The cream on the mashed potatoes.

A few weeks ago, Sarah and Paul were in Anaheim and wanted to visit Disneyland, so I drove down to shepherd them around on a Saturday night. It would have been much more fun had it not been Gay Days. Not because we have any problem with gay people, make no mistake. I love me some gays. Truly. It's that I have never been to Disneyland that late at night and seen it that crowded. As a result, we didn't really get to do much but wait in line and elbow our way through red-shirted crowds. But we still had a good time. And while we were waiting in line for Space Mountain, Paul was teaching me some of the idioms that the Swedes have that approximate ours. For instance, where we would say "bite the bullet" to reference the act of enduring something painful or unpleasant, Swedes would say the equivalent of "bite the sour apple." And where we might call it "icing on the cake" when something great comes after something already very good, Swedes would call that the "cream on the mashed potatoes." I love this. And I loved the fact that, even after our somewhat stressful Disneyland visit, Paul sent me a lovely email and told me that I was in fact the cream on the mashed potatoes.

While I'm on this language instruction kick, here are some additional Swedish idioms you can use at your leisure or when you're hanging out with Paul.

"The important thing [here] is to get away alive."
Det gäller att klara sig undan med livet i behåll.
It shrieks to clear one self out of the road with the waist intact.

To totally abandon someone.
Lämna någon vind för våg.
Leave someone wind by wave.

A cheerful expression of surprise.
Hej hopp i blåbärsskogen!
Hello, jump in the blueberry forest!

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."
Bättre en fågel i handen än tio i skogen.
Better a bird in your hand than ten in the woods.

"Don't count your chickens until they hatch."
Ropa inte hej förräns du är över bäcken.
Don't yell hi until you're over the stream.

A party that got out of hand.
Det var ett riktigt sjoslag.
It was a real sea-battle.

"You're in deep shit now."
Nu är det kokta fläsket stekt.
Now the boiled pork is fried.

"Run like hell."
Lägga benen på ryggen.
Put your legs on your back.

To make things worse
Att lägga lök på laxen
To put onion on the salmon

"Calm down."
Kiss och gå lägg dig!
Pee and go lie down!

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."
Det är skönt med den goa värmen, sa kärringen när stugan brann.
It is nice with the heat, said the old woman when the house was on fire.

"Now, you've done it!"
Nu har du trampat i klaveret.
Now you have stepped into the accordion!

To come into a lot of money
Lägga rabarber på klöver.
Lay down rhubarbs on clover.

Talking nonsense
Han pratar i nattmössan.
He is talking in his nighthat.

"Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades."
Nära är bara bra med en atombomb.
Close is only good with an A-bomb.

"Good gracious!"
Milda makter!
Mild forces!

"It doesn't work."
Den är paj.
It's pie.

"Fat chance!"
Inte en sportmössa!
Not a sportscap!

"You'r talking out of your ass."
Nu är du ute och cyklar.
Now you are out and cycling.

"Caught with his pants down"
Med skägget i brevlådan
With his beard in the mailbox

"No kidding!"
Dra mig på en tallpinnevagn.
Drag me on a pine-twig wagon.

"You've really made a fool of yourself."
Nu har du skitit i det blå skåpet.
Now you've shit in the blue cupboard.

I love etymology. And vulgarity.

I guess I say "skeevy" a lot. According to Rob. I hadn't noticed. Maybe I've just been telling a larger proportion of stories lately with skeevs in starring roles. But I thought about it today, and I wondered if "skeevy" comes from the Italian "schifo," which I understand to mean "disgusting." So I put the Internet to use -- and counted myself briefly grateful that I no longer live in the days when wondering something like this might force me to (a) go to a library, (b) ask a friend who would know the answer, or (c) call a radio station -- and didn't really find my answer but did find giant pleasure in reading the various insults, swears, and narrative declarations of vulgarity that it made available to me. (In that last clause, "it" meant "the Internet," as previously referenced, but the long, emdash-encased section may have made that ambiguous.) See for yourself.

Andate tutti a 'fanculo!
You can all go fuck yourselves!

Nessuno me lo ficca in culo!
Nobody fucks me up the ass!

Tua madre si da per niente!
Your mother gives it away!

Te lo tronco nel culo.
I'll fill in your ass.

Vaffanculo a Lei, la sua moglie, e' la sua madre. Lei e' un cafone stronzo. Io non mangio in questo merdaio! Vada via in culo!
You, sir, go fuck yourself--and your wife and your mother. You are a common turd! I'm not going to eat in this shithouse. Fuck you!

Ti metto il cazzo in culo e te lo faccio uscire dalla bocca.
If I put my dick in your ass, it's going to come out your mouth.

La tua madre puzza di pesce.
Your mom smells like fish.

Caccati in mano e prenditi a schiaffi.
Shit in your hand and hit yourself.

Il tuo cazzo è un brufolo.
Your dick's a pimple.

Sei una busta de piscio.
You're a fucking piss bag.

Sei una bolla de sborra.
You're a sperm-ball.

Cachi il cazzo.
You're shitting on my dick.

Uno che va in culo a sua madre.
That one ass-fucks its mother.

Non vale un cazzo
Not worth cum, i.e., useless

Ditalino
Female masturbation, i.e., finger banging

Ciuccia cazzi
Dick sucker

Cazzo di cane
You did that work very badly. (literally: a dog's dick)

Porca la Miseria/Porca Miseria)
Pig Misery!

Boia faus!
Dishonest executioner!

Mille cazzi nel tuo culo
A thousand dicks in your ass

Se il cazzo avesse le ali, la tua fica sarebbe un aereoporto.
If a dick had wings, your pussy would be an airport.

Gesu e un cornuto.
Jesus is a cuckold.

Va funcuolo Dio and tutte e santi.
Fuck Christ and all the saints.

Magic Magic Magic
Friday night, I went to The Magic Castle to help my friends Kevin and Chris celebrate their birthdays. I am not a fan of magic. I find the melodrama and lavish hand gestures to be the height of overdoing it. I especially don't like the Vegas-y variety of comedy and magic that The Magic Castle seems to be famous for. (Incidentally, is it The Magic CASTLE or The MAGIC Castle?) The first time I ever went to The Magic Castle, I had only lived here for a month or two, and my office had our Christmas party there. I had dinner, and then left before the magic show. I had tickets to see Tenacious D, Naked Trucker, and Spinal Tap at the House of Blues that night. And that was far more magical a prospect.
I did actually like the Close-Up Room, where the show is more about sleight of hand, which I can truthfully appreciate very much. Our magician in the Close-Up Room was a lady named Suzanne, and she was really good. And not at all covered in glitter or self-tanner. I think sleight of hand and magic are very different things. Where one of them is a good and cool thing and the other is a thing that makes me want to punch my fist through a hat. And frankly, it really comes down more to the issue of whether or not you are really good at it or whether you have one of the two hairdos magicians are apparently allowed to have. The guy in the Parlor of Prestidigitation was not funny, not skillful, and not someone who is not a hunchback. I had had enough to drink that I was probably not a very gracious audience member. And a fat guy glared at me at one point because I was having a good time but not in synch with the rest of the group. I think we also annoyed the young lady whose bosom would have received a marriage proposal from Chris, had she not liked magic so much.
I also don't like being asked to participate in the show. I don't even like it when this happens at comedy shows. Or at restaurants with especially gregarious servers. I hate being put on the spot. And I'm always convinced I will do the wrong thing. So I was relieved to not be wrangled into doing anything to support the magic. I had warned Kevin before the event that there was no way I was going up on stage for anything. Especially not to be sawed in half. It also occurred to me that women are always more at risk at these events for the simple reason that women are considered less likely to be -- or worse to think they are -- funny. So you get a lady up on stage to hold your tablecloth, sprig of baby's breath, and bewitched hat stand and you can do your schtick uninterrupted. You get a dude up on stage, and there's a very good chance he will find himself a chance to do a one man interpretive scene from Top Gun. (Probably either the You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling part or the part where Goose dies.) So maybe I resent this tradition.
In the end, I had a nice enough time. A lot of whiskey helps. I also started out the evening with a Campari soda at dinner, and I haven't had one of those in years and years. It was nostalgic and good. And afterwards, Kevin and Chris and I went to the 101 Coffee Shop and argued about my Guitar Hero skills (though Chris has never played) and whether or not mac and cheese should be soupy. I'm a fan of the crispy/chewy variety. Chris prefers the soupy version. But everyone agreed on the onion rings. Although the boys ate theirs with mustard, while I ate mine with ranch. And I drove home quite certain I would never need to -- nor should I -- ever eat again.

The High Ground

My front door step is unfortunate. If you are a gentleman leaving my apartment at some point, and I am standing there a step or two above you, seeing you off, chances are you will stumble a little or have to turn too suddenly. You will look slightly clumsy and slightly embarrassed. And I will either find it endearing or unfortunate. I'm not saying ladies never have cause to leave my apartment. I just think that it's the gentleman who is more prone to want to leave a dashing impression, and it's nearly impossible to accomplish if my front door is involved.

The Fed Ex guy who needs only stand there, awaiting my signature, accepting my apology for my dog's vicious demeanor, exchanging a parcel for my thanks -- he needn't fret. His altitude never changes. And it's more likely he isn't trying to make a memorable exit. Which is maybe why I'm the one who is usually flustered and wishing I had put on lipstick.

I watched Shop Girl tonight. It has a strange pace and an oddly fluid but seemingly motionless soundtrack. I felt as if I was holding my breath for the length of the film. No wonder I have a headache.

All in the timing.

Congratulations, Michael. An industrial fog machine has made certain that no one will be able to follow you. You win. With distinction.

It's probably a whiskey tumor.

Last night, my friend Tim's short film Slideshow screened at Garage Comedy. I took all the photos featured in the film, and the film is very funny, so I felt especially proud when I saw my name come up in the credits. I remember the day we shot those photos. It was a long, long day and included me getting a little toy dog out of a coin-op machine. There were many characters to choose from. A variety of breeds. Even one named "Duchess" who was nursing pups, but you had to get the pups separately. But the one I wanted stood out.

His name was "Craps," and he's in a shitting position. Which I can't believe was ever mass-manufactured. But it only took me three tries and $1.50 to win him, and now no one can ever tell me he doesn't exist.

So that was a fun day, as I recall. And it was already long enough ago that one of us could have had a baby by now. The blasted passage of time. I guess I like getting past the awful things, but the good stuff just whizzes past, too. At least we have this to show for it.



So last night, I went to Garage Comedy. It was a little chilly out. Fall weather that scolds me in advance for the sweater I don't feel like carrying. I was tired and out of sorts all day. Too many cocktails and too little sleep. For days and days. I haven't been to El Cid for a while. Mondays have become problematic and vied for. I always end up saying no to at least two things. But good ol' Garage Comedy. I always see so many friends there. I am a fan of that.



That above photo is a link to the photo set from last night. If you are not my friend on Flickr, you won't be able to see them. If you would like to become my friend on Flickr, click this link and use your powers of instruction-following and deductive reasoning to make it come to pass.

El Cid kicked us all out before midnight, which was unexpected and unwelcome. The persistent partygoers among us went over to 4100 and continued doing what it is we do, just in more dimly lit surroundings and with more places to sit.

All in all, I drank too much. I smoked too much. I have limited my hopes today to becoming hydrated.

The dream is still alive.

This morning, after a late night of applauding comedy, performing comedy, and then drinking more than was necessary, I took Audrey for a walk, feeling still slightly drunk and glad for the cloud cover. When we got to the east end of my block, an adorable little girl who lives on the corner was peeking out her kitchen door. She was wearing what may have been pajamas. She's a little short-haired thing with lovely manners and a seemingly jocular disposition. I've seen her outside with her father or with her nanny. She is a doll. So today, as Audrey and I walked past, she said, "Is that your dog?" I said it was. And she said, "What's her name?" And I said it was Audrey. And she said, "And what's YOUR name?" And I said, "Mary." Then I asked, "And what's your name?" And she had to say it a couple of times before I understood she was telling me her name is Princess Leia. I said that was a lovely name and that I was pleased to meet her. And I was.

Now, I suppose it's possible that her parents actually named her Princess Leia, in which case, it is their persisting awesome I'm proclaiming. But I suspect her name is probably not Princess Leia, making it all the more wonderful that she would want it to be. She can't be more than four or five. That she already has the presence of mind to wish she was able to see Alderaan one last time -- well, I just think that's super. The only thing that might have trounced that would have been for her to say her name was Han Solo. Because, gender oppression aside, that's who everyone wishes they could be.

Martin Scorsese still likes to fuck.

A friend of mine recently posited that the hallmark of compelling filmmaking is a director who wants to get laid. That you can scan the filmographies of directors who have at least at one time been considered to be great, and you can see where in their lives they lost interest in all the tail they were going to get as a result of their labors. George Lucas. Steven Spielberg. James Cameron. Quentin Tarantino. Oliver Stone. Some of them apparently have lost interest in sex altogether. Some have gone through apparent periods of quiet reflection and keeping their junk in tight little rubber underpants. Some have come back from celibacy like warriors. Some have tried to leave celibacy but found themselves instead in the persistent embrace of no-self-respecting-woman-would-ever-let-you-even-touch-her-boob-through-clothing-after-that-heap-of-shit-that-you-just-made. You can also see how long after a film comes out a director can milk the end credits for hanky panky in some cases. Darren Aronofsky. Richard Kelly. This may even explain why Kelly released his second version of Donnie Darko.

Anyway, I had this in mind when I went to watch The Departed yesterday. Does Martin Scorsese still care about banging? My short answer, which will come as no surprise to you if you read the title of this post, is, "Yes." But in the spirit of something that pretends more earnestly to be an actual review, I have these additional things to say, too.

Firstly, it really seems that Leonardo di Caprio is chasing Oscar. Not that he shouldn't. But it seems like the last few films he has chosen are really intended to be excursions for him. Before the film, I saw the trailer for Blood Diamond, and I heard Leo wielding a passable Afrikaans accent. And in The Departed, he's from Southy. Although, I don't think the Boston accents in this film are always so worthy of applause. Mark Wahlberg and Matt Damon have obviously got it nailed, but some of the other headliners -- while delivering truly fine performances -- couldn't seem to keep their vowel decoder card straight. But that's neither here nor there. I think Leonardo di Caprio is really good. Not just in this. In general. I really think he is. I think it's a shame that even when he slathers on a convincing new dialect, it's hard to hear anyone but Jack Dawson, but that's just because all women remember the first fictional man they fell in love with who died handcuffed to the North Atlantic. It's a fact of life. That being said, it seems that he really wants an Oscar, and I'm not going to say he shouldn't get one. But I'm not someone who gets a say in it anyway.

It's not a cawmedy.

So my first big problem with this movie was not with the movie. It was with the audience, who laughed entirely too much for my liking. And there were at least two fellows sitting near me who seemed to think they were watching a Farrelly Brothers film. This one dude in particular. He laughed at every single line Jack Nicholson spoke. And, while I will admit there is a lot of snappy dialogue in this film and that it is in some cases funny enough to merit a laugh, there is also a tone that is being set by the dialogue that has nothing to do with its being funny or not. But no one who saw the movie with me seemed to get that. Nor did they worry that they were missing the point of what was being said. They were all too busy experiencing the orgasmic release of being able to laugh at racist and homophobic one-liners in a public place without fear of being hit in the teeth with a gun butt for it. I guess there's something comforting for white people about hearing the word "nigger" in a movie made by an Academy Award-nominated (and famously not yet Academy Award-winning) director and being allowed to find it amusing.

Mark Wahlberg's character's first scene reminds me of Hank Azaria's character in Quiz Show. That is not a qualitative assessment. It just does. Also, the back of his hair looked ridiculous. His stylist should buy him a truffle farm (as a means of making restitution, in case that didn't come across).

Both Alec Baldwin and Martin Sheen are enjoyable to watch. But neither of them can consistently do that Boston "o." It's not a cawmedy. But it is a cawp movie. And in one sentence Martin Sheen has to say "cawp" three or four times, and only one or two of them is not pronounced "cop." I forgive them that. Jack Nicholson didn't even try.

I would say that my overall takeaway was positive. I cared about the characters. I saw the careful juxtaposition of the good guy living the bad guy life and the bad guy living the good guy life. I was intrigued by all the subterfuge and trying to figure out who could be trusted. I was invested in it, and I think it was very articulately accomplished. Cinematically, it felt very Scorsese. The violence was vivid but not especially gratuitous. I enjoyed it. And I was not angry at my friends who have raved or begrudging of the critics who have thumbs-upped. In my book, that's a victory.

I do have to say that I almost categorically hated the music choices. The soundtrack was just jarring and ill-chosen. And that seems like such a small mistake to make. I wish they had opted to make a good soundtrack, but then I once really liked the soundtrack to St Elmo's Fire. True, it is a very Scorsese-sounding soundtrack, with a moody original score by Howard Shore and a bunch of rock and roll songs. And I know a lot of people might disagree with me about this, but I really think the music blurts out in weird places at unusual volumes and doesn't necessarily support the action on screen, and that's the stuff that Scorsese is usually lauded for. There is a version of Comfortably Numb that I hated, and that is a song that I love. There is a lot of the Stones' Gimme Shelter, which just feels like every other urban drug culture movie ever made. And there is a lot of the Dropkick Murphys' I'm Shipping Up to Boston, which was fine, if a bit on the nose. It's not the worst soundtrack ever made. But it kept jumping out at me, and I actually think that a good soundtrack has to be unobtrusive enough to make whatever point it needs to make without making you suddenly go, "Wait. What was that song. I'll try to remember to look it up when the credits roll." Or, worse, "Ow. That was so loud. I can't concentrate on the dialogue because my ear is sore." I hated it. In short.

Oh, and my one really big eye-rolling groaner moment was at the very end of the film. There is a bit of symbolism that is really just such overkill. I was very sorry that I saw it and wished instead that I had been sneezing.

Lastly, I couldn't help but think about the film's Hong Kong progenitor while I was watching, and maybe that made me go more easily on the movie as a whole than my friend Kevin did. For some reason, foreign films get away with a certain amount of whimsy that I don't always allow in American films. Maybe it's just that I don't know the streets of Hong Kong as well as I know the streets of America, so I'm less likely to know when something that would never happen happens. Or maybe it's that foreign films sometimes incorporate cartoonish elements into otherwise straight-laced storytelling and it feels courageous and clever rather than contrived and forced. The best example I can think of is the way I felt about Face/Off. If that movie had starred Jet Li and Chow Yun-Fat and had been made in Chinese, I'll bet I would have thought it was awesome. But because it was Nicolas Cage and John Travolta, it seemed so dumb, so implausible. So unintentionally campy. I guess campy is not so bad. And I guess I dislike Nicolas Cage and John Travolta so much that I wouldn't have really liked them in a movie unless they died in it. For real. And with a huge gay scandal surrounding their deaths.

In summation, I liked The Departed. And Martin Scorsese apparently still likes to bone. And if you want to know which trailers I saw and what I thought of them, you're in luck. As long as you do not go blind before reaching the next line.

Trailer Trash

So I mentioned Blood Diamond. I didn't form any distinct impressions. Just that Leonardo di Caprio is campaigning for his statuette by way of the Meryl Streep school.

The trailer for The Queen looked interesting enough. Although the main thing I noted was that it was obviously VERY important to cast actors who looked a great deal like their real-life counterparts. Because James Cromwell looks a good bit like Prince Philip, but I'm not entirely convinced he can sound like him. However Helen Mirren is wonderful. And I am one of those Americans who is too uninformed about British government to resent the Royals. I still have a bunch of Diana clippings in a cabinet. Clippings. I'm embarrassed that I have clippings of anyone. And, not that you care, but the trailer music was from the Restoration soundtrack.

Stranger than Fiction looks funny. It also looks like a Charlie Kaufman movie, but it isn't.

300 looks like Frank Miller, and it is. I don't know if Frank Miller's graphic novel was based on the 1962 Italian film The 300 Spartans -- although they are both certainly based on the actual story of Spartan King Leonidas and his army of 300 men at the Battle of Thermopylae -- but in doing my research, I read this detail about the 1962 film on IMDb.com: "When the Immortals attack, the javelins thrown by the Greeks have no points. Many of the Immortals can be seen dropping their weapons to grab the javelins and hold them under their arms or to their chests. A javelin with a blunt end can also be plainly seen hitting one of the extras in the mouth." I kind of want to see that instead.

A bowl of broth

I don't think "broth" is a very pleasant word. Even when limited to the meanings that are food-related. It still brings to mind frothy, chummy liquid. Something that -- once skimmed -- will be clear, but will still glisten with telltale dots of fatty oil. When I worked in biotechnology, "broth" meant things in fermentation and cell culture that would in no way go good with rice.

But I've been sick all week, so broth it is.

"Jerry Brown opposes the death penalty."

There is a campaign ad running right now that begins with both the text titles and the voice over announcement that Jerry Brown opposes the death penalty. It goes like this: "Jerry Brown opposes the death penalty. Even for serial killers and cop killers. Jerry Brown. He may just be the least qualified person in all of California to be Attorney General. Paid for by Poochigian for Attorney General." Holy assumptive leap. I don't even know what the premise of this objection is. Because Jerry Brown opposes the death penalty, he doesn't know the law or wouldn't be willing to uphold it? What a load. For the record, I oppose the death penalty. And, yes, even for cop killers and serial killers. Opposing the death penalty does not mean that one opposes enforcement of the law or that one maybe even applauds crime. But proponents of the death penalty often use this method of communication to get you to start thinking that people who think the death penalty is bad must also believe that violent criminals should go free. Like if you think it's pointless and unenlightened to think that killing murderers will not keep people safer or less murdered -- despite what common sense, statistics, and the rest of the Western World might tell you -- you must be some kind of misanthrope or perhaps even a criminal mastermind yourself. Do you think Jerry Brown thinks serial killers and cop killers should just go free? Maybe you think that Jerry Brown thinks that cop killers and serial killers are super cool and that he probably has a secret fan site dedicated to congratulating these guys and hoping that one day he might get a chance to buy one of the works of art they create while behind bars, eating lobster thermidor on the taxpayers' tab. If you don't already think that sort of thing, I guess you should start hanging out with Chuck Poochigian. He's probably got some opinions on the topic.

Also, I've lived in California for a number of years now, and I feel fairly confident that there are a few residents who are less qualified than Jerry Brown to be Attorney General. Let's just start with my upstairs neighbor and then begin going house to house on my street, knocking on doors and asking my neighbors what res ipsa loquitur means. It's not that I never use hyperbole, but come on Senator Poochigian. Is campaign advertising really the place for it? I'm surprised the advertisement I saw didn't close by saying Chuck Poochigian is the only man in California ever to have had a dream or be handsome.

And Chuck Poochigian's campaign web site promotes him with the slogan, "Tough to pronounce. Tougher on crime." If this isn't a ridiculous non sequitur. While he alienates his Armenian constituents and those of use who have at one point or another been hooked on phonics, he also proves that he is not keen on convincing anyone that he is an astute logician. I'm not running for Attorney General, but I'm pretty certain that the ability to put two and two together (and find four, as opposed to a lollipop or a hat) is a big part of what the job calls for.

Please make up your own mind when you go to the polls, but please also remember that it would likely be possible to stymie Chuck Poochigian with a simple if-then statement.

The Thankless Beauty of Your Better Side

Beulah and I were watching Celebrity Duets the other night, and I couldn't get over how misshapen Wayne Brady's head is. One side, normal. The other side, smashed in with a sledgehammer. One side, adult human male. The other side, silverback gorilla, gender not specified. Beulah hadn't noticed it until I pointed it out, but once I brought it to her attention, she congratulated me for again using that unique talent I have for telling you what or who someone looks like. Like when I pointed out that Lance Bass looks like K.D. Lang. And then later when I pointed out that Jake Gyllenhaal looks like K.D. Lang. And then later still, when I pointed out that Clive Owen looks somewhat like K.D. Lang, as well. Well, there are better examples.

In other news, the other day I was listening to NPR, and I heard a Chinese diplomat discussing the goings on in the Middle East, and he kept saying that we should not use "The Force" and that there are many diplomatic alternatives to the use of "The Force." Whether or not this comes from this diplomat having heard and taken to heart Lionel Twain's admonitions about Chinese syntax in Murder by Death, I couldn't help but be amused by the idea that the solution to the world's most pressing problems might be to tell the Jedis to give it a rest.

Identity theft is so Buddhist.*

So I posted to my MySpace blog last week, because it had been brought to my attention that there was someone calling herself Jessica in New Haven, Connecticut, using pictures of me on her profile and passing them off as her. So I guess it's more appearance theft than identity theft. But it's theft anyway. Ten out of her twleve profile pictures are photos of me. They were all taken in various parts of 2004, and they are all copyrighted. By me.

I wrote to MySpace requesting they get involved. (There hasn't been any response yet, by the way. I know we hear this argument all the time, but honestly, for the amount of money that was paid to purchase MySpace, you'd think by now they would have been able to staff up and start offering some actual customer service. But no.) The way you do that is to send them what's called a "salute." Basically, you have to take a picture of yourself holding a handwritten sign that reads MySpace.com and then your friend ID. You send that to them, and then you send them the URL of the profile that is attempting to pass itself off as you. And theoretically, they swoop in and fix everything.

In a show of passing but pitiable dumbness, I remember having a flash of concern that this Jessica could send them a picture and get them to shut down MY profile. It took me a second or two to realize, "Oh, wait. She can't do that, because she isn't me. So if she were to take a picture of herself holding up this sign, the picture would reveal that she isn't me. Because she isn't. Duh." I shared this lapse with Beulah, and she confessed to having thought the same thing. And she's a school teacher.

I have thought about this situation for the past week, as I've been waiting for MySpace to respond. I suppose there's room to be flattered that someone in need of a fake appearance would choose mine. The profile is not intended to use my image to satisfy anyone's chubby fetish. Jessica is not telling anyone that she -- wearing my face and body -- is some cock-hungry whore or multi-level marketer. I just took issue with the fact that this fake me would say that her musical likes are Enya and Buddhist chants. And that she would make all of the content of her profile about how much she's into Buddhism and helping others, especially children. I was discussing it with my brilliant friend Simon over IM last week, and he said, "You should write, 'Fuck you, Jessica,' on your hand and take a picture. Or how about writing something hurtful about the Dalai Lama on your body, take a nude picture, and email it to all her MySpace friends." I love the idea of getting back at this person by maligning the Dalai Lama. Not that I believe for a moment that she's really a Buddhist. Or that she's really a she for that matter. And what's the point of pretending to be so enthusiastic about Buddhism? I don't think a lot of hot girls are going to be sending nude pictures of themselves to Jessica with a rap like that. And I'm assuming that's the idea. But I'm no psychologist. Is there money to be made in Buddhist evangelism? I'm assuming there isn't, but I haven't really done my homework.

A number of my friends have written to Jessica, as have I. The gist of my message was just, who are you and why are you using pictures of me. My friends may have phrased their queries with more verve. MySpace lets you see when someone has read your message, and I've confirmed that "she" has read mine but just chose not to respond. She didn't accept any of their friend requests either, so no one has been able to post comments to her profile or photos. The one of me with my min pin Audrey that is captioned, "Me and my puppy Tina," is particularly irritating. As is the one of me at Coachella wearing a Duran Duran baseball cap and captioned, "Duran Duran is my band." The one that is captioned "Saturday night" was actually taken in the middle of the day on a Monday. I remember it distinctly, as I was on my way to LACMA to meet a guy for coffee, and it was my friend Angie's birthday. Beulah and I have taken to referring to Audrey as Tina now, just to amuse ourselves. But everyone knows "Tina" is a dumb name for a dog.

It seems that Jessica has not signed on since reading my message, so I assume that she -- like me -- is just waiting for MySpace to summarily pull the plug. I wish there was some hope that the mystery would actually be solved. But I doubt I'll ever find out if this was a prank or something more sinister, if it was executed by someone who actually knows me or just by someone who has been to my web site enough to have collected a few photos they liked. The photos were all pulled from my Roundup page but from a few different sets and from a few different time periods. So that has an element of creepiness to it. Generally, no one gets weirded out when they find out someone likes them. But when they like them enough to have done their homework...that's a horse of a different color.

So I'm in San Diego now. I played the late show and the midnight show at the comedy theater. I was exhausted, but the shows went all right. My eyes are burning, and I am filled with a form of disquiet about a number of things. Tina is curled up sleeping beside me, but when I got home, I realized that she had splattered a few of my parents' carpeted steps with liquid shit. So I spent a half hour or so cleaning that up, much to my dismay. I really do need the help of the Dog Whisperer. As cute as she is, she is a ridiculous handful. But I don't want to apply to be featured on the show, because I don't want the world to make fun of my cluttered apartment.

I've been uploading photos to my Flickr photostream for the past week or so. I have more than 21,000 photos uploaded so far. And there are many, many more to go. That verges on mindblowing. I have taken a gigantic lot of pictures in the past few years. A crazy, inexcusable lot. If only I could focus some of that energy on all the other things I still have to do.

Kerstin and I are trading writing projects. I've got a Channel 101 pilot idea that I think could fly. I've got a friend's screenplay to rewrite, and I've been sitting on that one for ages. I've got a thousand one- or two-sentence ideas that could easily be fleshed out if I would just stop destroying the muscles in my right arm moving pictures and photo sets around on the Flickr web site with my notebook touchpad. My right forearm is noticeably Popeye-ified. And that can't be good.

My plan tomorrow is to wake up at a reasonable hour, maybe go swimming a little bit, then go down to Mission Valley to take executive portraits of my clients, for whom I am designing a fundraising prospectus. Then I will drive back to Los Angeles and hopefully get back in time to perform in a show at Improv Olympic West with Lunch with the Girls. I played my first show with them last week. I don't know that I distinguished myself so terrifically, but I did get to play Teddy Ruxpin in one scene. I only wish I knew more of the phrases Teddy actually said.

Anyway, I'm extraordinarily tired. I even overslept this morning and didn't make it to San Diego in time to sing at a funeral I had agreed to sing at. I'm pretty sure that makes me an awful person. But then I've never tried to pass myself off as anyone else. So maybe it all balances out.

*Beulah Forrest

Severance of the Link Between Affluence and Good Behavior

I was walking back to my car after a visit to the gym this afternoon, and I nearly placed my walking foot down upon a used Winnie the Pooh diaper discarded haphazardly beside my driver's side door. My assumption is that these Winnie the Pooh diapers cost more than your average disposable diaper, and they certainly cost more than cloth diapers, which is what I assume poor people and environmentalists use. So I concluded that the person who left this obscene parcel beside my door has the money to spend on fancy diapers and also appears to have the money to operate a vehicle in these pricey times. Conclusion: They're rich. And yet they haven't been raised to participate in the longstanding social contract to not leave your or your family's evacuations in a public parking lot where fitness enthusiasts and fans of submarine sandwiches might be too trusting to look down and might accidentally tread on them. This proves my just-formed theory that being wealthy doesn't make you polite.

Nor does being fat and/or a fitness enthusiast, apparently. I concluded this only moments before the almost-diaper-stepping-on incident, because I had gone into a store to buy mineral water and other sundries. And there was only one checkstand open, and there was a loaded cart in the aisle but no person attached to it. The cashier was about to move it out of the way when the guy came back and said he had to get just one more thing, and she tried to protest, but he was too busy yammering into his phone in another language. So I'm right behind him, and a big fat lady is behind me. And she's wearing gym clothes, just like I am, so I assume she's just come from the gym, just like I have. Unless it's just a workout for her to get from the car to the store. So another checkstand opens, and the cashier says she can help the lady behind me, and I totally make eye contact with her and expect her to say, "She's next." But she doesn't. She just begins shifting her weight and her cart towards the other aisle. So I say, "I was next." And the fat lady looks at me again. And smiles. And keeps going. And she completes her transaction and leaves the store before I've even gotten to unload my purchases, because the phone guy is very busy and can't seem to decide which of the fifty credit cards in his wallet to use. I hate that. I hate it when you are relying on the decency of another person to prevent your having to stand up for yourself and justice. Had our roles been reversed and I had been the one behind her in line (but not necessarily so fat or unattractive), I would absolutely have insisted that she go before me. And not because I want an award. I just can't bear to look someone in the eye and have us both know that one of us is a shithead, and it's me.

The upside of this story is that the cashier appears to have been flustered by all of this, too, because she only charged me for one of the cases of Pellegrino in my cart. Hooray, free sixteen dollars worth of water! And also, hooray, impromptu social experiment. If I am ever rich or very fat, I will probably not discard soiled diapers or piggishly assume someone else's rightful place in line. But I have a feeling my behavior won't be enough to be statistically significant.

Memory Lane is not aptly named.

In my case, "Lane" carries too much of an air of quaintness and small-towny quiet. Memory Lane is a street in which kids can play ball without worrying for being run over. I guess because any cars that venture down that apple tree-lined stretch require a hand crank to start and may be delivering blocks of much-needed ice. Where my memories reside, there are four full lanes, a double yellow line (not for crossing), and room enough along the curbs to park and or ride a bicycle. And not one of those bicycles with the one really large wheel. Memory Lane, for me, is huge and heavily trafficked, and I've received many citations there, both for cruising and for loitering.

I am staying at my little sister's home in San Diego. She and her boyfriend recently moved into a very nice place in Carmel Mountain Ranch. I used to live in an apartment nearby, so this visit is filled with familiarity, right down to the smell of a September morning. It's cool out. The grass and shrubs are covered in beads of dew. In the shade, it feels like autumn. And in the sun it feels like spring.

I used to live here. I used to go running just down the road. I used to smell jasmine and eucalyptus in the shade, and I used to like it when the mist from the sprinklers caught me in the face. I used to wake up earlier than I intended and wonder how the days would go. I used to manufacture reasons to do just about anything for fear of sitting still.

Five years ago, when September 11 didn't yet have a name of its own, the air was a lot like this. The sun a lot like this. I fully believe in global warming, but you can't always feel climate change from one year to the next. It seems like this morning is just like the other September mornings that found me awake very early and heavy with the looking back. That was the last September 11 I lived in this city and in this neighborhood. Every subsequent anniversary, I have been elsewhere, except for one when I was here, but in the capacity of a visitor. I even went to a baseball game that time. And the Padres even won.

This is always the time of year I stumble back into old messes. There are milestones on previous calendar pages. Proximal moments with like elements. The spans between them converging as the point of looking back grows further from them and the idea of a beginning loses its meaning. I have always felt this way. I have never felt this way. I am assuming a brand of feeling that may never have been. Mostly, I just know that there are times when I have been unhappy and there are times when I have been reluctant to admit that I was not unhappy, and neither of them felt as foreign as the times when I was sure everything was wonderful, and unhappy was only worth understanding for the sake of its antonym.

Saturday night, I noticed people wearing sweaters, and I was thrilled. I celebrate the return of fall weather. And all the melancholy it brings. I have needed a break from the heat.

 

Nothing is awful. Nor is anything awesome.

After a week of sequestration and a night of mistrust, I drove to San Diego this morning to spend some time with my family. It was very family-ish and good. My dad gave me sincere hugs and said he loved me, and he smelled very nice like he always does. Beulah showed me the slide show she made in memory of Tasha, and we cried together over it. Sarah and Beulah and I went swimming, and Audrey came with us, and everyone delighted in what a funny little goofball she is. Especially when riding around on a kickboard. I experimented with my Canon 30D and took extraordinary pleasure in selective focus. And my mom seemed delighted to have her three girls all together in the same room. She taught us to make jiaozi (I'm pretty sure Sarah already knew how). And she congratulated us when the dumplings were pretty and Chinese-looking. And she clucked gently when they weren't. When we ate them, Beulah was in charge of the background music, and she decided to play a lot of Beach Boys songs. Somehow, the topic of my historically non-working digestive system came up. While we were eating. And Beulah delighted in making fun of me by replacing Beach Boys lyrics with words about poop wherever possible. I helped. I'm a good sport, and I know a lot of words. But I couldn't help but wonder why it's okay for us to talk about this at the dinner table when no one in the family seems to be able to stand a photograph of me with my dog's tongue touching my mouth. My mom also minds a great deal when I tease her about her garage sale and estate sale "findings." She showed me an impressive lambswool rug she bought for five dollars, and I said, "Someone probably died on it." And she boiled our handmade jiaozi tonight in a really huge Calphalon pot she got for forty dollars. I said, "I'll bet some old people used to boil their dentures in it. And they're dead now." Those little japes really get under her skin. But sing a Beach Boys song with the bass line replaced with repetition of the word "bowel," and I guess you're fine. Maybe she would have minded if company had been there. Or maybe she was just riding out the high of having been proud of us. I think it really meant something to her that her three daughters were helping her make dumplings. I heard her announcing it to her sister-in-law on the telephone as we were finishing up. And she mentioned wanting to make a tradition of this. I'm for it. I love jiaozi. And I love knowing how to make those perky little dumplings with my own two hands.

Blurring the Line

I swear when I heard about Hollywoodland, I assumed it was a made-for-TV feature. Maybe the director called in a favor from Adrien Brody. And maybe Diane Lane was being blackmailed (although Must Love Dogs was so bad, she should have had to give her Oscar back). Because Ben Affleck can't possibly be big screen material anymore, unless Kevin Smith is involved -- and Kevin Smith has a way of making the big screen much, much smaller. Even when I heard the director talking about the movie on NPR the other day, it never clicked with me that it was going to be released in the cinema. It wasn't until yesterday, when I saw a commercial for the movie that ended with its release date that it all sunk in.

That's not to say that a TV feature is anything to be ashamed of anymore. There was a time when stars making the jump to the television was a real sign of the decline of a career. But these days, I guess there's big money to be made on the small screen, too. A guest spot on a series isn't considered slumming like it used to be. Law & Order isn't The Love Boat. Or Columbo, for that matter. I know. You can't really tell which way I meant that last comparison to go. That's fine.

Anyway, I can't imagine that Hollywoodland ought to be bothered with. I'm not saying you were going to bother. My money's on The Covenant taking the pot this weekend. And when I say "my money," I don't mean the money I would spend at the theater, because I have no intention of seeing either of those movies. Ever.

On Process

I have long since realized that the amount of meticulous and painstaking attention I pay to the work I do goes largely unappreciated. I know it. I'm not saying I deserve any special reward. I just know that people don't generally see the quality in good work, whereas they are very quick to notice when the work is poor. I mean, if you only knew how much time I spend processing my digital photos before posting them, just so you have something to put on your MySpace profile. The project I am working on has been periodically taking over my life. This most recent bout had me sitting on my couch for days on end, napping an hour at a time once or twice a day when I couldn't focus my eyes, and missing out on everything. At the moment, I have been working for twenty-two hours straight. No naps for me today. And no bank errands. And no gym visits. And no dinner with friends or improv shows or bar time. No dinner at all, actually. I took a shower while my postscript file was processing about fifteen minutes ago. That is the first luxury I have allowed myself. And it was well-deserved.

My employers, my clients, my friends -- I don't think anyone really sees how I work. And I'm not saying I do anything spectacular. I just think people don't know how much extra leg work I will do if allowed to. With this current project, I've spent six hours straight just sourcing stock photography. Or two hours today trying to find a title font I was happy with. And then it's clicking on every single object and making sure their x and y values are JUST RIGHT. And then doing it again. And then outputting postscript files and deciding half way through to go ahead and look up the photo credits on the stock images so they can be listed with the copyright information.

So the prickly part is whether or not any of this extra attention to detail is actually worth it. I know my previous employers have never really rewarded me for the countless sleepless nights I've worked, unwilling to let an HTML document or a design piece or a sheet of copy or a PowerPoint presentation go out with an inconsistent use of tags or a comma in the wrong place. It's entirely possible they didn't believe I worked those hours. Maybe they assumed I set an alarm so I could wake up at four a.m. and email them with my questions. I don't think I have the face of a liar, but what do I know.

The sun's coming up now, and I notice it. And I wish I didn't know it was going to be too hot to sleep in three hours.

This has been a complete waste of your time.

Figuratively speaking, Congressman Darrell Issa can suck my dick.

I am watching a re-airing of Real Time with Bill Maher -- which has fallen into considerably less favor with me since host Bill Maher buried his, shall we say, opinion in Ann Coulter -- and Darrell Issa is so irrevocably full of shit, it makes me want to push him in front of a bus.

But this brings me to another point. It really irritates me when people have so little imagination that my saying that someone or something can suck my dick prompts them to ask me if I have one. I always answer that question with a yes, and I usually leave it at that. But, please, people. When I went to see The Lost World: Jurassic Park 2 with friends at the cinema and the end credits began to roll, one of the boys in my party said, "The Lost World: Jurassic Park 2 can suck my cock." And no one asked him if he had one. But I'm also going to wager that no one thought he really hoped for a blow job from that movie. It's a movie. It can't give him a blow job. People seem to be fine with that. So it's a figurative expression. And yet when I use it, the figurative nature of the expression goes out the window.

Gender skews the meaning of a lot of things. So much so that you can't replace certain phrases strictly by shuffling their gender meaning, because their effectiveness is completely affected. If I were to replace "suck my dick" with the equivalent that would be correct for my gender, it would hardly carry the same weight. In fact, I would guess people might think I have a thing for Darrell Issa and want him to come over late night. I don't.

I also think I may be giving up on Bill Maher. The comedy bits aren't that funny. The guests aren't that good. And I'm not entirely sure I know where Bill stands on topics outside of the importance of pretending to be a guy with any amount of sex appeal whatever. I used to really enjoy the show. I don't know. Maybe it's just the war. I've grown weary of so many programs because of how tired I am of hearing the same messages, the same arguments, the same shallow pin-pricking at the surface of what really matters. My friend Adam sent me a sound clip of President Bush admitting in no uncertain terms that there was no connection between Irag and 9/11, despite years now of subtly and insidiously encouraging Americans to come to the opposite conclusion. I believe the pull quote is Bush saying, "Nobody's ever suggested that the attacks of September the 11th were ordered by Iraq." And my response to Adam was, Why don't we ever see any backlash when these things shake out? The most I expect to hear is a wry mention of it on The Daily Show. If anything. I'm just so tired of everyone shrugging it all off. The news that we were lied to provokes maybe a shrug and a, "Meh. What do you expect? It's the government. They also screw me on parking tickets constantly. Assholes." Remember when there was all this passion in the debate? Passion that was squelched in me by too many years of unsubstantiated neener-neeners from Republican acquaintances who don't read the newspapers but care very much about paying less in taxes.

But maybe I'm just as tired of arguing as everyone else. I'm assuming it's now just taken for granted that our next president will not be a Republican, unless it's a Republican who completely takes this administration to task on the campaign trail. I'm so disillusioned that that scares me, too. I'm thinking, Come on, Democrats. Don't get lazy. We have no laurels to rest on. The electorate is not energized. There are no more unicorns on the Beltway. All is surely lost.

What a downer.

Anyway, Congressman Darrell Issa can suck my dick.

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?

A play on words involving heat.

"Is it hotter than a breadbox?" That might have been it. But I can't remember. I just know that I was standing in the humid elevator at the Marriott on my last day, and I was thinking about the blog I would eventually write and what the title of that blog might be.

I arrived in San Diego for Comic-Con on Wednesday afternoon. Well, technically, I arrived on Tuesday night and stayed in the air-conditioned luxury of Beulah and Justin's lovely new home in familiar old Carmel Mountain Ranch. But I arrived at the Marriott on Wednesday afternoon, with my bags and my pre-registration paperwork and a lot of love for the anti-perspirant brand I use, which makes me smell like a delicious bowl of pears, especially when I'm sweating.

There were setbacks. My reservation was wrong. My bed situation was wrong. I was flustered and fearful that everything would suck. But Larry, the bellhop who had helped me and Beulah last year, was a savior in full messianic regalia. Well, a little nautical, be-epauletted shorts and tunic get-up which is the uniform at the Marriott, but he was the messiah as far as I was concerned. I remembered him from last year. And when I said Beulah's name, he remembered her, too. I don't know if he remembered me, but he said, "You've grown your hair out." Which is the right thing to say, guys, if you aren't sure if you remember what a girl used to look like. Nine times out of ten, you'll be right, and the girl will touch the bottom of her hair and giggle. Larry called the manager and took care of business. And he even called me the following day -- his day off -- to let me know that all was well. What a prince, right?

Beulah and I had a great time. Had a few cocktails with my pal Jim Sabo. Ate dinner at Trattoria La Strada. Laughed and laughed. When we got back to the hotel, we got in the elevator, and I fawned over Steve Purcell, who was in the elevator with us. He was surprised to be recognized. And probably equally surprised to not be murdered. I was very civilized about it, but you know how Comic-Con can be. Maybe I went there specifically carrying my elaborate rope murder fantasy with me. He has no way of knowing. When Beulah and I got off on the 21st floor, she spotted Glenn Danzig, who is at the Con nearly every year. The sighting prompted her to write this in her secret blog:

glenn danzig is an inky coconut
Posted on 2006.07.20 at 01:46
Tags: danzig-pointment

we are staying at a swanky marriott that's connected to the convention center here for comic con. so it's total dorkfest, but there are also a lot of celebrities milling about. we were in the elevator with one of mary's heroes, steve purcell. she was all, "i can't believe i'm in an elevator with steve purcell" and he was all flattered. so we exited the elevator on our floor, and who do i see? glenn danzig. short, not as buff, and super old. and i swear through this inky black hair i saw a bald spot that looked not unlike a coconut. i wanted to say, "hey! you look like glenn danzig!" or "do you know glenn danzig?" or "i would've liked to have met you like twenty years ago!" or "i love your son glenn danzig, mr. danzig." anyway, he's on our floor. i'm tempted to go a knockin' and start wooing him with my impressive interpretations of early misfits and danzig songs. i'm so ready. he didn't seem to understand the lights and the signals for the elevator. that also led me to believe he may have alzheimers. this depresses me. i want to serenade mr. danzig with the music of last caress, "i've got something to saaaaay...you look really old and bald todaaay.." which would obviously be followed by "it doesn't matter much to me as long as you're...not dead and on the same floor as us at this marriott." and that wouldn't be all that great. and he's all senile now so he totally wouldn't even know what the fuck i was talking about.

so i totally ran into glenn danzig. that was the point of writing this.

Eventually, she became convinced that it was him, thankfully. It's a much cooler story when it doesn't end with him not being Danzig. He was wearing a turquoise shirt. So he was clearly trying to not be recognized. But he might have wanted to look into a hat.

I took Beulah to the Convention Center the next day, and she shopped with me and was not miserable. That always makes me happy when I drag my friends to Comic-Con. I bought her a Drinky Crow. That might have helped. I didn't buy her the Turtle Camper we both fell in love with, and when I went back on Sunday to buy it, it was way sold out. But I bought it for her online when I got home. Shh. Don't tell her.

Suddenly Slayer

When we got back to the hotel, I got a text message from my pal Eric Wareheim asking if I wanted to go see Slayer. So I did. They were playing at the Sports Arena, which has become such a sad place to see a concert, but a perfect place to see a Slayer concert, with openers starting at 5:30 P.M. Ridiculous. Eric and I found the box office, and two barefooted beach teens ran up right before us and may have been stunned by the ticket price or something. But they ran away immediately. I can't imagine seeing a general admission death metal show in bare feet. Unless I really wanted smashed feet.

Inside, we found Tommy Blacha and his lovely girlfriend and Brendon Small and his lovely girlfriend, and a sweaty mess of rockers of all ages. Because I travel with them, Eric and I arrived equipped with earplugs. This was very smart. With the protection of earplugs, I could zone out and just watch the whorls of the various mosh pits. The mosh pit nearest us was fairly unchaotic. So much so that it became apparent that moshing is really just skipping in a circle. Skipping. Like when children in grade school entertained themselves by learning variations on walking and running. Skipping in a circle with sweatbands on one's wrists. That is what the dictionary should say when someone asks it what moshing is.

At one point, a drunk guy was being escorted out by Staff Pro, and they were leading him up the risers where I was standing, and for some reason he grabbed onto the strap of my handbag and pulled me backwards down onto the walkway, where I was slightly trampled. I said, "Oh, fuck!" And then I heard the Staff Pro guys saying, "Let go of her! Let go of her!" And Eric reached down and helped me up, and I was fine. I don't mind a little scary drama. As long as it doesn't end in me bleeding or losing my camera. I am a good sport.

After the concert, we called cabs and went back Downtown to meet friends at Star Bar. I stayed there for a while. Eric and I went next door and ordered Mexican food. I introduced Brendon to carne asada fries, which he later called "the best worst thing ever." I can't believe people have not had carne asada fries. Nor can I believe that Mexican food in other cities is so disappointing. Especially in Los Angeles. Whenever I'm in San Diego and have the chance, I glory in burritos and shake my fist at the northward sky.

Kristen Herman and Mark Rivers were at Maloney's so I headed over there. But when I got there, they were gone. I was in the door long enough for the door guy to say, "Have fun." But then I got Kristen's text, and I turned right around and left. I met them at their hotel and hung out and chatted with Kristen for a spell. Then I walked back to my hotel in the wee hours where I slept like a freezing baby.

Wet Wet Wet

Friday morning, Kristen and Mark and Scott Adsit came over to the hotel pool to join me and Mindy, who had just arrived that morning. I drank a number of bloody marys and got plenty more freckles. Then Sarah's Paul arrived, and I showed him around the Con for the afternoon. After which, he and I had dinner with Sarah at Rama, my new favorite Thai restaurant in San Diego. While there, a story happened which -- in the retelling -- causes others to label Paul the best boyfriend ever. Afterwards, we went to a wine cellar, where I bought a fancy bottle of Icelandic vodka and a few bottles of Jameson. Then we went to a "convenience store" to buy club soda, but the line was ridiculous. I waited in it for easily 30 minutes. Probably more like 45. It was just Comic-Con people ordering sandwiches. And there was no register where you could just buy something you were holding in your hand. I don't need them to put provolone on this club soda. Can't I just go to the front? Answer: no.

I am now fatigued from all this reminiscing, and my lap is hot and sweaty from having a computer on it. If you've been wondering why I haven't been blogging, that's why. It's too hot. And I don't like to sweat. Ever. So there's much more to tell, but the condensed version involves illicit late-night swimming in the hotel pool two of the remaining two nights, getting Dino Stamatopolous and Jay Johnston in trouble by giving them my fancy Icelandic vodka and my Jameson right before the Adult Swim panel, finding the Saturday weather too hot for me to wear my favorite boots, drinking Pellegrino from a weird horn-like glass at Dussini, standing still in the air-conditioned Convention Center and still feeling sweat dripping down my legs, indulging in multiple showers, and finally on Sunday seeing Lou Ferrigno in a booth again and again making eye contact with him just as he reached down and juggled his nuts. This isn't the first time this has happened to me at Comic-Con. Which has caused me to wonder if Lou Ferrigno -- being deaf -- thinks that if he can't hear me, I can't see him.

The Chewbacca I posed with looked and sounded dead on. And I also noticed that I didn't buy all that much this year, mostly because I have it all already. Which says something about me I might not entirely be proud of. It also says that Jordan Crane needs to make some more books. If only to give me something to spend money on.

And on the last day, in the last moments, Jeff Small was waiting for his friend Ratna, and I was drinking the most refreshing Diet Pepsi I have ever had in the Marriott North Tower bar, and I could have fallen asleep right there. He and I looked through some of our purchases. Jeff, his Winsor McCay book. Me, my 1930s issues of Popular Mechanics. When Ratna arrived, she showed me her amazing sketchbooks and shamed me with them. Then we all made our way to the bell desk and then to the valet. A cute bell hop helped us. And when I said goodbye to Jeff and Ratna, he started helping me to my car, and he said, "So that's not your boyfriend?" And I said, "No, we're friends." And then he opened my trunk and saw the many bottles of Jameson there in various stages of emptiness, and apparently he fell in love with me right then and there. "It's a shame you're leaving," he said. And if he hadn't been so sweaty and I hadn't been so sleepy and there had been a plane there and World War II going on, it might have been a Casablanca moment. He was very cute. I should check back with Larry and see if I can get his number. At the very least, I will always have a place to keep my luggage.

The Axe Effect: Sexy Olfactory Sensation or Grotesque Answer to Ball Stink?

Have you noticed that all the various Axe product spots show dudes spraying Axe products on their crotches? They spray their armpits and sometimes just the generic torso region, but there is a noticeable amount of attention being paid to laying the scent on the boys themselves. I'm not saying guys shouldn't make their balls smell good, but I never realized that guys knew this, too. Of course, it's also possible that Axe body sprays are just being considerately and astutely marketed by gay men and/or former prostitutes.

I only know of one person who uses an Axe product. And I have never wanted to climb on him in any way. For the record.

Lowered Expectations Watch: Still Lowering

According to a recent commercial, critics are raving about Clerks II. "It's the funniest movie since Wedding Crashers," raves one critic.

Concomitant

I have been keeping my insides inside. I go through these spells. When I only talk about some gross thing I just saw or some television thing I don't approve of. Half of the time, I think this makes me less, half the time more. The push and pull in me is the desire to indulge my brooding sentiment without making anyone think I'm a downer. This is always my problem. The attempt at being all things. Maybe it's folly. It's why I don't like to type a smiley face after a sentence. I don't want to mislead anyone into thinking I'm smiling. Because by the time they read it, I probably won't be.

You're violating the laws of the universe.

I was cleaning house today, and I watched a movie I've seen many times before. There are things in it that make it hard for me to avoid going round in familiar circles. Music and memories. Familiar, familiar. Full of the tendrils of a former complacency. Flecked with the wry wisdom of the years since. Sublimated by the latest twists and turns. Churned. I felt tearful. And called myself ridiculous.

My father said that Claire Forlani's face went through more expressions in a moment than most faces do in a lifetime. I don't think he meant it as a compliment. My high school friends were frightened of my father. They used to call him "The Equalizer." He wore handsome suits and carried an umbrella in the fall and winter months, and they thought he looked like Edward Woodward, and they figured he would be mean. He isn't. He is the opposite of mean. The anti-mean. He is the sweet center of me. And I wish I was holding his hand right now.

I cleaned my windows. Now I can see everything.

It's about redefining your life because another exists. You breathe because they do.

An exercise

A long time ago, Adam and I had a conversation in which he asserted that Sandra Bullock is the poor man's Julia Roberts. The mention of this to Beulah in a later conversation led to a series of such comparisons, eventually leading us to conclude that Angelina Jolie is the poor man's Jon Voight, and Tom Cruise is the poor man's Tom Cruise. In addition, I think that Laurence Fishburne is the poor man's Denzel Washington, John Goodman is the poor man's Brian Dennehy, and Whitney Houston is the poor man's Robert Downey, Jr. Ethan Hawke used to be the poor man's Johnny Depp, but now he has become the poor man's Matt Damon. Russell Crowe used to be the poor man's Mel Gibson. But now Mel Gibson is the poor man's this guy. Emilio Estevez is the poor man's Charlie Sheen. Meatloaf is the poor man's Air Supply. And church is the poor man's eHarmony. I am going to begin erecting a caste system based on these data. I hope you're rich enough to bathe in the same dirty river as me and my precious cows.

It was so hot today.

Eighty-five degrees in my apartment with all the windows open and both fans on. I am on my third shower.

And for those of you who were expecting something more along the lines of, "How hot was it?":

It was so hot, my dog exhibited considerable lethargy.
It was so hot, I had to mop my brow several times.
It was so hot, I almost turned my computer off and played very little Super Text Twist.

No, really, I've got a few. Real ones.

It was so hot, a cigarette extinguished on one's thigh felt like an ice cube down the pants.
It was so hot, ice cream trucks were all playing The Mexican Hat Dance.
It was so hot, Greek women waxed their bikini lines with candles.

It's snowing on the television right now, and that is making me want to put my hands on something small and defenseless and squeeze until it stops struggling. Fortunately for Audrey, I can't reach her from where I'm sitting.

Windfall

I had a problem with the premise of this show, when I first heard it. The lottery winnings were not large enough to justify the extravagance being alluded to in the commercial. A jackpot split twenty ways. When that one dude says, "I'm off to buy a football team," I balked. In an IM conversation with Kevin Tavolaro, I think Kevin said, "Maybe it's a Pop Warner team." And if that's true, then I guess it's okay. But anything else misrepresents the buying power of money. And being someone who buys gas regularly and occasionally thinks about how much old timers say a loaf of bread used to cost, it irks me to watch actors and show-runners make lots of money on a flimsy premise.

So, I'm actually watching an episode of the show, and I was totallly wrong. It was not the premise of the show that sucked. It's the show. The characters mention the lottery in nearly every sentence. It's ridiculous. And I'm not kidding.

Here is my spec script for Windfall, bearing in mind that I don't know the names of any of the characters and that my laziness prevents me from properly formatting the text:


INTERIOR. EVENING. A tacky Italian restaurant.

RICK

Thanks for dinner. Is this just because I won the lottery?


JEN

Don't be silly. Winning the lottery doesn't have to change anything between us.


CUT TO:


EXTERIOR. DAY. Driveway in front of a suburban home.


KIP

I'm sorry you didn't like camping.


TESS

I did like camping. It's just that since I won the lottery, I want to do expensive things.


KIP

But that emasculates me.


TESS

So? Don't you want to pretend you won the lottery, too? I'll let you.


CUT TO:


INTERIOR. Hospital room. BRECK is stroking the hair of CASS, who is in a hospital bed.


BRECK

Thank God I won the lottery and can pay for this.


CASS

Don't you mean WE won the lottery?


BRECK

Of course that's what I meant. Wait. Which one of us is a guy? I can't tell from our names.


FADE OUT.


Anyway, I don't recommend the show. It's uninteresting and unchallenging, and Luke Perry's forehead is beginning to make him look like a shar pei. Unless, of course, they want to hire me to write for it. In which case, it is the best show in the world, and Luke Perry's forehead is beginning to make him look like an expensive Italian briefcase.

Candy Bar Anthem
That new Snickers commercial with the guy playing a guitar ballad to the dude working in a carpet store, while the dude grooves to it with an expression on his face that makes me really uncomfortable, is made all the more unappealing by the fact that the guitar balladeer is also in a Valtrex commercial, talking about his herpes. I don't really like Snickers all that much to begin with, but I'm surprised the casting people don't require that you not be in a commercial for your venereal disease medication before signing up to sell food products. But then again, these days, who knows if food preparers even wash their hands anymore. I know my immune system is iron-clad, but I hate that it has to be.
Also, that candy bar song sucks.

Ceaseless Entertainment

Bravo for Superman Returns! I enjoyed it so much. See, Matt? I can like movies. I really can. And I did like this one. My one nitpicky complaint is that Kate Bosworth's wig action was pretty awful. But I didn't even care. And I don't like Kate Bosworth. And I REALLY don't like Kevin Spacey. And I thought Parker Posey looked terrible. But that didn't stop me from thrilling. And Ottman does such beautiful things with the parts of the original Williams score he repurposes. Such beautiful things.

Not everything was plausible. Not everything made sense. But the things I think were most precariously at risk were worried for on no account. What a rotten sentence that was. What I mean is: Brandon Routh was perfect. Even the re-envisioning of how Superman moves is especially wonderful. His physical abilities seemed so much less corny and clunky. His flight is balletic. He can turn over and do the backstroke. He can do anything. And I believed it. So, he didn't underact or overact. He didn't make it look like a sideshow. Gay, you say, Beulah? More like gay-REAT. Wait. That doesn't sound as good as I meant it to either.

When I was at the comedy theater over the weekend, I was talking about how bad X-Men: The Last Stand was, and I was accused of being unpleasable. But this was my point. Brett Ratner is no Bryan Singer, and never the twain shall meet. Except maybe at a disco party in the Hollywood Hills. Bryan Singer is a wonderful filmmaker. Whether you love or hate the superhero genre. Whether you think comic books are canon or crap-wiping paper. He makes movies that don't rely on the genre to tell their stories. I feel as if I'm about to compare him to Nicholas Meyer. Someone stop me before I drag Captain Kirk into this. But back to Bryan Singer. I don't know his actual influences, but you can appreciate him for the (early) George Lucas or the (early) Steven Spielberg in his work as much as you can for the William Wyler. Brett Ratner, by comparison, is good friends with Russell Simmons.

I'm sure there are things that will crop up if I see it again or discuss it with more people. Violations of the myth. Bum-outs over the crisis. Questions about the science of kryptonite. The friends I saw it with hashed through some of these things outside the theater, but then Kevin and I had to jet off to see Eddie Izzard, who was also impressive and hilarious and wonderful. He reprised one of the bits I remember from Sexy, which I saw in 2003 on three different nights with four different people. But it was nearly all new material, all delivered in his hallmark smart, endearing, tangential way. I will see him again this week. And I will marry him one day, if he will have me.

I have a review of the changes to the Pirates of the Caribbean attraction at Disney's Disneyland on deck, too, but I am very hungry.

I really admire Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.

It's a shame he's got that weird glottal stop problem when he speaks. Otherwise it would always be a pleasure to hear what he has to say. I guess that's why he writes books. It's a shame that beautiful and skillful elocution is a matter of such unfailing importance to the American voting public. When presidential campaigns happen on paper, boy oh boy, he's our man.

I consider it my sociocultural responsibility.

But I'm seventeen minutes into Dane Cook's Tourgasm, and I realize that the reason they called it "Tourgasm" is that, when you watch it, you can taste Dane Cook's jizz in your mouth. Two observations about Dane Cook's jizz? It's not funny. And it tastes like a bunch of other guys' jizz.

What's really appalling is watching these not-funny guys who are touring with him working out their relationship issues on the bus. If this thing doesn't end with footage of someone busting into the bus and spraying them all with a fatal burst of machine gun fire, I may have to cancel my subscription to HBO.

Somnolence is not indicated.

An anomalous Saturday. I woke up early. Way early for me on a Saturday. Like seven thirty. At first, it was because I had my windows open, and the ill-mannered children next door were playing basketball. But I realized I wasn't really sleepy. So, I took Audrey for a walk, and it was already hot out. Way hot. I thought about taking her to the park, but I ended up getting dressed and being very, very productive, errand-wise. I went to the post office and to the pharmacy and to The Grove, where I returned things and bought things, and then to Whole Foods, where I was made to feel pretty in my pigtails, and then back to the pharmacy, and then back home, where I walked Audrey again and found that it was even hotter. I have a little bag to carry her around in, but she's not into it much. This morning, I put her in it and carried her around my apartment for a while, hoping she would get used to it. But she's too smart for me. There's always lots of dogs at The Grove, and I always wish I could bring her with me, but I know that as soon as I have a bag to carry, she will be too much to handle.

My prescriptions cost me hundreds of dollars. I expected it. But still. I wish I had health insurance. I wish it made more sense financially to pay for insurance than to just pay for my hospital visits out of pocket. I guess I might be a socialist after all. And it's misleading for me to say, "I guess," before that sentence, as I know I've been a socialist all along.

When I was at Whole Foods, I was asking for a piece of the sliced London Broil they had in the prepared foods case. The fellow who helped me is very patient with me, as I always seem to end up fussing over which piece is the rarest, that being the one I would want. A guy in a cyclist's helmet asked me what kind of meat that was. And I said, "London Broil." It occurred to me later he might have been asking what actual animal it was from. But I guess if you can't recognize beef when you see it, that's your cross to bear. I bought tofu, too, but not for the sake of the ecosystem or anything. I buy what I like. And it seems as if I have to kill at least one moth a day in my apartment. That's plenty cross for me.

No one I called today answered. That's just the way it is sometimes.

Press to play. Wait! Not record! Dammit!

You just erased my copy of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton singing Islands in the Stream! Now, what am I going to ride my exercise bike to?

I have always maintained that Soundwave is the lamest of the Decepticons. I have also pretty consistently said that Michael Bay is the lamest of the Directorcons. So it is with delight that I link my solidarity brothers to Michael Bay's Transformers in Car Mode. Martín, I know you disagree with me. But even the Decepticons don't like Soundwave. It's time to let go of your childhood and realize that grown-ups own CD players.