the chicago dispLAcement ®

The evening started innocently enough. I was meeting up with friends, all Columbia College grads, for a night of vegan food and zombie gore. The perfect yin-yang combination.

As we greeted each other with hugs and hellos, a call came in that two more would be joining us. Fantastic. The more the merrier, right? Lovely people they were, one of them in fact another CCC connection. Since I was sitting closer to the couple than the rest of my friends, and because I had never met them before, I began asking questions. Found out that he was born and raised in Chicago. Still lived there. She lived there as well. Lovely.

Adding to the loveliness of that evening was the weather. It just so happened to be one of the warmest nights in LA over the past few months. So warm that we decided to sit outside for dinner. Yet about halfway through our meal, one of my friends got the chills and put on her coat. With that small gesture, the evening took a turn…

“I swore I would never become one of those people who needed to wear a jacket in seventy degree weather,” said my friend as she slid into her pea coat. I nodded in solidarity. However, the breeze had indeed turned a tad brisk over the past half-hour, and I was secretly wishing for a jacket myself. Two of my other friends then chimed in, woefully noting just how chilly it’s been in Los Angeles over the last several weeks. We soundly agreed that it was “about time” the weather began to cooperate in SoCal.

The Chicago couple was conspicuously quiet as we continued our tirade regarding the intolerable sixty degree weather as of late. Picking up on their lack of sympathy, I began to feel a wee bit bashful. Quickly, I covered with a joke: “I know you guys just had the third worst storm in Chicago history, but it’s been cold in LA!” They kindly obliged my comment with a courtesy laugh. I then realized that though it would have been well warranted, they didn’t join the conversation with their own complaints about the Midwest’s miserable winter this year. No whining about the multiple feet of snow dumped on the city over the last three months. No complaining about the freezing temps endured for days at a time. Nope. Nothing.

For some reason the lyrics to “One of These Things” from Sesame Street were suddenly bouncing through my head, and that’s when it hit me. My friends and I had changed… Mutated in fact. No longer were we the friendly, yet hearty Midwesterners of just a few years back. We had become La La lobotomized.

It got worse; we started talking about The Industry. Totally my fault. I hadn’t seen my friends in a while, so naturally I began to ask what everyone had been up to lately. (I like to ask questions, okay?) One friend mentioned the crazy hours she was currently working for The Celebrity Apprentice.  My other friends also work in television, so of course their jobs became part of the discussion as well.

On the one hand, that’s what you do when you hang out with friends; you talk about your lives. On the other hand, your job sometimes becomes your life when living in Los Angeles. If you work ten to twelve hours a day at the studio/production company/on set, then yes, that is your life whether you like it or not. Therefore, it can easily dominate the conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, though, we didn’t totally ignore our Windy City friends. We continued with our inquiries. Turns out they were road-tripping around the western US for a few weeks. Had we more time, I would have kept going with the questions. For instance: “Did you know that Rahm Emanuel is Ari Emanuel’s brother? Who’s Ari Emanuel? Hello! Don’t you watch Entourage?” However, we were already late for the zombie apocalypse and had to get a move on. The couple hopped into their car, and all of us locals hopped into another. The plan was to have our guests follow us to the theatre since they had no idea where they were going. Fair enough… Yet upon arrival, we realized there was nowhere to park. In a matter of seconds we unanimously decided that the very nice couple from Chicago was on their own. Our transformation to the dark side was complete.

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Ah, children. The future of tomorrow…

Over the last year I’ve been volunteering for this amazing organization that once a month reads to kids in grades kindergarten through fifth. It’s a blast. I’ve met some great people and read some super fun books. Best of all, I’ve been given the opportunity to instill a love of reading into the hearts and minds of our country’s youngest generation. These kids are awesome. They love to laugh and learn. They love to be silly. They also love to lie. A lot.

A big part of the organization’s creed is to get the children involved in storytime. Engage them. Don’t just rattle off pages while the kids stare on dazed and confused. As I always have the kindergarteners, this is an absolute must. Losing a five-year-old’s interest is fatal to the reading experience. So I ask a lot of questions. Who has a dog? Who’s been to the ocean? Who can do a cartwheel? Things like that.

What I started realizing about two volunteer sessions in is that children always have to take it one step further. They don’t just have a dog. They have seventeen. They haven’t just seen the ocean. They’ve gone swimming with sharks. And yes, they can do a cartwheel. It’s a requisite for joining the circus, which they’ve been a part of for a few years now.

At first I’d humor them; after all, they’re just kids. Then I would give them a chance to revise their statement by innocently asking, “Have you really sailed around the world?” Instead of ‘fessing up and saying, “No, but I’d like to someday,” they just smile and nod emphatically. So you can’t spell your own name, but you’ve navigated the Straits of Magellan? Doubt it.

Of course I want to call them out and yell, “You’re lying!” but I can’t. That would be frowned upon. Yet at the very least I’d like to teach them a lesson or two on the finer points of lying properly. First of all, don’t be so obvious about it. You’re going to raise a few eyebrows if you claim you’ve been to the moon. Very few people have and definitely no one under the age of ten. Second, pick and choose your moments. If you tell me in the span of an hour that you’ve traveled to Antarctica, built your own airplane and survived an alien abduction, I’m gonna know something is up.

Lying is something we all do. Adults are just better at it; we’ve had years of experience to hone our skills. Take for instance the job interview. Who doesn’t tweak the truth a tad during this grueling exercise in proving your worth as a human being? Did you take a college class called Zombies in Popular Media because it sounded like fun? Then you had a minor in sociology. Were you in charge of ordering office supplies and employee birthday cakes at your last job? Then you were the Senior Operations Manager. It’s the truth… sort of.

Or try consoling a friend whose unrequited love has finally burst their bubble. We’ve all been there. Most likely the truth is that Mr. or Ms. Perfect just didn’t find your friend attractive/funny/smart, but they didn’t have the heart to say as much because that would be cruel. You can’t say it either because your friend agreed to give you a lift to the airport that weekend and you don’t want to pay for a taxi. So now you two need to “figure out” why he or she was rejected. This poor person who did nothing more than say, “I’m not interested,” is suddenly under intense scrutiny regarding every facet of his or her life. Ipso facto, this person has intimacy issues. Or he’s intimidated by strong, independent women. Or she subconsciously sabotages healthy relationships because of poor self-image. Two hours into the conversation and you’re still trying to pinpoint the exact moment during Mr. Perfect’s childhood that the mommy issues began.

We lie for various reasons. Sometimes we do it to give ourselves a boost. Sometimes someone else needs that boost a bit more. And while we’ve all heard the saying, “Honesty is the best policy,” no one ever mentions how much grief it can cause should you abide by such a policy. Take that saying to heart and you’ll have no job and no friends real fast.

So listen up, kids of America. Take it from someone who knows. Your future’s not gonna be so bright if you keep up with these ridiculous lies. You haven’t actually teleported through time or won an Academy Award. Just not possible. Saying that you’re in talks about an indie film, now that I might believe… See the difference?

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Hollywood gets a bad rap. Truth is, it’s not completely unfounded. It’s hard to defend an industry that often caters to the lowest common denominator. Films about torture and mutilation? Check. Television shows with twenty-somethings getting wasted and laid? Check. Celebrities that make sex tapes or do prison time and still somehow have millions of dollars and fans? Check, check.

It’s a strange business to say the least. You don’t only create a product or provide a service; your name is attached to the end result for all the world to see. This can be good and bad. On the one hand, you worked hard and want your recognition. Anyone who’s been part of even a student production can testify to the many sleepless days and nights put in for those precious few minutes of film. Sometimes even showers are forgotten. But never coffee. No one forgets the coffee. On the other hand, you may not want to be known for the end result. At times it’s just a means to an end. Perhaps you made a few contacts during the shoot. Gained a technical skill or two. There’s always something to justify the experience. If not, hopefully there’s at least a paycheck at the end of the tunnel, but even this isn’t always the case.

No other industry can really compare. I know many who work in other professions, but can’t say I’ve ever asked my CPA pal to show me the tax returns he’s prepared or watched as my OB/GYN friend delivers a baby. That probably would be frown upon in both scenarios. So you never see the fruit of their labor so to speak. Yet if you work in the entertainment industry, you must have something to show for yourself. And sometimes – just sometimes – what is shown can be beautiful.

Sunday night. The evening began at the storied Roosevelt Hotel, the setting of the very first Academy Awards. Walking in, I could feel a special energy in the air. The charm of old Hollywood. Or maybe it was one of the many ghosts that supposedly haunt the hotel. Either way, the place is gorgeous. I was meeting up with friends for an AFI Fest film premiere, and may I say, we cleaned up real nice.

We also did our part to make sure the free food and drinks were not neglected and then headed across the street to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, yet another monument to motion picture history. It would be the setting for that night’s world premiere of Hamill. The film is based on the true-life story of Matt “The Hammer” Hamill – a three-time NCAA Wrestling Division III National Champion and UFC competitor – who also happens to be deaf. As we entered the theatre, the exuberance of the crowd grew to a fevered pitch. I watched as the full house excitedly chatted and signed with each other. To many in attendance, this movie was much more than just a few hours of entertainment.

Also in attendance? Hamill himself. When the film ended, he was asked to come to the front of the theatre for a brief Q&A. “How does it feel to have your life portrayed on the big screen when you’re still in the middle of living it?” Matt could have used the opportunity to talk about himself, his accolades or even his next fight. He didn’t. Instead, he tearfully gave thanks to his late grandfather for believing in and making him who he is today. This movie was not only a platform to showcase Hamill’s rise to the top, but also a testament to the love, generosity and support shown to him along the way… I was bawling. Obviously. And I wasn’t the only one either.

Walking out of the theatre that night, I felt proud. Proud of the film. Proud of Jacquelyn, the film’s editor. And proud to be a part of this industry. Because that’s what it’s all about. We got into this crazy business to do something that yields more than just a paycheck. The people I know – the actors, directors, producers, editors, writers and many more – came here with dreams of creating something thrilling or hilarious or touching for you to enjoy. Being able to see that dream actually achieved the other night was both reassuring and awing. The beauty of Hollywood is still very much alive.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I’ve been waiting a while to tell this tale. Always on my “want to post” list, I would eventually wuss out for fear of alienating a certain coworker, a kind gent whom I love dearly. Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say coworker? I meant to say ex-coworker.

Once upon a time…

I went to an awesome school in the awesome city of Chicago. Alas, I love my alma mater. Chapman, I don’t mean you. You can suck it. (If you’re scratching your head – for reasons other than seborrheic dermatitis – then you must have missed “You’re Sweet, But No…” For shame!) But I digress… I have this weird relationship with Columbia College. Some might say the codependent kind. It’s like when you see those couples walking down the street – either the dude’s hot, and she’s not, or it’s the other way around. You curiously eyeball them and wonder why they’re together in the first place, right? Oh, you don’t? Really? Really? Well, I’m the “not so hot” girl who idolizes her boyfriend and hangs on his every word.

Therefore, it was with many tears that I finally said goodbye to CCC. For me, graduation was just one very public breakup with a cap, gown and Frank Rich. And just like we all have done from time to time when going through a breakup, I held onto any scrap of nostalgia that could serve as a final reminder of the happiness I once had. Some people keep cards. Some keep pictures. Me, I kept a slinky.

A few years pass by. I was working at _____ (to protect the not-so-innocent) and liked my office “homey.” I had the requisite pictures of family and friends on my desk. I had a blanket on the back of my chair in case I got chilly. But the piece de resistance? My beloved rainbow-hued slinky from college. If ever I became frustrated/overwhelmed/suicidal at work, I would just glance at my slinky and poof! All those bad feelings would instantly disappear.

So one rather mundane Monday morning, I skipped into work – as anyone can tell you I would often do – and was shocked by a rather gruesome sight. On my desk was a slinky, but not the slinky I had left a mere two days earlier. No, this slinky was twisted and warped, a tortured ball of tangled plastic. I swear I almost screamed. It was like the horse head scene from The Godfather. The alleged suspects who committed such a heinous crime? The children of my aforementioned coworker. Apparently they had come into the office over the weekend, and being children, got bored rather quickly. They then molested my poor slink-slink.

I was devastated. Devastated and pissed off. My officemate immediately tried to rectify the situation and reached for my mangled treasure. Hell, no! No one else was getting his or her hands on my precious piece of junk. I then attempted to untangle the mess myself, but to no avail… It was beyond help. Dejected, I pushed my slinky away as I headed into a production meeting…

A half-hour later, my roomie had somehow beaten me back to our office and was furiously trying to undo the angry knot. A tinge of human kindness then began to creep over me. I took a breath. Internal dialogue: “Anna, it’s just a thing. Just a cheap plastic toy. It shouldn’t matter so much. I’m making this guy feel really, really bad over a slinky.”

Not sure if he could tell that I was over it, but by that afternoon all was truly forgiven. No big deal. Actually, my coworker had been somewhat successful with his ghetto reconstructive surgery. The slinky had been detangled, but the damage was done. It would never be the beautiful, rounded slinky it once was. The plastic was stretched and deformed for good. Is this how parents feel when they realize their baby is ugly? You still love it, but… Maybe you can get another one – a better one – down the road somewhere.

Fast-forward a month. The slinky debacle is ancient history. The receptionist hands me a package, a box from Columbia College. Total confusion on my part. What could this be? I have friends in some pretty high places at CCC, thank you very much, but I never thought I’d get free swag from them. Sweet! Upon opening it, however, I glanced at the receipt and noticed my coworker’s name… No new slinky (those were made especially for graduation), but he had gotten me a pen, pennant, business card holder and keychain. OMG. I was such a douche. The man had felt so guilty about my stupid slinky that he had gone out and bought a bunch of CCC crap to make up for it. Wow. Coworker = 1. Anna = 0. Granted, I’m still not fond of children, but it’s not like they stole my checking account number or a kidney. They messed up my slinky. Slinkies are toys. Toys for kids.

Anyway, I immediately gave my coworker a hug and an apology. That night, though, I took my slinky home (I had purposely waited so as not to make him feel bad – guess that didn’t pan out – but I also wasn’t going to tempt fate twice)… As well as all my PEZ dispensers. Nobody better mess with my collector’s editions Chicago Cubs Snoopy and Charlie Brown PEZ. I will shiv you. With my slinky. *

* It has multiple sharp edges now. A single tear falls… Cue “My Heart Will Go On.”

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Not long after I started this blog a friend said to me, “You kind of complain a lot.” Message received, buddy. I hear you loud and clear…

I’ve been sick for the past two weeks and it totally blows. The hacking cough. The raw, runny nose. The uncontrollable chills. I kid you not, my body was actually sore from shaking so much over those first few days. Another interesting side effect of being sick is that I regress to junior high all over again every time I catch a cold. Do you remember being that kid who couldn’t stop coughing in class? Please tell me I wasn’t the only one. Ah, those fond memories of trying desperately to contain it, tears running down your cheeks while pretending everything is cool, your body trembling from the sheer force of the cough relentlessly pushing its way back out… Now I’m doing the same thing at work. Once again, I’m an awkward thirteen year old trying not to get noticed for all the wrong things. Still, everyone at the office can hear me and so they ask the obligatory “How are you feeling?” to which I reply the standard “I’m okay.” Except for the day when I had no voice. Talk about awkward. People have no clue how to interact with you when you can’t communicate verbally. For some reason, they themselves begin to randomly gesture with their hands though they can still speak. Then they suddenly give up, get all flustered and brusquely ask you to just write down whatever it is you’re trying to say. It’s awesome.

And I have no shame in admitting that I’m one of those people who feels like my personal universe is crashing down around me every time I get sick. So I indulge in the self-pity. I come home from work every night, dramatically fling myself onto the couch and immediately begin to moan about how awful I feel. In fact, I get so ridiculously self-indulgent that one night I theatrically fell onto my bathroom floor while brushing my teeth because I couldn’t bear one more moment of standing. Granted, I was legitimately woozy, but it was a tad extreme nonetheless.

Now you know those people who somehow thrive creatively while going through some kind of crisis? I don’t get that. Perhaps you think this rant has just taken a bit of a departure – I had been talking about having a cold, right? Though I realize when lucid that having the sniffles is not the same as being served an eviction notice or having your car stolen, it’s all the same to me when I actually am sick. And while I was on the bathroom floor, it got me to thinking – how do people do it? Beethoven didn’t stop writing music even though he lost his hearing. Michelangelo didn’t quit the Sistine Chapel even though he labored for hours at a time while plaster and paint dripped into his eyes. Tom Cruise didn’t give up acting even though all the prints of All the Right Moves can never be destroyed. (I love that movie.) Me? I get a sore throat and my whole world comes to a screeching halt. I wish I could channel that angst into something creatively stimulating, but the most I’ve been able to accomplish over the last few weeks has been to make sure I shower every day. Adding a new post was not on the agenda.

Needless to say, I’m on the mend now and happy to be functional again. The cough is dying down. The faucet that was my nose is nearly shut off. Yet maybe getting sick isn’t such a bad thing after all. Having a mini pity party every once in a while? Okay. Wanting people to fawn over you because you just don’t feel good? Sure. Realizing once you recover that perhaps life is too short to waste it acting like a damn baby? Bingo.

Image: jscreationzs / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So the other day at work sucked balls. Pardon my crude mouth, but that pretty much sums it up in a nutshell. It was just one of those wonderfully horrible days when not only do you start the morning knowing you have a massive amount of work to do, but also the universe decides to have some fun and throws at you a few really “super” surprises that add to the awesomeness of the day. For me that meant our phones going down.

I would go into the details of just how awful our phone service is, but I’ll tuck that gem of a story away for a rainy day. Suffice it to say, it blows. Hard. And I’m the lucky gal who gets to deal with it.

Perhaps because it’s a chronic problem with which our office has been dealing for a few years now, or just because there’s a history of heart disease in my family – either way, I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack every time I hear the most dreaded sound in my universe – that of the busy tone. When I hear that coming from someone’s office, the palpitations begin and a layer of perspiration suddenly is covering my entire body. Here we go again. Everyone at work tries to be really nice about it – to my face – but I feel the frustration. The annoyance. That “What in the hell is the matter with the phones now?” vibe.

So away I go making the appropriate calls (via cell phone) to get the lines back up. It’s kind of like when you order Chinese take-out. Half the time, you put down the receiver not totally convinced that either you or the guy on the other end of the line have really understood each other. You hope to get the beef chop suey, but you may just end up with moo shu pork instead. In other words, major communication issues, especially since I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about when I spout something like, “Yeah, the PRI is down again,” and then I’m told, “Well, the problem seems to stem from the MPOE.” Umm… Okay…

Fast-forward eight hours. Our business day is now over, the phones still aren’t up, but finally a technician arrives to check out the situation. Well, what do you know? It’s Kali! I totally know this dude. He’s been to our office before to fix the same damn problem. For some reason, perhaps because he saved the day the last time, I have this weird fondness for him. It’s oddly comforting to see him walking over to me; I really want to hug him.

Two more hours go by and – hells yeah! – the phones are now tentatively up and running. However, Kali needs to stay for just a bit longer while they test the lines one last time. Meanwhile, he and I have absolutely nothing to do at ten o’clock at night except chat. And guess what? Kali is a pretty awesome guy. He begins to tell me about the trip he and his wife just took to China. Turns out they went to Antarctica the year before. And the year before that it was a Southeast Asian tour of Thailand, Malaysia and Vietnam. He then reveals that he actually visited these same places thirty years earlier while in the military and how interesting it is for him to go back so many years later to see how everything has changed – or not changed at all. He gushes about how happy it makes him to see his wife experiencing those countries for the first time and how fun it is to share in it with her. He tells me how much he just loves to travel, to experience something so unlike his own life and to meet different people from around the world.

Kali and I end up talking for well over an hour, and for having had a colossally awful day, this completely resuscitates it. Despite the last twelve hours of hell, I walk away from my office that night feeling good. Yeah, it sucked to have the phones go down in the first place, but then I never would have had the chance to hear some really amazing tales and get to know a pretty cool person…

But I swear – if those phones go down just one more time, I’m going postal on someone.

Image: Filomena Scalise / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So in my last post I mentioned that I spend a fair amount of time at Target. However, I wasn’t being totally honest…

I’m there 24/7.

Why? Because I love Target. I looveee it. Off the top of my head, I could name you eight different Target locations within both Orange County and the greater Los Angeles area that not only have I visited, but also have on occasion cross-checked with each other just to see what differs from store to store. So far, the one in Glendale has the rest beat by a mile – three whole floors! When I found this out I had what some people would call an out-of-body experience. Hands down, Target is the Best Store In The World. Where else could you buy toilet paper, birthday cards, a new vacuum cleaner, M&Ms and three (or four) new blouses all in the same place? And for a very reasonable price I might add.

Now for any of you out there snickering at me with your highfalutin, “I’m better than Target” attitude, lemme tell you something – you’re all a bunch of posers! The main reason why I even decided to write this post is because over the last month or so, I suddenly realized that pretty much every friend I have is also a Target devotee. We gush about the cute dresses. We marvel at the plethora of holiday décor. We squeal over the ample selection of affordable wines. Yes, Virginia, there is wine at Target. Thus my decision to take this somewhat embarrassing love into the light that no one may ever again do the walk of shame out of that store as they push an overflowing cartful of those easily recognizable bullseye bags.

The second reason for this post is because I saw a rare sight the other day in Target – a group of tourists. I don’t want to use tired stereotypes in describing this lot, but they all had either a fanny pack or passport purse on their body and cameras in hand. I kid you not. There was no mistaking these foreigners.

At first, the jaded city dweller in me thought, “Seriously? A tour of Target? Dude, these poor people got ripped off.” But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that introducing those around the world to the beauty and wonder of Target was totally dead-on. Whether you like it or not, the store is completely representative of America as a whole. The clothing section has the latest fashion styles streamlined for the masses. The media section has both the most popular books and movies on sale for your reading and/or viewing pleasure. And the food section says it all – you have your choice of either prepackaged processed foods ready to eat or prepackaged frozen foods ready to warm up. No fresh fruits or veggies anywhere to be seen. Is that not the average American’s diet or what? (To be fair, though, I just noticed last week that a Target in the OC recently opened a produce section. Just furthers my belief that Target will one day be the salvation of us all.) By the time I left the store, I was wishing I could be one of those lucky tourists. I bet they got some kind of goodie bag. Bastards.

Like any great love, though, it’s not perfect. You know how when you have a huge crush on someone from afar and every little thing they do is just so adorable and cute? Yet when you finally start dating, you realize they have a bad case of dandruff and a really annoying way of trying to give you a back rub when you don’t need a back rub and in fact it actually kind of hurts and could you please not dig your fingers into my spinal cord? Well, anyway… That’s my relationship with Target. You see, once upon a time, in a land far, far away – the western suburbs of Chicago – I used to work at Target. One summer I was a cashier; that was pretty cool. Yet when I returned during my holiday break, they claimed all the cashier positions were filled and that I would have to work the dreaded food court. That lasted all of about three days. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say it involved a bird beaten to death with a broom in the storage area and one very freaked out Anna. Needless to say, I quit on the spot.

Alas, my fairytale romance with Target is a bit tarnished, but time really does heal all wounds. Now when I walk in and look at all the wonderful things that are about to dazzle me for the next several minutes… or hours… I simply smile, grab a cart and happily make my way down the aisle with a little extra pep in my step. Once again, all is right with the world.

DISCLAIMER: I swear I’m not getting paid a dime for the above adoration. Cross my heart and hope to die… in Target. Just hopefully not with a broom in the storage area.

Image: jscreationzs / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Lemme give you an example of the important work I do at the office…

Me: Please take the petty cash bag.

Him: But I can’t stand that bag. Can’t I just take a twenty?

Me: No, because I have a ton of change and I want you to use it.

Him: But I just wanna take a twenty. What’s the big deal?

Me: The big deal is that you just want to do it because it’s easier for you, but when you do that, you make it harder on me. I need you to get a separate receipt for George, too.

Him: Well, what if I take the bag? Then can I just put George’s lunch on the other order?

Me: No, because it’s Arsonal’s order. They need to be kept separate.

Him: How much change is in the bag?

Me: About two dollars’ worth.

Him: I’ll just give you two dollars for the change. How ‘bout that?

Me: But it’s not exactly two dollars, so that’ll screw up my petty cash total. Is it really that much of a hardship for you to just take the bag?

Him: Okay, fine. I’ll take the bag. Give it to me.

Me: And don’t forget to keep George’s order separate! (As he storms out the door.)

Just saving the world, one day at a time.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net