan and wonder why you know that face.  But for me, I get warm inside and whisper to the universe — Hi Cameron.  So good to see you again. Please stick around a little bit longer this time, I haven’t gotten enough of you.   

In my dream world, characters get paid more than leads.  In my world, they get all the awards because they work the hardest in this business.  In my world, they are just called regular people instead of characters, because if they were really called by what they are, they’d be called – us.

Alan Ruck represents us and I’m so lucky we get to have him in the real world instead of our make believe world.

Wendy Wilkins is an award winning filmmaker, stand-up comedian, actress and writer. Her first feature script ‘Backseat Debutantes’ placed in the top ten for the 2011 Final Draft “Big Break” Screenplay Contest and most recently, her original comedy pilot, ‘WNPC: Campus TV’ made the finals of the New York Screenplay Competition as well as presented at the iO West ‘Pilot Series.’ You can catch her original webseries, ‘How To Train A Boyfriend’ at her website, www.your-big-sister.com. She also enjoys lemonade, but only the yellow kind.

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Natalie is awesome. She’s a lot like me…. and then not like me at all. Meaning, she shares my best qualities (like pluck) but none of my worst (like self loathing).   She’s somehow able to make the point that my new favorite jeans from that sale corner at Anthropology don’t really flatter me at all, as well as confirm that playing dead is a fine and reasonable response to my young son’s attempts to bring out the worst in me.  This incredible woman knows my allergies by heart and respects my avoidance of gluten, even though gluten is not in fact one of my allergies. She gives me salon quality blowouts and sends me a case of wine when touring Napa or Paris or wherever cases of wine can be sent from. She offered to give my husband a hand job when I was 8 months pregnant, and never questions my complicated obsession with dwarves. Natalie takes my 9-year old boy to long dinner dates at The Cheesecake Factory so that his father and I can catch up on TiVo and lovemaking. She has her left kidney marked for donation in case I should need it. She’s quite possibly the greatest big sister a gal could ask for, and she exists solely in the confines of my gritty imagination.

I’m a big sister with no bigger sister or little sister, the oldest child with 2 younger brothers. These brothers will likely forever be referred to as “the boys”.  The title perhaps addressing  “the boys” pervasive state of arrested development. They roll their own cigarettes, squabble over the use of my dad’s Chrysler and use my $25 holiday gift cards to Trader Joes for jars of bean dip and Vodka of the Gods. My husband likes to say that my family is like a Eugene O’Neill play…without the laughs. I’ve decided that this is my parent’s fault for being too beautiful when they were young.  I’m not sure what kind of a big sister/only daughter I am, but I refer to myself as “the closer” when it comes to my family. They’re all still in Ohio and I’m in Los Angeles, where I’ve made my own life for closer to 30 than 20 years. When packing for Dayton I’ve learned to allow for a box of chardonnay when considering the 60pound baggage limit so I can hit the ground running. I fly back  “home” to do stuff like:

A. Clean out attics.

B. Prod my 69-year-old mother into a nursing home.

C. Take the mother’s two little old dogs to be put to sleep, and

D. Tell my dad it’s okay to die.

Thankfully there’s no “E. All of the above”. These tasks were delivered over a couple of visits, or I might be counting the minutes to a smoke break while crafting placemats in a psych ward.

Growing up, I seldom wished for a sister. I suppose I liked being the center of girl- oriented attention. Growing older, I find myself longing for a big sis’ to take some of the heat off. I’ve taken the time to acquire a nice array of sisterly friends, most of whom put me in the big sister role. These women get to hear me say things like “I don’t give a shit how fat you are as long as you don’t give a shit how fat you are” and “Boys don’t like girls who talk too much.” They’re the ones I call when I’m cracking into that box of chardonnay, and they know who they are.

There is one woman in my village, whose about 12 years my senior, and the closest thing to a big sis that I have. Her name is Anne, not Natalie.  Anne brought me a metal water bottle of bloody Marys and a tub of tuna from Gelson’s when I got hoodwinked into waiting in a 7-hour line to sign my kid up for an insanely cheap summer camp. After my dad died, she made a gluten- free shepherd’s pie and nestled a Budweiser in between the lottery ticket and tennis balls on his shrine atop my credenza. She rolled me through Target 3 days after my bunion surgery and gripped my right knee through out my son’s reluctant birth.  Anne’s deserving of her own homage, but she’s the oldest of 10 with 6 younger sisters of her own. And she doesn’t judge me. I think I need someone to judge me, the way only a real sister will.

If I’d had Natalie when I was a little girl, maybe I wouldn’t have bribed other little girls to strip for me with the promise of a bag of Doritos, or offered to flash my brothers (the boys) for a quarter a peep. I might not have shoplifted thousands of dollars worth of peasant blouses and eye shadow when I was a teenager or turned into a whore in my late twenties.  She could’ve shelved her judgment to help me manage the house when my mother had her doozy of a nervous breakdown while I was cramming for my SAT’s. She would’ve made me gazpacho after my procedure at Planned Parenthood in 1993, told me to sip Jack Daniels after my TV show cancellations, and treated me to a tai massage after the three or four break ups that really broke me down.   Certainly she would’ve met me in Florida last November to help me negotiate with my cancer -ridden father who seemed nowhere near ready to die. She might’ve kept me from noticing that asshole at Bob Evans who decided to eye roll me while I was on my cell with my brother in that 45 minute line to pick up tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner. Or backed me up when it was finally my turn at the counter and it became apparent that I’d neglected to give my name when ordering for pickup. Maybe she would’ve pummeled that eye rolling dickweed when he muttered, “what kind of person forgets to give their name?” to which I responded, “the kind of person whose dad is dying at Thanksgiving you piece of shit, white trash, fuck wad!” It would’ve been Natalie’s palm on my back instead of the kindly woman behind me as I raved on about how “I hoped he choked on his turkey, and had explosive diarrhea”.

My sister would’ve read the hospice pamphlets and known that terminal people shouldn’t be made to eat and morphine doses are merely suggestions.  She would’ve insisted that I stay with Dad when he finally got transported to a hospice facility so that I could’ve been with him for his last breath, stroking the hair on him arms and humming Foreigner songs. The dark truth is that if Natalie was alive I might not even have made that trip to Florida last November, leaving the tour of duty to the eldest daughter and letting my grief remain distant, the images of his struggle not so god damn close.

With Natalie in the mix, my dynamic would be entirely different. My son would have an auntie to treat him to naked summers with cousins.  My husband, a sister in law to charm and beseech him. With a blood sister to be accountable to, I probably would’ve opted out of that hand full of three ways, rebel less, be more kind.  I might be a better Catholic or, possibly, not a Catholic at all.  She wouldn’t abide my bossiness, OCD, stoicism, fear of blood. She would dissuade me from making lists and playing the counting game where if I can get to 10 Mississippi before the refrigerator door closes then I will get a job offer by the end of the week.

O course, there’s no concrete loss that I have to ponder and dread with Natalie relegated to my imagination. Being younger doesn’t necessarily imply that I would survive her, as death and other estrangements can take you by surprise, but I would hate to say goodbye to my big sister’s familiar face, a face like my own. What if I was the one that had to tell them to stop giving her water, to pull the plug? Going to more funerals than baby showers makes you consider these things. I’m at the point in my life where when I buy that case of Q tips at Costco I can’t help thinking “Shit this might be the last time I buy Q tips”.

I’ve created Natalie so that she can be awesome, my conscience, a bridge, that niggling voice that says, “ Hey babe, maybe you should half that third glass of vino with seltzer.” Or “Would it kill you to tell your husband you’re proud of him”. I suppose Natalie is who I aspire to be, someone to tell me “Love yourself Loretta, be grateful for the flow, smile more and “you aren’t de-toxing honey, that’s called night sweats”. Probably unlike I would a REAL big sister, I’m learning to listen to her.

Loretta Fox

Loretta Fox lives in Los Feliz with her husband and 9 yr. old son, and sometimes other people too. She writes and performs essays in various venues in the Los Angeles area, including Sit n Spin, Lit Up and Drunk on Stage. Loretta also works in Television, Film and Web series as an actress and improviser. Some of her TV credits include “Ben and Kate” and “Parks and Rec.” Film credits include “Going The Distance” and “Blades of Glory”. She also does commercials and Voice Over work. She is happy to be living in Los Angeles where the hiking is supreme, the weather is most agreeable and it’s easy to be gluten free.

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