Overheard in Hollywood

"What if I become a famous comedian and then people find out I used to be a robot?"

Overheard on television

I caught a bit of a commercial for psoriasisconnect.com, and there were a number of apparent psoriasis-sufferers offering testimonials about why it's so great to have psoriasisconnect.com as a resource. Like how great it was to be able to communicate with other people suffering from the same condition. How awesome it was to be able to find doctors quickly and read up on new therapies. And then one guy cited this as a reason for visiting this powerful and helpful web site: "I learned to answer questions like, 'Daddy, what's all over your legs?'"

I didn't make that up.

From the vault

I guess it's incredibly arrogant of me to pretend I have a vault or that anyone would be concerned about its contents. However, these are from it.

Hate your roommate? 5 ways to bury the hatchet:

1. Laterally, above the ear.
2. Vertically, right down the center.
3. Overhand toss. (Creates a nice circus feel.)
4. With menacing full swing wind-up.
5. In roommate's door, attaching note that reads, "Do not enter. Masturbation in progress." (Coward's option.)

Body language blunders that could cost you a job:

1. Two fingered "V" to the mouth with tongue thrust through.
2. Lifting up skirt and pointing at cooch with a face that says, "Eh? How about it, daddy?"
3. Jacking off in the air when told to do something.
4. Humping the water cooler.
5. Licking the index finger and then touching buttocks with a sizzling sound effect. Followed by saying, "Now you."
6. Performing the old "got your nose" trick and then saying, "Oh, no, wait. It's your dick. And look how widdle it is!"
7. Mooning.
8. Simultaneous circular rubbing of the nipples.
9. Tongue in cheek plus stroking hand motion, simulating blow job.
10. Folded arms say, "I'm not open to your ideas."

10 smart questions to ask when you're house-hunting:

1. Did anyone die here?
2. Is anyone buried under the house?
3. Are those tombstones in the backyard real or decorative?
4. Can you explain this part in the brochure about the convenient cadaver-sized storage space under the floorboards?
5. What's that smell?
6. Are the owners planning on resurfacing the pentagram-shaped driveway?
7. Will the appliances be staying in the house? Including the stainless steel Sub-Zero Crematorium?
8. Are you sure no one died here?
9. Can I afford NOT to buy this house?
10. What does Mello-Roos mean?

Some things I learned from trial lawyers.

Never ask a question you don't already know the answer to. Especially if the question is, "Do you love me?"

Happy Birthday, Justin

I wish it could be surrounded by happier circumstances. But I hope it is a wonderful birthday, just the same. You are loved.

And to the rest of you, thank you for all the well-wishing and kind words of love and support. Beulah and I appreciate you to pieces.

Delirium of Grief

I have been crying for hours. Up all night working, and I'd only had an hour and a half or so of sleep when my mom called. I have been struggling for a couple of weeks now with immense sadness over the possibility that my little sister's dog would have to be put down. And today, Beulah took her to the vet and held her as she was put to sleep. And we have been crying and crying and crying. And the only thing I can think to do is to commemorate the wonderfulness of that dog. She was such a part of our family. She's the reason I got a min pin myself. She was graceful and dignified and smart and funny. And I used to catch my dad complimenting her when he didn't know we were listening. "Tasha, you are remarkable. Do you know that?" he would say. "You are a remarkable creature." And she was.

This is how I will remember her.

A roast is for a pig.

The best parts of Comedy Central's roast of William Shatner were the taped bit with Shatner and Leonard Nimoy on the phone at the top of the show -- seriously, if you only watch ninety seconds of the show, watch those -- and Shatner's speech at the end of the show. Whoever wrote those gems is brilliant and only made to seem more so by the deft delivery of those two geniuses.

I had a lot of commentary written in IM form while I was watching the show, but it all just seems like cranky nitpicking now. I hate certain people. I love certain people. The broadcast did little to change my mind about these things. Betty White is a-okay. Lisa Lampanelli was in top form, and she looked great. Geoff Ross was funny, but the crowd was no good. Or at least, he had to remind them they were at a roast at one point, which may not be the equivalent of bombing, but you know what a fine line that is. Jason Alexander is very low on my list of people I ever want to see do anything, and he remains there. Artie Lange is not my cup of tea. Nichelle Nichols and George Takei did fine. Distinguished themselves even. Especially considering their careers in stand-up. I was very impressed with the accomplishments achieved by Andy Dick's stylist. He was swank top to bottom. And I was bored by Farrah Fawcett's percocet-addled performance. I don't really subscribe to the need for the token blonde freakshow at these things. And she's another plastic surgery nightmare. Her face looks like it was carved out of a block of marzipan. The broadcast clipped the night's festivities to pieces, so I don't know, maybe if you watch the uncensored clips online, you'll find that I was wrong about everything. I have no problem with this. Mainly, I'm just mortified that Steve Agee had an invite and did not use it.

I don't care how many embarrassing clips you have of him; William Shatner is a dream in a sportcoat. And he has aged a good deal more gracefully than Adrian Zmed.

Pantomiming to records can be fun.

La Cita is yet another indication that there is a super, red-tinted nighttime scene in Downtown Los Angeles that I only stumble into when invited or when having a birthday. Honestly, if not for the piss-soaked sidewalks and the parking issues, I might live Downtown. Also if I was more a fan of rape. But why must you be such an extremist, Mary? Can't you just go Downtown without actually moving there? Of course you can. And you did. Tonight. And it was worth it. You even found street parking for free. You weren't entirely sure you'd make it. You were tired. You weren't sizzlingly pleased with your audition, and you haven't been sleeping well, and you've been feeling on the verge of under the weather. And you have to drive to San Diego to celebrate a few of the many birthdays that happen this week. And you walked your dog at eight p.m., and the eager beaver across the street kept trying to get your attention, holding up something you couldn't identify, but you gathered from his suggestive declarations that he was holding up a bag of weed and saying it was for you. And you saw the two motorcycle cops who had just rather bombastically pulled over a fancy white car only two houses down, and you wondered how your neighbor could be so not cool. And when he told you to put your dog in the house and come over -- after shaking off the chills -- you said no and realized that you were very cranky, and that was another good reason to maybe not go out tonight. You even tried to take a nap, but it was a fitful attempt, and you ended up watching way more than you intended to of that made-for-television teacher movie on TNT. The Matthew Perry Story. And by ten p.m., you decided to just set your teeth and make it happen. So you did. And because you did, you got to see Foxy Yen and Foxy Maggie and Super Cute Josh and Super Cute Marco and a bunch of hipsters dancing to music they probably detested when it was first popular but can now groove to for its kitsch value. And you thought to yourself, "Well, screw them. I liked this song when it first came out. I bought it on cassette. I know all the words. See? I'll show you."

Today is a very popular day for babies being had in my social circle. Glad tidings of "Happy Birthday" to Sarah and Dad and Josh and Geoffrey and Rebecca. You may not want to go see Snakes on a Plane as a present, but it won't be for lack of my having tried to give it you.

F is for Foxy. Don't forget it.

Like the man said, "Nothing lasts forever."

Every time Deep Space Nine ends, I feel as if I've ended a small life of my own. Every time I hear Vic Fontaine sing The Way You Look Tonight, I feel like I'm saying goodbye all over again. To something that was never quite in my grasp. It all ended in a blaze of white light six years ago. And now it just ends and ends and ends. For some reason, I never feel such attachment to the beginnings.

This has been a difficult and painful week for me. Challenges and cares floating on a raft of small successes and hopes. I have cocooned myself away. I have slept nearly not at all. I have rubbed my eyes a lot. Blown my nose a lot. Felt like I'd been run over by a truck. Wished the truck had stopped to cart away some of my belongings before driving off.

This month -- this week -- is filled with many anniversaries. Many birthdays. I am marking the milestones the way you measure distance on a map. With fingers swiveling, itsy bitsy spider-style. An inch is a hundred miles. A year is a lifetime.

I am sorry for not holding on more tightly. I am sorry for many things.

That man loves me. Couldn't you see it? It was written all over his back.

I should be playing Guitar Hero.

I just saw an episode of Stargate Atlantis whose plot was nearly exactly the same as the plot of an episode of Stargate SG-1 I watched a few weeks ago. Is that the premise of Stargate Atlantis? It's the exact same show as Stargate SG-1, only they've rewritten all the scripts and replaced "SG-1" with the word "Atlantis" and MacGyver is played by a guy with darker hair? Knowing this now, I feel like a real bum that I haven't tried harder to pitch show ideas to the Sci-Fi Channel. I need the work. And I think there could really be a market for Battlesquare Universica.

I refuse to admit that Psych is so good.

I just refuse. I don't want the world to know that a USA Network budget can turn out a better-than-HBO-comedy-series show. People would call me insane. And I don't like having my marbles challenged.

Parking Lot Scene 2006

I know people sometimes I think I post every photo I take, but I assure you, I spend hours upon hours culling, which is why I seldom post with the same immediacy that others in my camera-wearing peer group do. For instance, last night, I was photo editing until 8 A.M. And I took -- easily -- more than 2,000 photos with my two cameras at Street Scene this past weekend, and I only posted 700-and-something. It's not Sophie's choice. But it's hardly fair to call me "excessive" or "a completist." Right?

Here they are anyway:

http://flickr.com/photos/maryforrest/sets/72157594229535199/

Dear Myspace,

Why don't you work? I realize you have intermittent crap-outs and can now only wryly be referred to as "Still Better than Friendster!", but for the past few weeks, you have been consistently unusable, however in an infuriating, "don't give up -- try, try again," time-consuming way. At least with Friendster, you just plain couldn't get to the site. And to be fair, you had that same problem during most of Comic-Con. I know, I know. You had a power outage in your data center. But still. Don't you know that I don't bother to know my friends' actual email addresses specifically because I assume I can rely on you? These days, everything I try to do results in an error. And I'm pretty bright with computers and stuff, so I try not to assume that the error messages I get from you are real without first confirming that my message hasn't in fact been sent or my comment in fact been posted. And it's precisely because of this reputation I have that I am terrified of mistakenly assuming your error messages are factual, resulting in a comment of mine being posted more than once -- especially since you seem to have taken away the ability for users to delete comments they've left. But some of my friends who are newer to you don't know to do that, so as a result I have been receiving messages from some of them ten, twenty, even thirty times in a row. Anyway, you've really been making me waste a lot of my time this past week. And not in an engrossing, addictive, or infotaining sort of way. It just takes me a lot longer now to confirm that you truly are not going to let me ever post a comment for Paul F. Tompkins. Oh, wait. It just worked now. But I'll bet this blog will never post...

Andy Warhol's calculations were woefully off.

Janice Dickinson has been famous for too long. I know she went into dormancy for a while in the middle, but if you add up the front end and back end of her career, you will suddenly find that you are ashamed that you even know who I am talking about. And she looks like a Spitting Image puppet. So does Dyan Cannon.

 

 



I promise I am not trying to remake my blog into some kind of Defamer, Jr. I just think things is all.

Beisuboru or "I was hoping for that reaction."

I know no one wants to hear how much I love Deep Space Nine, but I can't shut up about it. And season 7 is airing on Spike TV these days, so I'm watching my two episodes a day and being sent into a familiar reverie of anguish and delight. The "Take Me Out to the Holosuite" episode is on right now, and Sisko, having been challenged by the smarmy Captain Solok of the Starship Tecumbra (a ship with an all-Vulcan crew), tells his senior staff that he has accepted Solok's challenge to "a contest of courage, teamwork, and sacrifice" on their behalf. Worf's stoic reply, "We will destroy them," is priceless to me.

I used to date a rabid Yankees fan, and I loved playing in the orchestra for Damn Yankees. Adding in this television program, I think I might actually be a bona fide baseball nut. I even have Dodger Dogs in my fridge.

Nana Visitor also looks hot in her practice duds. Maybe that's all American baseball needs to catch my permanent fancy: Bajorans.

Epilogue

Then Nog doesn't know what to do when the runner doesn't touch home plate, and Worf yells, "Find him and kill him!" Ah, if only.

Second Epilogue

And then they are trying to give Rom batting signals, and he says, "What?" Who knew heaven could happen on a baseball diamond?