Getting hip to the liveness

I'm home configuring my new PowerBook, and I've got NBC on. The Will and Grace season premiere is a special live episode. For the past few months, I suppose it's natural that my ears perk up a little whenever any noun is modified by that adjective. I'm working for a company with live entertainment on the brain and not much else, after all. So I asked the question, "Why do we like LIVE?"

Here are my thoughts:

1. Even though I find the writing on this show to be predictable and tired in its campiness, I also applaud it for making the mention of sexual behaviors acceptable in prime time. I also think Alec Baldwin is bomb ass. And seeing him give in to the swish a little is fun. No matter how much I fight it.

2. I just cut the fuck out of my finger a few minutes ago. See? I was on the phone with my mother trying to cut a piece of french bread into appropriate sandwich size, and the cerrated edge of my Cutco sandwich knife sawed vigorously into my left index finger. My mom got an earful of cursing. And then she gave me lots of advice about putting a bandage on the cut. And she made all the Chinese pain sounds in her vocabulary -- she seriously sounded like it was hurting her more than it hurt me. So we got off the phone, and I dripped blood all over the floor, and I won't be playing violin tonight.

3. "Live" is thrilling, I guess, because of the propensity for the unexpected to happen. The biggest laughs in the show and the most satisfying moments happened when the actors broke or when something didn't go as planned. It makes the audience feel like they're on the inside of something private and exclusive. Like when Tim Conway and Harvey Korman used to not be able to keep their shit together on The Carol Burnett Show. Even though uptight theatrical types will point out that this is just evidence of their unprofessionalism. Well, those two dudes tour around doing stage shows for $100 a seat, and you're still toting your little Ben Nye make-up kit to rehearsals for a community theater production of an Agatha Christie play that will be put up on a cleared-out portion of the dining room of an Acapulco Restuarant, bub. (Note: I do actually find it unprofessional when Horatio Sanz and Jimmy Fallon pull this same boner. But that's because they're not as funny. Nor as white.)

4. It's a shame Don Adams passed away. I enjoyed him very much. And it was in a discussion about how much I enjoyed Inspector Gadget that I was reminded of how I used to also like Danger Mouse.

5. I guess I'll go finish making that finger sandwich now. It was going to be a chicken cutlet (katsu, if you speak the language) sandwich. But I may not have it in me to fix that up anymore. Maybe I'll just have a Pop Tart.

This is the liveness that happens in my brain all day long. Seriously.

A sigh is just a sigh.

I don't know what I want to write about. I notice I don't have many funny stories to tell. I think that says something. Downcast eyes and a lot of breath-holding. I don't see or take note or make mention. It's like being dragged through something blue.

I watched The Shining in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Saturday night. And I worked on sketch stuff and performed improv today and tonight. And I am dreading the week. And I hate that feeling. I was dismal enough on Friday that I didn't go to the Found Footage Film Festival as planned. I hate that feeling, as well.

The kid who played Danny in The Shining apparently only made one other film. It was an autobiography of G. Gordon Liddy. And in it, he played Young Liddy. We were wondering what ever became of him after that movie. And how any kid's parents could let them act in a movie like that and not worry for their sanity. Apparently, he's a teacher now in Illinois. I wonder what that's like.

There is a long, long list. I may never get to the end of it.

A kiss is still a kiss.

Who writes these things?

I'm doing some research on the New York City Underground Comedy Festival, and the Web site excitedly announced that “Slava’s Snow Show" has just been added to the festival roster. "This multi-million dollar clowning spectacle was conceived and created by the world's most respected Clown, Slava Polunin."

Since when was "clown" a proper noun, and since when did anyone in the world respect one? I'm sure Slava Polunin is a jim-dandy clown. But I'm as enticed by this copy as I would be by a poster of Doug Henning in the centerfold of a Dynamite magazine.

Born two hundred years too late and two hundred years too soon.
You know, I didn't want to be disappointed in Space Mountain when I rode it on Sunday, at long last. After two years of it being closed and promises of improvements and upgrades and returns to innocence being disseminated by polite cast members, patiently attending the disappointing sign at the mouth of the inert beast. It felt faster than before. And perhaps more turbulent than before. But I honestly don't remember in enough detail to measure. The one thing I did recognize was that the new soundtrack is lame as all get out. It's hard to fear for your safety when the disco's a-playin'. And it's even harder to remember what it felt like to wait in those lines -- before Fast Pass, before California Adventure -- back when you had to plan your day around the two-hour torments each of the mountains begot. Three and a half hours when Splash Mountain first opened. Today, if you're clever and not dead set on riding everything, you barely have to wait at all. You can even afford to sit out a turn because you are particular about which row you sit in. What luxury.
I am by turns haltingly nostalgic and dazzlingly cavalier. You never know which one you'll get. I hack away at the vines of memory because they slow me down. But then sometimes, it seems the world isn't moving so fast. And I don't need to be in such a rush. Sometimes, it seems like remembering things is just a way of not getting on with it. And then sometimes, it seems like remembering things is eclipsingly better than experiencing them. I've had this thought before.
I miss things about my various past lives. And I sometimes wonder how those lives ever happened. I look back fondly on certain episodes and then can't quite figure out how they turned into the years that followed. Sometimes it seems that life is just what happens when you're too lazy or inattentive to do something else. History is what you sit through. How did I sit at my dining room table in that other apartment I once lived in? Wasn't I needed elsewhere? How did I ever watch a show? How did I find hobbies? Or take up collecting doll collecting magazines (and, no, that is not a syntax error)? How did I ever get a lick of work done? And then it was all just a tangle of all that was. And no matter how much happened, and no matter how much was accomplished, nothing was able to matter for long enough for the use of the word "matter" to make sense.
"Cut to the Jurassic Period."
I did a character yesterday that was inspired by Brendon Small's Captain Mustache's version of Fat Albert. (Twice removed.) I became a fat kid who couldn't understand why his mom would urge the bus driver to make him run for it. "I tried to catch it, but I had to pull my lunch wagon." It was not a loud character, but it required massive aspiration. I was lightheaded in no time. And people seemed to like it. I'm always pleased when that is the case. But this time I was also pleased because I liked it myself. I spent most of my stage time committing to not caring how I looked or sounded. I am terribly self-conscious much of the time. Not being so is a bigger deal than might be apparent. But last night, despite my perilously low energy and my searing headache and stinging eyeballs and generally downtrodden spirit, I played with big energy. And I was glad of it.
Then I came home and worked until four a.m. And that is a festival of ball-sucking.
Pigtails. Pigtails is a winner.
I have a great many photos to sort through. Quite a few from Disneyland. Again. And since I wore my hair in pigtails again, many of them will look exactly like the ones I took the weekend before. Except that Mindy and Tim will be in them. Instead of Tom and Tom and Krissy and Jessie.
It was a very sweet moment when we were walking up to the castle, looking for swans, and Mindy had cause to exclaim, "Prince Charming wished me a happy birthday!" Dreams do come true.
a new route to the same place
Is it possible that I miss these things I think I miss? Do you ever come to terms with the inability to ever go back? Does forward turn into backward? And is that ever good? Will Serenity be as good as I'm hoping?
Did you forget this fucking singer so soon? And did you forget my song?

Secret Whiskey

I was at the office until almost eleven tonight. We were making sure the Bon Jovi concert went off all right. I was writing copy, watching video feeds, researching setlist entries. I was trying to keep Audrey from snarling at people. Taking cigarette breaks. Waiting around. I was wishing I was elsewhere. Wanting to listen to my own music. Wanting to be wearing something different. Tired of how long the days have gotten.

Yesterday, I went to Disneyland. AGAIN. This time with Mindy and Tim. It was Mindy's birthday last week, and we being annual passholders and all -- the timing seemed right. It was a lovely day for it. I came home and didn't bother to watch the Emmys. Instead, I watched Rome, whose opening titles I detest but whose story and subject matter are growing on me.

The night before, I went to the Edendale Grill for the birthday celebrations of Blaine Capatch and the lovely Poubelle Twins. Blaine and Vera also announced their recent Vegas wedding, and that was a grand and lovely surprise. I'm awfully happy for them.

And the night before was Mindy's proper birthday party, a karaoke extravaganza at the Orchid Lounge, where the drinks are too expensive and the playlist too light on my singalong favorites, but where the company was just super and my camera was put to great use.

I would track back through all the days of the preceding week, but I am beginning to forget the things I did and the places I went. I know I went to dinner at Katana with Sarah and her charming new beau. And I know I made small talk with a guy at the bar at the Sunset Marquis and wondered why people ever make small talk. In my case, it was because I accidentally left my phone in my car when I delivered it into the care of the valet, and that meant I couldn't sit there and play Bejeweled. Much of the rest is a swimming mess of work malaise. The kind that bealeaguers the spirit and causes one to take stock of all the deadlines one has let slip past.

Tonight, driving home, rain sprinkled against my windshield, and when I took Audrey out, there was that smell of asphalt just barely wet. I wondered momentarily if any of this will persist in my memory. Or if any of it will matter.

And then I walked inside and wanted to write.

Only angels know unrelieved joy -- or are able to stand it.

I needed a headshot. Jessie rallied. Then we went to Disneyland. I should always remember that I would rather have the turkey leg than the corndog. I only ever seem to remember this after having had the corndog.

These are my temporary solution, until such time as I can be lovely again and can afford to pay someone to document it for the split second that it is true.

Commitment. Martyrdom. Using people.
I got home from work only a short while ago. A seventeener (my new word for a seventeen-hour work day). The day before was an elevenner (my new word for a...well, you get the idea). And I'm aiming to be in the office by 7:30. Which makes my night of sleep potentially just shy of a threer. I had to skip my workshop tonight. And I was gravely unhappy about that. Things are rough. And demanding. And not terribly rewarding. At the moment. Can only speak in short bursts. Apparently.
In the notes after the harold I was in on Sunday evening, a character I created was referred to as the "minority lover." I suggested we use that as the name for the team we are forming for a competition at the I.O. My compatriots nodded in agreement. So now we are Minority Lover. And I was tasked to write a blurb for us. The suggestions I submitted were:
Teaching men to fish for three full decades. Jerking off on speakerphone since the late '80s. Enjoying a greater right to life since 1993. Commitment. Martyrdom. Using people. Revenge is a dish. Three women will understand that. Narcolepsy is not a superpower. Refrigeration is the secret to our freshness. Don't shoot yourself in the soft palate. That's one you won't come back from. We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness. We do earnestly repent and are utterly sorry for these our misdoings. The remembrance of them is grievous unto us. The burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy upon us. Beef tenderloin: The "little black dress" of meats What kind of scandalous technique is that? Such tasteless vulgarity will never defeat me! I am far above it! Watch how a real ninja defeats an upstart. He's combined shadow cloning with his own invention: the sexy jutsu. What a foolish ninja technique.
Those last three were transcribed directly from the episode of Naruto that was on when I was writing the others. And several others have appeared in my blog in one form or another. And the one Steve picked to submit was the title of this entry, which was jotted down with the expectation of being turned into a fully written piece at some point. It was something I was thinking about while running. And I never got around to writing it. In a way, I prefer it. Nothing I was going to say was especially insightful or revelatory. Only if I allow myself to make such pronouncements, I could conceivably stop writing altogether. I miss writing for the sake of the song in it. I miss stumbling onto ideas whose progenitors were less than obvious to me. I miss having the time to justify the squandering of that time. I miss being important enough in the grand scheme of things to want to indulge myself in the forming of a sentence. Today, I am somewhat less.
Friday night, after a long-ass day at work, I went to the grand opening of the UCB Theatre and stayed out late, audiencing and then celebrating. Saturday morning, Jessie and I took interim headshots for our audition on Sunday. Then we went to Disneyland and stayed for the duration. Sunday, we auditioned and then performed and then ate Chinese food while talking about the preceding two activities. And Monday was another long-ass day, at the end of which was a wood-fired pizza from Trader Joe's that made all other frozen pizzas seem like pancakes dressed with horsemeat. And then it was today. And both yesterday and today, I wore things to work which -- once I got to work -- caused me to rethink their wearing. Whether because of the looks I get from certain people or just the reality check of walking into the bathroom and catching my reflection, yesterday I realized my skirt was too short and today I realized my blouse was too low-cut. And I miss the days when nothing I wore mattered because no one who saw it would have anything to say about the progression of my career. I had no idea how easy and good I had it.
I also miss writing in my journal with a pencil while sitting on a bench beside the La Brea Tarpits. I miss my black bowling bag-style handbag that the journal could fit in, back before I had a digital camera to always be carrying. I miss that golden hour of pre-dusk sunlight in the west-facing offices of the building I worked in. I miss shortlived confidence and eager adventurousness. I miss playing hooky when it was hot out. I miss pissing the day away on behalf of the sensual pleasures. I miss drawing on placemats with crayons.
And I am missing out on what little sleep I will be afforded. And that is a fucking foolish thing to do.

Feckless Praise

I have a habit. A programming glitch. I'm well aware of it. I can only process kind words from specific sources. Coming from anyone else, it falls on deaf ears, leaves no mark, makes no waves. It has always been this way. I choose the voices in which I am able to hear encouragement. As a result, very few compliments make any difference to me. The message doesn't matter if the envelope it comes in isn't right. I'm picky and difficult in a thoroughly self-defeating way.

Last night, I was walking back to my car after watching a late show at the Improv Olympic West, and two guys in a beemer pulled up beside my car with the windows rolled down and greeted me all friendly-like. I said hello and assumed they were anxious for my parking space. They didn't need to butter me up with those sundry pronouncements about how sexy I look tonight or how pretty I am. I assure you. I was going to vacate the space anyway. But then the driver asked my name and asked if he could call me. And -- in an uncustomary show of cleverness and resolve -- I said, "No, thank you. I don't think so." He told me they were from New York, and I said, "Welcome to L.A.," and continued getting into my car. I was wearing what I might describe as a flirty little skirt, so maybe that's not so surprising. It's late at night in Hollywood, and people can't help but get their friendly on. But then this morning, I was driving to work, and the City of Beverly Hills truck in front of me seemed to contain a driver who wanted to communicate with me. At first I thought it was just him talking to his passenger, but eventually, he pulled over so that I would pass him, and when I did, he waved at me and made kissy lips. Why? I thought. He can only see my head, really. My head and my necklace and that I'm wearing a white sweater. But not much else. I assume even the sorts of guys who make kissy lips at random ladies passing by only do so when they can see whether a girl is able to stand. What if I was in a Honda that accomodates a wheelchair? I remember thinking something similar last December when I was in Vegas. I was plugging a slot machine in the Mandalay Bay Casino, and a guy sat down next to me. He was the third guy in a short span of time to accost me that night. And they all turned out to be from Hermosa Beach. So this guy started chatting me up. Asking if the machine was paying out. I didn't even look at him. Never made eye contact. I just responded -- somewhat curtly -- that I had only just sat down, so I didn't know. Question two was, Where are you from? and question three was, Can I take you to dinner? And I thought to myself, this guy hasn't even made eye contact with me, and he wants to take me out. He hasn't even seen the right side of my face yet. What if I were to turn slowly towards him to reveal that that entire side of my face was covered in burns? Would he still want my number? I realize people go to Vegas to gamble. Gambling Las Vegas gambling (see Lost in America). But does anyone ever roll the dice that blindly? Even in Hermosa Beach?

Anyway, my point in all of this is just that none of these incidents made me feel especially pretty or especially good about myself. Hang around me much and you'll learn that I get my share (and then some) of love from the homeless and the indigent. But you'll also learn that it never makes my day. I wish it could.

Things would be so easy if I would just let them be.

"Narcolepsy is not a superpower."

I was watching CNN's Katrina coverage on the TV in the gym this morning. I remember watching the tsunami coverage there, too. Today, I felt so sad and tired of looking at all the devastation that I found myself watching The Surreal Life on the adjacent monitor. There isn't even closed captioning. But it was easier to watch than all that suffering.

I've been to New Orleans a few times. The first time I visited, it was in the springtime, and it was beautiful. And I shopped like mad in the French Quarter, and foolishly brought back all sorts of New Orleans foodstuffs that you can readily buy locally. I ate very well. Tried all the things that are famous. Beignets. Bananas foster. Coffee with chicory. Bread pudding. Gumbo. Jambalaya. Red beans and rice. Muffalattas. Alligator sausage. Even a Lucky Dog. You name it. I was there for a conference, and my boss was a foodie of grand proportions. So we didn't waste any meals. The next time I visited, it was nearly Christmas, and the city was cold, and my work was tiring, and I didn't make nearly as much of my stay. The next two times were right at the holidays. Once, passing through on my way to Italy to spend time with my family, I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas morning there. That was the time Richard Simmons called me "pretty hair." The last time was in late 1996. I stayed for a week, from Christmas Eve until New Year's Day, visiting with the family of my sister's then-boyfriend. And although it was winter, it was muggy and warm most of the time. And I regretted all the wool I had packed. During that visit, I did all sorts of fun things. And all sorts of cliché things. At Tipitina's one night, a local band was playing a song whose subject was New Orleans and whose unsurprising lyrics kept repeating the phrase, "Big Easy. Big Easy." And a guy in the crowd next to me called out, "More clichés! More clichés! Sing about Bourbon Street. And jazz. And red beans and rice." Later that night, I wrote it down in my notebook.

I think my old college friend Brian Housh may still live in New Orleans. We've fallen out of touch. I hope he's all right. The people I was visiting in that last trip no longer live there. I am so sad for the people who are going through this nightmare. And I am glad that at least some journalists are making a point of calling attention to the molasses-like response of the federal government. Adam sent me this link to Ted Koppel's interview of Mike Brown, director of FEMA. It's encouraging to see some courage and incisiveness return to the news. At the same time, even as these questions are being asked, help is only just getting to New Orleans. And still so little attention is being paid to the rest of the gulf coast, where entire towns have been wiped out. Entire towns. Gone. It's hard to imagine. Hard to believe. And this is just me as a far-off observer. I can't even begin to think what it would feel like to return to your neighborhood and see nothing left standing. I remember the shock of seeing my parents' house after the fire that engulfed it in 1998. I remember just walking through like a zombie saying. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god." And eventually beginning to cry.

Walking through the parking lot at Trader Joe's today, I thought to myself how fortunate I am. And I hate corny sentiment. But I saw a father and his young daughter trying to decide what kinds of flowers to buy, and I thought that we really are lucky to be out here right now where the sun is shining and the breeze is blowing and the temperatures are mild and lovely. Of course our own local news media wants us to be afraid, too, as usual. There was a segment yesterday evening on disaster preparedness. What if an earthquake hits us? Or some other catastrophic event? A reporter went door to door checking to see how much bottled water and canned food people had. Whether they had flashlights and batteries. Anyone worried about me should relax, knowing that I have enough non-perishable food to last me well into the next decade. And a goodly amount of bottled water. Of course, I also live in a very old building and would probably be crushed by debris and my jerk upstairs neighbors, if the earth were to quake with any great force. And so would all my valuable supplies. So there.

At the gas station, on my way home, where I paid $3.12 per gallon to fill up my tank, a guy with a giant boat of a vintage Cadillac was making conversation with a bum trying to wash his windshield for him. I overheard him say that it costs him seventy dollars to fill up his tank at this price. And then he laughed and said, "It's just a weekend thing." It seemed crass to me. But I was also filled with relief that the freelance windshield washer was too engrossed in his conversation with that freewheeling gas-guzzler to hit me up for any money. We're all jerks on some level, I suppose.

I went to see my friend Ben's show The Thrilling Adventure and Supernatural Suspense Hour at M Bar on Thursday night. I hadn't been able to make it to the past few shows, and I was glad to be catching it again. It was a fine production and I laughed many times. During the Beyond Belief segment, Paul (F. Tompkins) actually had to shush a table to the left of the stage. And later, when they apparently continued to not shut up, he glared at them. I found that awesome. After the show, in the ladies' room, I heard another in a series of mindnumbing conversations I have heard in ladies' restrooms between girlfriends who stun me with the lack of interesting subject matter that infuses their discourse. This one went a bit like this.

Girl 1: I like your hair.
Girl 2: Do you? I think it's getting too long.
Girl 1: Oh, no. I like it long.
Girl 2: Really? Because everyone tells me they like it better short.
Girl 1: I like it long.
Girl 2: How long?
(pause)
Girl 2: Like long long?
Girl 1: Yes. Long long long. I like long long hair.
Girl 2: I like your earrings.
Girl 1: Oh, they're like doorknockers.
Girl 2: I want to be a more daring earring person.

I saw them outside later on. I didn't care much for Girl 1's earrings or for Girl 2's hair. Paget Brewster clued me in that they were the ones who were making all the noise during the show. It figures. Boy, does it figure.

So, it's Labor Day Weekend. And I guess I'm glad to see summer coming to a close. But I'm not sure that I continue to be grateful for the demarcation. It seems that I am able to access too many of my disappointments when I place them in these seasonal categories. I have had happy summers and horrific summers and summers that passed without much mention. But it seems like the happy times end up getting tainted. Inevitably. Even the good times eventually get hidden behind a feeling of, "Oh, but then THAT happened." I once wrote, "Sometimes when you think you're on top of the world, the world turns over." And I guess that's just the way it goes.

In the hopes I can spell out my name

I was running early Friday morning. Listening to my usual line-up of hip hop classics with the occasional Wham! song mixed in. My running mixes always get me thinking. Usually reminiscing. Often wishing I was carrying something to write with. But I would hate to save sweaty swatches of paper for future transcription. Because I'd never be able to throw them away.

So it was occurring to me as I was listening to the Notorious B.I.G. laying down gangsta truths that language evolves now as a means of evading censorship. And maybe because of science to some degree. Whereas it used to evolve through poetry and metaphor. And maybe because of more advanced respiratory health. Words get made up now to make it possible to say things you aren't actually allowed to say. And there is a bit of beauty to that. The stealth of language. Secret messages. Hushed whispers. Under the radar. It's nearly as intriguing to wonder if what you're saying is even being heard. A message in a bottle takes on a fantasy life. Whether it is ever retrieved. Whether it is smashed to bits, committing its glass parts back to the sand.

And then I saw what looked like a guy walking a rat.

But it was just an aptly shaped piece of paper floating along the sidewalk in front of him. Many many tricks of the eye when running. Even when it's not hot out. You see things in passing. In a car, you don't see them at all. But on foot, you see just enough to get a misguided impression of them. And, if you're at all committed to getting where you're going, you're still unable to stop and figure it out.

On Memorial Day Weekend a few years ago, I took a couple of my cameras with me and walked the route I usually run. I wanted to photograph the many things I thought of photographing when I was running. Every now and then, you have to make a concerted effort to solve these little problems you create for yourself. It mixes things up a little. And I like to think that is the way to not die right away.

I used to think of all sorts of things to write while running. And before I started this most recent employment adventure, I would come back and make the time to sit down and type them down, sweaty fingers and all. Not so anymore. I'm lucky if I remember to make a note to myself before dashing into the shower and rushing off to work. The writing gets away from me. And it's a shame. Because it's one of the staples of my toleration. Its absence is an ulcer waiting to happen.

The week before last, we celebrated my sister and my dad's birthdays, as well as Justin's, Tasha's, and Audrey's. I don't know when Audrey was actually born, but August 19 is the anniversary of her coming to me. And I commemorate that gladly. Especially when I'm getting my daily dose of sleepy dog love. We were having a lovely lunch out by the pool. I was not feeling so super great. I sang in church in the morning and was tired. I took Audrey for a walk around the pool, and I heard my mom say, "Mary looks like a postcard." In my party dress with my little dog and my black heart. I'm sure I looked like a postcard of some kind.

Stan Lee was in our offices a few days back. I didn't say hello. I peered up over the cube tops, but I didn't make a spectacle of myself. I wouldn't really have known what to say anyway. I'm weird that way.

I bought heirloom tomatoes. They were pretty enough to eat.

Everyone loves wasabi peanuts. It's a good thing I have so many of them.

I made so many things for you. For the you that is no more. The you that never was. The idea of you. How do you give a gift to an idea. You don't. You save it. You put it away. You hope you don't have to look at it that often. Otherwise it reminds you that you fall in love with ideas. And you're too smart to be so stupid. I made so many things about you. And when I started making them about me instead, I found that the themes were all things I despised. I'm no good for me.

I like running. Until I don't anymore.

God Bless the Randomizer

Wanna be just like me? Here is how you can fake the serendipity of my music collection by copying my iPod's shuffle pattern. I would make you a CD, but you would lose it. And it would make me feel sad and unappreciated when I asked you about it later.

That You Might (Home Video)
Music Is the Victim (Scissor Sisters)
Seachange (Wendy Morrison)
Supersonic (S#arp)
Alabama Song (ex-Girl)
Better Luck (Scissor Sisters)
Subterranean Homesick Alien (Radiohead)
All the World Is Green (Tom Waits)
Precipitate (Interpol)
Loro (Pinback)
Somebody to Love (Queen/George Michael)
Return to Oz (Scissor Sisters)
I'm Gonna Be the Lonely Boy Tonight (Cherry Twister)
Indian Summer (Pedro the Lion)
Praskovia (Calexico)
Willing to Wait (Sebadoh)
Perverted Undertone (Prefuse 73)
Secret Oktober (Duran Duran)
Like a Ghost (Tarnation)
UMF (Duran Duran)
Fly (Nick Drake)
Alec Eiffel (The Pixies)
He Took Her to a Movie (Ladytron)
Another Morning (American Music Club)
Cosmopolitan (Joe Jackson)
Land Lovers (The Auteurs)
Money for Nothing (Dire Straits)
Hair of the Dog (Nazareth)
The Middle (Jimmy Eat World)
Beyond Belief (Elvis Costello)
Radio, Radio (Elvis Costello)
Wonder Wonder (Edith Frost)
In My Time of Dying (Be Good Tanyas)
Kill You (Eminem)
Me You and Everybody (Gomez)
The Same Race (Star Trek Insurrection)
Hyper Music (Muse)
Conjugate the Verbs (Enon)
Another Love Song (The Frames)
Sonic Turtle (Melt-Banana)
Suffer Never (The Finn Brothers)
The Littlest Birds (Jolie Holland)
Consider Me Gone (Sting)
La Negra Celina (Charanga Cakewalk)
Not Even Close (Tim Finn)
dick is a killer (rx)
Life Is Full of Possibilities (Dntel)
Ever Falls the Twilight (The Gothic Archies)
Pressed in a Book (The Shins)
The Birds (narration) (Nilsson)
In Between Days (The Cure)
Natural Disasters (Enon)
The Chauffeur (Duran Duran)
Laser Love (After the Fire)
Quartet, K.285 Allegro in D-dur (Mozart Flute Quartets)
Die on a Rope (The Distillers)
See a Little Light (Bob Mould)
Banjo Favorites (Nickel Creek)
I Wanna Know What Love Is (Foreigner)
Born (Over the Rhine)
Surfin' USA (Melt-Banana)
A Hole in the World (Thursday)
Cry Me a River (Diana Krall)
Noodletown (Mitchell Froom)
The Way Old Friends Do (ABBA)
The Bird that You can't See (The Apples in Stereo)
Gypsy Moons (Mystery Science Theater 3000)
Busby Berkeley Dreams (The Magnetic Fields)
Slow Bicycle (Mum)
Red Dress (Jonatha Brooke)
Fortress (Pinback)
New Born (Muse)
Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yesterday (Stevie Wonder)
Sour Times (Portishead)
Tin Pan Miracles (Aspera Ad Astra)
The Book and the Canal (Calexico)
Bow Down (Westside Connection)
Oh, You Are the Roots that Sleep Beneath My Feet and Hold the Earth in Place (Bright Eyes)
One Hundred Percent Free (Digby)
You're the Storm (Cardigans)
Superstitious (Stevie Wonder)
Mr. Brightside (The Killers)
Can't Take My Eyes Off You (Andy Williams)
Heads High (Kill Dem Wid It) (Mr. Vegas)
Nightporter (Japan)
I Missed the Point (Neko Case)
You Was It (Spoon)
"How Many Ships?" (Star Trek: First Contact)
From a Balance Beam (Bright Eyes)
Before You Go (The Frames)
Invisible Ink (Aimee Mann)
Seven Nation Army (The White Stripes)
86 (Green Day)
Lost Cause (Beck)
I Beg Your Pardon (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) (Kon Kan)
Suit of Fire (Parker Lily)
Twin Cinema (The New Pornographers)
Sora (Gutevolk)
Paint by Numbers (Danger Mouse & Murs)
Club Foot (Kasabian)
Fistful of Love (Devendra Banhart)
Rebellion (Lies) (The Arcade Fire)
Stormy Weather (Nina Nastasia)
Melancholy Serenade/Yesterdays (Jackie Gleason)
In a Funny Way (Mercury Rev)
Goodnight Goodnight (Hot Hot Heat)
Smile Around the Face (Four Tet)
Viola (Girlyman)
I Feel Love (Cobra Verde)
Reflections After Jane (The Clientele)
Barnowl (Caribou)
Lobsteriscos Rocketiza (Applied Communications)
Complaine de la Butte (Rufus Wainwright)
What'll I Do (Frank Sinatra)
Persephone (Cocteau Twins)
This Time (Bryan Adams)
Crush with Eyeliner (R.E.M.)
Last Chance on the Stairway (Duran Duran)
Breathe Me (Sia)
Lawrence of Arabia (Jackie Gleason)
Princess Poo-Poo-Ly Has Plenty Papaya (Alfred Apaka)

HBO Phones It In

HBO's original series are so reliably popular that the network doesn't really have to do much to support them. Not all of them catch like wildfire, but none of them seem to crash and burn. (Wait. What ever happened to K Street?) I've been watching my stories as much as I can recently. Mostly just Six Feet Under. And now that's over, so I can feel free to take a trip or use the phone again. Anyway, I've been seeing the promos for Rome, and I keep hearing this line in the voiceover: "The sexiest ancient world yet seen on TV." And this amuses me. As I think it is commonly accepted that very little of the ancient world can be considered sexy unless you can get past abhorrent dental hygiene, sporadic bathing, and constantly dirty feet. I mean, maybe you think Genghis Khan would be a sexy character to make a show about, because he was a leader and vicious and largely successful, but the Mongols NEVER bathed. They wore their clothes until they literally rotted off their bodies. (Note: If HBO makes an original series about the Mongols, I'm suing.) And think of the ladies of the past. When did hair removal even become popular?

I've always fantasized about time travel, and I'm certain that I'd get a kick out of seeing the world of my forefathers, but comfort is tricky for me, and I can't imagine I'd have a lick of fun if I didn't have my travel case along.

I just think television marketing can be lazy at times. And I hope that the "sexy" aspect of ancient Rome isn't the only thing that intrigues people about what went on back then. I hope the History Channel doesn't start having to try and make the past seem sexier just to meet its numbers. I don't know that there's much you can do to gussy up abject poverty and rampant disease. Although a lot of folks were very thin.

For the record, wilderness survival is also not sexy.

I went to see that amazing Tim Hawkinson exhibit at LACMA yesterday. I feel guilty even mentioning it, as it closes today, and if you haven't already seen it, you probably won't get to. And oh the things you missed in your apathy and inaction. It was amazing. Curious and breathtaking and strangely pragmatic and then thoroughly inspired. I didn't get everything. Even though I couldn't help but overhear a guy -- unasked -- explaining to a kid and his mother, "It's about colonialization in the time of the tall ships." He credentialed himself in this manner: "I know a lot about Tim Hawkinson. I'm a high school teacher." I try not to be guilty of this myself. I try not to accidentally eavesdrop and find that someone wants to know something I can tell them. I try to wait to be invited into the conversation. But some people can't help themselves. And I judge them. And then I judge myself for being so judgmental. Because I label things so easily as despair or greed or an unjustified try.

I had had me a customer service jack before I got to see the show. When I went to pick up a ticket for me and my friend, I found that my LACMA membership needed renewing, so I asked the man at the Members counter if I could just go ahead and renew right now. And typically, people wanting to give them money makes the staff at the museum perk right up. I've been contributing at the Patron level since I moved here in 2001. And I always assumed they appreciated that. But this guy tried to send me over to a membership table they had set up in the brutal hot sun a short distance away. I asked if I could just take care of it with him, and he said, "Not with these lines." And I turned and looked behind me to find not a single person standing there. No one. Those stretchy cordons defined a nice empty corridor. "There's no one in line at all." He said, already testy, "Ma'am, it really would be easier if you went over there." I smiled and replied, "Not for me." He just looked at me, frustrated and stone-faced. I turned and gestured toward the absence of a line. "There's NO ONE here." He didn't look at me as he got a membership form from the rack and began to mark it up. "$75 dollars please." "I usually contribute at the Patron level." "Okay." Then he took my credit card and charged me and gave me my two passes and sent me on my way without making eye contact with me again. He didn't give me my temporary membership card, and he didn't thank me. And I really find that hard to believe. Another museum employee came and asked him a question as he was "helping" me, and he acted all flustered and passive aggressive. He shrugged and muttered something about not having time. And, of course, once I stepped away from the counter, no one stepped up to it. And I'm sure he found that infuriating.

But that didn't really ruin anything for me. The exhibit was more than enough distraction to push that guy into my memory's recesses. And afterwards, we visited the permanent collection (I always do). They're rearranging the museum a great deal, and I'm not fond of change. A lot of my lovely LACMA lawn has been paved over. They're building on it. I'm sure it will be something great. But there's far less picnic spot. And that's a shame. Even within the galleries, many things aren't where they used to be. It happens when visiting exhibits require things to be shuffled around. I was afraid I wouldn't get to see my Rothko. But it was there. Just not in the same spot. And not shown in the same light. And what a difference that makes. We also visited the André Kertész photographs and the Jacob van Ruisdael landscapes. The Kertész exhibit made me want to go out and take pictures. In a city with some history. And possibly from somewhere up high. I loved his self-portraiture. I take comfort in seeing that I'm not the only person in the world who thinks there is value in photographing one's own shadow or one's own reflection. Mostly, I just missed taking pictures in black and white and seeing them appear magically in a darkroom bath. I have to get my Canon A-1 fixed. Still. The spool busted outside a roadside store somewhere in Arizona. Shortly before I tasted ostrich jerky for the first time. It was disgusting. But probably mostly because it was so old. Last year, I bought someone else's Canon A-1 and took it with me to Coachella and snapped hundreds of photos with it. But the light meter on that needs fixing, too. A trip to Samy's is in order.

"I put him at that time in front of an ultimatum," is how Anne Douglas describes the way she confronted Kirk Douglas about one of his infidelities. Everyone in the world should be French. I love the poetry of translation.

I don't love that this embarrassingly personal piece about the Douglas family is on HBO's roster. It makes me feel bad for them. And it also made me look at a photograph of Dalton Trumbo sitting in a bathtub writing. How dare it.

The Wee Hours

I just came home and walked my dog. And when we were outside, I saw my neighbors across the street arrive home, and an adult dude was carrying a fully grown but totally unconscious other adult dude the way you would carry a sleeping child -- a child who fell asleep during the ride home. Only this child's legs were so long that his feet were nearly dragging on the sidewalk.

And I came back in just in time to see the scene in that Steven Seagal movie where this guy I used to date gets thrown down a flight of stairs. How like a movie life so often is.

If I had one wish

It would be that Jessica Alba would not be playing Jeannie in the I Dream of Jeannie movie.

The Pitter-Patter of Tiny-Minded Feet

O how my blood is made to boil by conservative footsoldiers like that Skeletor-esque Kellyanne Conway, whose performance on Bill Maher's season premiere was irritating enough to make me want to increase my monthly contribution to the DNC and the DCCC tenfold. I was glad that Bill pressed her when she continually made unsubstantiated assertions, even going so far as to ask her what ass she had just pulled one of her claims from. But I couldn't help but feel that she should have been taken more to task. Whenever she was backed into a corner, she would end up saying something like, "Oh, come on, Bill." And that would be the end of her rebuttal. A tactic which was used with nearly as much effectiveness by Phyllis Schlafly, when Bill brought up the subject of her gay son. It's just that when people argue in this fashion -- never conceding a point, never acknowledging a misstep -- it's easy for the sound bites that get pulled from the discussions to be used as ammunition for their agenda, and most people are just lazy enough to accept someone else's synopsis rather than do the research firsthand. For instance, if you do not receive the HBO, and you are a liberal like me, you might read what I've written here and agree with me. And if you are a conservative, you might read this and dismiss it outright. But what always gets me so het up when I'm watching one of these shows -- particularly if I don't have the luxury of like-minded company to share in my irate flabbergastery -- is that the dialogue is useless. No one says anything real. Nothing that's said is of any great import. It's more important to try and get in a zinger than it is to make a point. It's exactly what happens in most arguments in the real world amongst real people who know nothing of the art of the dialectic.

There was a time when I enjoyed this. The sparring. The amicable disagreement. I was a debater for Pete's sake. For fun. But ever since the 2000 elections, I have gotten much more impatient, much more susceptible to flinching when that lingering road rash gets poked at. I wish we could talk about things with more than just the intention of winning. I wish we could try and get to the bottom of issues. Solve problems. Come up with ideas. Without being so concerned about who would get credit for the solutions. Without paying so much attention to the (D) or the (R) that follows the name on the chyron.

Somewhere along the way, I got it in my noggin that all this mattered. And then the fun started to seep away. Like blood draining from a turnip. So suddenly that you forget to ask how it got there in the first place.

Things that have been important to me.

In no particular order.

Notebook paper. Duran Duran. Violet Crumble. Shoestring potatoes. Egg custard. Paper clips. Names of characters in stories I have not yet written. Picture-taking. Bust support. Accomplished drinking. Perfect rice. Organized hosiery. Freesia. Chamomile soap that doesn't get made anymore. Big Top Pee-wee. Soundtrack albums. Long distance plans. Allergy remedies. Ive League education. Speech and debate. Air hockey. Swimming. Haircut. Hourglass figure. Strappy shoes. Frequent flyer miles. Diet Dr. Pepper. Hydration. Pedicure. Competitive sports (just kidding). Making the perfect bolognese sauce. Turtleneck. Blue mascara. Approval. Callbacks. Pantry space. High thread count sheets. That guy. Mendelssohn. Low-waisted jeans. Knee boots. That other guy. Black and white. Winning. Tongue-twisters. Superlatives. Correctness. Cuteness. Eraser collection. Fractal patterns. Books I've lost. Marilyn Monroe. Lined clothing. Silk. Mark Rothko. Japan. Dignity. Handel's Messiah. Soprano. Deep Space Nine. Salt and vinegar. Ballroom dancing. Perception of neurosis. ABBA. Spelling bee. Pedal pushers. Green. Juicy Fruit. Danny Kaye. Good side. Pork chops with cream sauce and mushrooms. Anodized cookware. Stovetop popcorn. Running. Stress urinary incontinence. Etymology. French. Christmas. Violin. Balance Bars. Arranciata. Campari soda. Whiskey. Mid-century modern. Simpatico. Phrasing. Sleep. Preparation. The Girl Can't Help It. Sebastian Shpritz Forte. Chicken fried rice. Olives. Stringed instruments. Memorization. Completiong. Jigsaw puzzles. Phyllo dough. Elephants. Late night dog walking. Ephemera. Binaries. Hard drive space. Bragging rights. Apple. Starvation. Sense memory. Certain sitcoms I'm embarrassed to list.

She's a real go-getter in a cardigan sweater.

I am not lamenting the end of summer. Not at all. I caught a whiff of fall in the air a few days ago, and it was fine with me. I don't care for slow cooking. Even though everything is always more tender that way.

I feel a bit stuck. Like the gears in my brain have halted. Leaving Tim Robbins temporarily suspended above the snow-covered streets of New York. When I invite my co-worker Michael out to smoke now, I say, "Cigareet?" But it doesn't happen often, because he usually manages to invite me first. In which case I just end up saying, "Yes."

I walked around in Beverly Hills today, shopping on my lunch break. I felt lousy. Tired. Filled with self-loathing. Awful. It was a lovely day. But that didn't really matter much.

When I was on the plane to New York, the in-flight magazine featured a cover story about Steve Martin and a book on tape he released about Beverly Hills and where one should go and what one might see there. It's strange, because everything the author of the article talked about doing is everything I do or see or walk past on my various lunch breaks from my office. And only a few short months ago, none of it would have meant anything to me. I have been to Beverly Hills. But now I actually know my way around. I guess I'm grateful for that. Working from home doesn't afford me as much opportunity to learn my away around different parts of town. But the trade-off leaves me sapped of strength and sort of perpetually despondent. It's unfortunate. And typical.

I am still filling my nights with improv workshops and performances and seeing shows and sticking around for drinks with friends. And not making hot dog dioramas and not putting my art supplies away. I feel as if I have burned away the part of my brain that enables me to feel pleasure and joy. I can't feel the effects of alcohol or caffeine, and nothing tastes good to me. And I'm pretty sure I never stole any Aztec gold or anything. It's just not fair.

Dreams are wishes.

An episode of Six Feet Under made me cry a lot recently. The way that episode of Ally McBeal when Billy dies did. It's weird to be able to muster that level of emotion for some fictional apparition. It makes me feel guilty and stupid. Surely there are better things on which to squander my emotions. Surely I can find better reasons to cry.

Hey, L.A., where've you gone?

Many Happy Returns

Today is the tandem birthday of my dad (Sam) and my sister (Sarah). I called them both to convey my happy wishes. When I called my dad, who turns seventy-six today, I said, "Happy birthday, old timer." And he said, "Seventy-six trombones." And I thought that was adorable.

It is also the birthday of my friends Geoffrey, Josh, and Becky. Which I think is ridiculous.

Catching up with missed luck.

Yesterday was the eighth of August. On past eighths of August, I have generally made mention of what a lucky day that is for the Chinese. I won't belabor the point.

I have been working altogether too much. My eyes are sore all day. Caffeine seems to have none of its usual potency. Every moment is a catalogue of ache. Even my beloved boozes are less appealing to me. I know they will make me sleepy and that I will lack the vigor to benefit from any of their more rewarding repercussions. It is a suckfest.

I was in New York for a few days last week. I stayed at the Dream Hotel. I would describe it, but I'm lazy and the spark is gone. I will post photos at some point. If I can find a free moment. The most noteworthy image I recall was riding up on the elevator and watching the doors open on floor after floor to display some artsy, impressionistic photo mural in cool blue hues and then arriving on the eighth floor to be greeted by a giant photo of a nude man running after himself. There were oranges on the pillows. But I had a room without a bath tub. So in order to try and get my mom's idea of my money's worth, I ate the oranges. Peeled 'em with my own hands and everything. It sounds crazy even to me.

It was so dreadfully hot and humid. Coming home to a hot and humid Los Angeles, I realize that I will probably never feel the need to complain about the heat here again. Even when it is its most uncomfortable. Even in my un-air-conditioned home. As hot and as humid as it ever gets, it's never like it was in New York these last two times I visited. Nights that never cool down. Air that smells of innards cooking in the bodies living about them. That filmy feeling on your skin and hair and teeth. All day long. I'm glad to be home. And if I ever end up living in New York, I will invest a great deal of money in air conditioning.

This is the third time I've been at a swanky hotel in Manhattan (and San Diego) when I was sent on a hotel blow dryer hunt. In each case I had to call down to the front desk to have them help me figure out where the blow dryer was stowed. At the W, it was in a little cloth sack in the closet. At the Marriott in San Diego, it was in a little cloth sack in the armoire. At the Dream Hotel, it was in a little cloth sack hanging from the back of the bathroom door. I even checked in the closet, hoping I'd discovered the new trend in blow dryer placement. But no. I had to call the front desk. They were nice enough. But I felt stupid just the same.

My teeth ache. I think I have been gritting them all day at work. And after an exhausting week of meetings and travel and work work work, I had to drive down to San Diego to perform, collect my dog, drive back up to Los Angeles to perform again, and then start the work week all over again with no greater an average of sleeping hours to my credit than before. I'll be dead by Christmas. I've been saying it for weeks. I have a lot of awesome belongings. I hope you get some of them, if that is your wish.

I don't know what else. My head hurts so much right now. Do we really need to be roasting Pamela Anderson? And if so, do we also need to be exploiting the ailing Kirk Douglas? He will always be Spartacus to me. And that sailor with a whale of a tale to tell. I don't want to see him working out his issues with his son on camera. This seems the height of vulgarity. Where's Steve Allen to object to things when you need him to?

I hate moths. And I keep having to prove it to them by murdering them and smearing their gross, powdery carcasses all over my walls. Why doesn't anyone ever take me at my word?

I'm a bit of a stickler.

You can lose me in two words. There's a commercial for Procrit that features an older fellow, soberly addressing the camera after we've seen him working as an auctioneer. He says, "I've always talked fast. And loved antiques." And loved antiques? Come on. How am I supposed to feel bad about you and your cancer when you say something so disingenuous?

When did baldness become so fashionable?

There are more shaved heads in my office than there are haircuts. And not all of them are heads that would otherwise be unadorned. Is everyone in the world looking for maps on their scalps? Dudes should consider the possibility that any maps they find might be presented in relief.

Continue spreading the news

I'm off to New York again for a few days. So if you live there and want to see me or if you have friends there you want me to wave at or if you just have a dozen or so balloons of heroin you want me to transport, you'd better get in touch with me soon. I like to know how to pack my bags.

SPAM continues to diminish my self-esteem.

I received an email today from someone named Grant Clay, with the subject line "bye bye big thighs." And if it weren't for the fact that I have never dated a Grant Clay, I would have assumed I was being broken up with.

Star War III: Backstroke of the West

Friends, allow me to share with you the funniest thing I have ever seen. It is this.

Thank you, Paul F. Tompkins, the Famous Comedian.

They want what they're not.

Poor Mary. Sickly and weak. If I cough again, I'll cry. Maybe I'm just looking for excuses.

No one in the world ever gets what they want and that is beautiful.
Everybody dies frustrated and sad and that is beautiful.

When you were a young and a callow fellow

Yesterday was hot. One of those days so hot that it's literally all anyone can talk about. Heat apparently saps our imaginations. It crowds our brains until even the sight of something truly odd has no purchase. All you can say is how hot you are and how little relief you got from the various remedies you tried. "It was so hot today that I snuck into Ralph's and spent the day in the freezer, sitting on a pallet of ice cream." "I sat in my car and ran the air conditioner until it ran out of gas." "I drank hot tea." (That's what Chinese people do.)

Extremes of weather are peculiar in that way. I guess people are relieved about it. Having something to talk about. When there's a world incident or a noteworthy weather change, all of a sudden, you don't have to sit there in silence, wondering whether the person sitting across from you speaks English anymore. And yet who really cares about current events or the weather or how your family is doing. It's a shame that people don't just say what they're really thinking. Although, if I were to do that, I'd probably have far fewer friends. My brain comes up with monstrous things only I can enjoy.

I forgot that my workshop was over yesterday, so I drove to the building on Santa Monica and opened the door to the room to find another group of people in it. Two of them on stage, clearly offput by my very quiet entrance. I excused myself and stood there in the hallway for a few seconds, processing my error. Then I went to the Smart and Final on Wilshire to buy Red Bull and other things in large quantities. Then I went home to my hot apartment where my dog was in love with me and the sweating became second nature. I've been experiencing the nag of a cold all week. A dry cough and some congestion. I was thoroughly exhausted by late afternoon, so I tried to take a nap. But it was just a series of feverish wakings and discussions with myself about whether I should just lie still or get up and see what's on TV.

In the evening, I picked up my friend Kevin, and we went and got a drink at The Dresden before catching Ron Lynch's new show "The Tomorrow Show" at the Steve Allen Theater. We ran into the impeccably-attired and always-gracious Poubelle Twins, who were attending the same performance, so we all made our way over together when it was appropriate to do so. Then we watched the show. And then it was too late to go anywhere for a drink. The problem with a midnight show. So Kevin and I raced two a.m. to get to Von's and buy booze. We did. But it was no longer of interest to anyone else to share it, so we took it back to his house and sat outside drinking and smoking until nearly five a.m. I told him stories of work. We talked about a sketch he is writing. I offered some suggestions and thought as I was doing so, "Hey, Mary, I guess you DO know a thing or two about writing." And then I was immediately ashamed that I was not writing my own sketch instead of just helping someone else with his. Always an editor, never a bride.

This past week was one of the most taxing ever. My consulting job. My freelance work. My health. My wishes. I ended the escapade feeling bruised and battered. Canceling my plans to go to San Diego to perform. Knowing I wouldn't survive it. Wanting the opportunity to sit still. Knowing that I never take that opportunity when it presents itself. I want to be so much that I'm not. Some of that wanting is so lackluster and unambitious as to be content just going back to what I recently was. I'm not greedy. I could never get away with it.

Try to remember. Try to remember. It's not the right month for it, if you go by the song lyrics. It's never the right month. It's never the right day. It's never the right time. It's never the same for you as it is for me. It's never what I thought it would be or what I keep trying to make it. I'm just scrambling eggs over here. I prefer them over easy, but I'll eat them any way they are served.

Today's not so much cooler than yesterday. It's cloudy out, but still hot and humid. Tornado weather, if we lived in a tornado state, as I said to Krissy a while earlier. Krissy, who recently learned that she is the oven for a little baby bun. I am fearful of change. It has seldom been my ally. Except in extreme retrospect, when you adopt that worldview wherein everything that ever happened to you helped you get to where you are. And that only works when where you are isn't some place you hate. Or some place too hot to stand.

Loren Bouchard was kind enough to send me some photos he took at one of the after-closing hotel room parties we both attended during Comic-Con week. I am not the star of this photo, but I love what I'm saying in it.

Sir Laurence Olivier never played a character of that name.

This isn't specifically intended for Bob Newhart, but I kind of think that shows where the star gets to have the same name as they actually have in real life (According to Jim, for instance) are pretty pointedly indicating that the stars of the shows are such poor actors they can't be counted on to remember to turn their heads when a co-star says their character's name if it happens to be different than their own. I guess if I ever have a son, I'll name him Hamlet. So when they make a sitcom called that he can star in it.

Memories of Comic-Con
I had what I would consider to be a largely triumphant experience at Comic-Con last week. It's unfortunate that the aftermath of it was total work swamp, the onset of a cold, and general inability to get anywhere near the business of blogging. All I can really offer is a pastiche of memory spurts. Sorry. I'll try harder next time.
Firstly, I decided this year that I would not allow myself to endure the misery of parking woes and traffic bullshit and the laziness that happens when you are staying with friends or family. So I booked a room at the Marriott and stayed luxuriously and conveniently close to all the hot nerd action for five days and four nights. That was the right choice. I will make that same choice repeatedly in the future. Because it led to me actually fully experiencing Comic-Con perhaps for the first time. In past years, the Con has always been a series of day trips, ending before sundown in exhaustion and sometimes performance obligations. If you go home after a day walking the dealer floor, and "home" is more than a mile from Downtown San Diego, chances are you're not going to go back out in the evening. That has been my experience in every previous year. But this time, tired as I may have been every single day, it was not at all difficult to drag myself out of my room and hit the town. And that is a blessing.
Beulah came down and visited with me on Wednesday night. We went out for sushi and drinks and shit talk, and then she spent the night in my hotel room. And when Martín arrived the next morning, we went down to the hotel coffee shop, where Beulah had breakfast, Martín had lunch, and I had four bloody marys -- all served with flair by our waitress Blanche. Before Beulah arrived downstairs, I phoned to alert her that I had just walked past Mark Ryden on the stairs. That was the first of perhaps thirty times I would see him in and around the hotel and the convention center. I realize that we were staying in the same building and attending the same event, but there was still an uncanny frequency to our proximity. I would literally see him enter the convention center and then see him ninety seconds later as I rounded the corner of an aisle. He was everywhere that I was. With nearly cosmic significance. And I know him to be awfully nice and sort of shy, so I didn't bother him at all. Which is to my credit, I hope.
Martín and I rounded out day one of the Con with drinks in my room (I brought a full compliment of liquor with me, of course), countless martinis at the hotel bar, a photo-taking stroll to Embarcadero Marina Park at what I call "golden hour," and then dinner at Morton's, where I ordered us an expensive bottle of wine that we drank nearly none of but then took with us to watch the screening of the special edition of Free Enterprise, during which we traded slugs of a fine meritage like hobos. Wealthy, wealthy hobos. Towards the end of the film, we snuck out onto the terrace for a smoke. And then, for some reason, we ended up venturing out into the Gaslamp to look for smaller bottles of whiskey to carry around during the next day's show. But we didn't find a liquor store. All we found was foot pain. We went from exclaiming, "Best Con ever!" between joyous bursts of laughter to whimpering, "Worst Con ever!" betwixt groans of agony. Then Martín spent the night in my room. And I think we were both grateful that that convenience was available to us.
Friday morning, Mindy arrived. And the three of us hit the Con together. It was sort of magical to be taking a Con newbie around. Especially a hot one with a passion for Star Wars and anime chicks. It's what I imagine it's like for parents whose love of Christmas is renewed by the wonder in the eyes of their children. Beulah and Yen came down that day, too, and -- as I always do for my friends -- I went to the registration area and picked up badges for them, so they wouldn't have to wait in that ridiculous line. I look at the people in that long-ass line, and I think, "Is it possible that none of you guys knows ANYONE who can hook you up?" None of my friends ever has to wait for a badge. It's part of my Con evangelism.
Jessie came to the show on Friday, too. So did Richard. We lost him when we were staking out a spot for the Adult Swim panel, which was great and also less than. My friends Tim and Eric were my heroes, but the question-askers were stupid, and Cartoon Network didn't give away anything at the panel, which was a change from years past and the yearning for which is proof of my geekness. So many people to see. I have never had such a meeting-rich Con. It was grand-ish. Jessie and her friend Josh and I met at the hotel bar for a few drinks. And then I went back to the room to collect Mindy (after we caught some awesome fireworks off our awesome bay view balcony) and whisk her off to the Adult Swim party at the Wonder Bread Factory in Golden Hill. Eric had put me on the list. And that made me feel super extra special. And Mindy came as my guest. And we happened to find Jeff walking on the street towards the party when we were walking from our cab. So we all arrived together and made respective beelines for the restrooms and then the food tables. I guess it was The Prado catering the event, and there were these little Angus beef sliders that were unbelievably yummy and also tiny little deep dish pizzas that I later hated myself for not eating a hundred of.
The party was over too soon, and -- after a long curbside deliberation -- we all went over to the Top of the Hyatt for more drinks. Jeff and Mindy and I went downstairs for a smoke and ended up not being able to get back up to the club, as the elevators apparently respect last call more than most enthusiastic drinkers do. And we ended up bringing a whole gaggle of people back to my hotel room to continue with the drinking and the smoking and the general revelry. I ordered room service in the wee hours, and we ate pizza and hamburger and fries and shot craps in a drawer from my armoire and eventually had to encourage Jay and Tommy to make their way home, because the sun was coming up and we had a Con to get something from. Jeff ended up staying with me and Mindy. And he drew a picture of a giant frog. And I looked at it the next morning and said, "Oh, look, there's a little boy on his back," and Jeff said, "Look closer," and then I said, "Oh! It's me!" And it was. I could tell because of the rank insignia on the sleeve of my sweater. I'm a colonel or something when I wear that sweater that says "Destroy" on the front. You'd best watch yourself.
By Saturday, I had turned my ankle somehow. Probably the night before in some drunken situation. So every step I took on the convention floor was a bit ouchy. I had to rush in at the top of the day and get a pass for Jeff. And then I did the same for Krissy and her sister later in the afternoon. And when we went outside to find them, a guy with two ninja swords approached me and asked if he could take a picture of me. And I said, "Sure. But I'm not dressed as anyone." And I wasn't. He seemed convinced that I was. But really. I was just wearing my own clothes. Which is telling, I suppose. Later in the afternoon. Martín, Jeff, Mindy, and I were sitting out on the steps behind the convention center, and we decided to head down to that little sandwich shack down by the fishing pier, and as I stood up to leave, an older fellow with a disturbingly emotionless gaze said, "You look nice today." It took me a few seconds to realize he was talking to me. When I did, I said, "Thank you." And then I tugged my skirt down further and hurried on with my friends. We jeered the musketeers and bellydancer on the terrace. We're better than them and we know it. We ordered lunch, and I had the best nachos ever. And a hamburger that I so did not need after having eaten the best nachos ever.
By the late afternoon, we were plum tuckered out. And -- foolishly opting to miss the Tenacious D panel -- we headed back to the hotel, where we complained about our various pains and took brief naps and showers. Then we went out into the Gaslamp to find what turned out to be the worst Mexican food ever at La Fiesta on Fifth. After which, we met up with friends at Star Bar and drank cheaply until closing. At which time we headed over to the Westgate and continued on with our evening in resplendent Con fashion. Tim and Brendon performed an hilarious prank call for all of us, and I literally had tears rolling off the end of my nose. I'll never stop laughing about it. If I'm at a funeral and think of Tom Pickle, someone will surely think me rude. The same can be said for Tommy's thoughts on progressive cat math. And Jay's conviction that Mindy's sheets were made of orchestras.
By the end of the night. Mindy and Jeff and I piled into a cab with Tommy and the Poubelle Twins and made our way back to our various places of lodging. And I performed a dramatic reading from my email for Jeff and Mindy, and Mindy laughed a lot.
On our final day, we mostly just had breakfast, shopped, and went our separate ways. I took one of my favorite pictures ever of Mindy in front of a Han Solo poster. I also took a picture of Mindy with Caveman Robot, who seems to now recognize me as a friend and always wants a hug when our paths cross. When he hugs me, he grunts, "Woman. Urnh. Urnh." And I am charmed by it. One of his handlers gave me a free pin.
So that's about it, right? I yelled at the people at the bell desk. I attended one last panel. Then I got my car and my bags and drove to my parents' house to collect my dog and head home. Many pictures were taken. Many memories were made. Many opportunities were missed. I only wish it could be Comic-Con every week. I love it more than anything else in the world.

For the Sake of Comparison

Carlos Mencia is not funny. At all. That Baja California Starburst commercial where the mariachis get crushed in the guy's teeth, however, is.

Mind Over Mencia

I can't believe the tripe that gets on television today as compared to the much more delicious meats that don't. I'm speaking, of course, of Carlos Mencia and his new show. Perhaps Comedy Central is catering to a core demographic of the incarcerated that I'm not aware of. Those dudes will laugh at anything. And it's a shame, because it really skews the curve to the disadvantage of the rest of us. The promos call him offensive and support the claim by showing him saying the word "midget." Come on. That's not offensive. I'm more offensive when I'm plugging the parking meter in front of my office. No, really. I am. I totally pretend it's a sex act. I get all nasty about it. I finger the coin slot a little. Make it think I'm gentle. And then I lay on the racist epithets and tell it to give me what I paid for. You should see it. And if you're thinking, "That's not funny," you're right. But I also do not have my own show. Do I. And if you used Mind of Mencia as a measure at all -- however alliterative -- you might stop and also think to yourself that there's no real reason that I shouldn't.

P.S. If you are a development executive, I do not have an agent, but I have a number of friends who could convincingly pretend to be one on the phone, should you need to speak with one.

For the Sake of Keeping

I switched to a different handbag a couple of days ago. I buy a lot of handbags. I fall in love with a handbag and then use it completely up. Leaving it in shameful tatters. A dirty, frayed shadow of its former stylish glory. The one I am retiring is definitely ready to be put out to pasteur, if handbags can be imagined to be sent out to graze on the green hillsides of some idyllic country dell. And if that image can somehow be correlated to being hung from a hook in one of my overly full closets. The leather of its shoulder straps is cracking at the edges, its satin lining sheltering an unusually large amount of loose tobacco. It was time.

I went into the closet in my guest bedroom and found a handbag I haven't used in some time. It's in very good repair. Not as cute or stylish as its predecessor, but ideal for how many cameras I've been carrying back and forth and for the fact that I have to work in an office during the day. I abandoned it early in its life, clearly. There are none of the usual signs of wear and tear. Only five year-old pieces of flattened Bubblicious and a few tubes of lipstick in colors I don't believe I ever wore. It also contains a piece of gypsum.

This piece of gypsum was given to me by a friendly fellow at a chemical factory in Oklahoma, where I was consulting for a day. He was one of the plant managers, and he wanted to give me a token of Oklahoma goodwill to take home with me. He told me the importance of gypsum. I have long since forgotten what it was. But I was fishing around in one of the pockets for change for the parking meter, and my fingers found that smooth piece of rock, and I remembered that grueling trip, which forced me to leave a rather slapdash high school reunion early so I could fly out with all of my materials prepared. I remembered getting to the airport on time and finding that fog had delayed my flight, which led me to The Waffle Spot, where I ate breakfast and drank apple juice before heading back to the airport and embarking on a nightmarish series of trip segments, ending in Woodman, Oklahoma (Woodson? I don't know.), where I got in very late, ate Arby's in my room, woke up very early, spent the day talking about attachment-dependent cell culture, ate dinner at Chili's, and then flew back home. And had to go back to my real job the next day. I remember the after-midnight phone call in the room of the bed and breakfast. He was just making sure I got there safely. He was probably waking up the proprietor of the place, but he or she was very nice about it. It was so late that even a bath seemed an imprudent sacrifice of sleep. I didn't sleep much anyway. Time zone change. Work anxiety. The fear that my actual job would wig out if they knew I was taking the day off to fly to Oklahoma and train people in how to sell molecular biology products.

All this from my fingers brushing against that piece of gypsum. My version of The Dead Zone. He'll use the baby as a human shield. It'll end his political career.

Epilogue

Did I say gypsum? I think I meant quartz.

This risks breaking Krissy's heart.

It doesn't matter how much you love Michael Ian Black. Stella is not funny. At all.

Just smile when I feel blue.

My heart's seen too much action.

Blissful Detox

When my mother wants me to have things -- mail, a copy of Entertainment Weekly, batteries, a bottle of vitamins -- she leaves them on the dresser in the guest bedroom of her house. So that when I come to visit, I will see them and put them in my bag. I haven't been visiting all that much recently, but the second to last time I was there -- which was just before leaving on my New York trip -- I went upstairs and found that she had left me a book called Blissful Detox with the subhead "Over 100 Simply Delicious Cleansing Recipes." My mother makes no secret of her concern for my digestive health. It's just like in that laxative commercial when the mother asks the daughter about her regularity while they're sitting on a plane. I used to think that commercial was stupid. But then it turned into a blueprint for living. For me.

The War to End All Tom Cruise/Steven Spielberg Collaborations

Spoiler alert: This movie is no good.

I saw War of the Worlds for the second time last night. Don't think that means I liked it. I didn't. I hated it the first time I saw it, but I wondered if it might just be that seeing it in a theater in Burbank where the common folk were so audibly annoying might have slanted my take. But alas, no. Last night, I confirmed my first impression. Incontrovertibly.

It's sad that this is true, but Steven Spielberg, whom I used to consider to be fairly deft at playing at the human melodrama -- is apparently just as out of touch with the reality of human interaction as George Lucas. Beyond the admittedly very good visual effects, this movie just proves that some writers and some directors really have no idea at all how people behave or how they talk to each other or -- and this is the most unbearable part -- what children do and say. If you ask me, Dakota Fanning is what's wrong with children in film and television. I mean, maybe it isn't her fault. She's a little kid who can play an emotion and memorize a line and hit her marks. And that's all right. But if you've ever seen her interviewed, it's just the scariest thing imaginable. She spends one portion of the chat showing you that she's about to lose a baby tooth and the rest going on and on about how a-MAZ-ing it was to work with so-and-so and how BRILL-iant this such-and-such is, and all in the emphatic, cocktail-party elocution of a queeny creative type in the heyday of Truman Capote. She's not just too old for her age. I would find this kind of person insufferable as an adult, too. Seeing it in a child is just too much. Maybe Spielberg was trying to recapture the charm he found in a young Drew Barrymore or that Heather whatshername who died. He does seem to have a penchant for casting pale little girls with stringy blonde hair. But Dakota Fanning has none of the naivete of a young Drew Barrymore. And god help us if she grows up to be any worse an actress than an adult Drew Barrymore.

I was listening to Paul Feig on Fresh Air with Terry Gross last week, and I just caught the very end of his interview, when he was being asked about what shows he liked growing up, what shows influenced him. And he made such a good point about how shows like Leave It to Beaver and The Brady Bunch were good because they featured children speaking the way children actually speak. Whereas shows today constantly portray children speaking in the way that their adult writers wish perhaps they could have spoken in their own tortured childhoods. The Jonathan Taylor-Thomas syndrome, in my mind. One of the trailers I saw before my first screening of War of the Worlds was for this new remake of The Bad News Bears. And it isn't just because I love Walter Matthau or because I hate Billy Bob Thornton or because I hate Billy Bob Thornton's embarrassing hair plugs that I despise the very idea of this film. There is a clip where a girl shows the taunting boys that she can pitch, and one little four-eyes says, "I think I just entered puberty." And I just wanted to crush something in my angry fists.

One of the things that rubbed me the wrong way when I was in the Burbank theater was how, to much of America, everything is apparently a comedy these days. This happened when I went to see Revenge of the Sith, too. Now, I'll grant you that Yoda is kind of funny-looking, and maybe seeing him wielding a light saber with angry resolve is a little ridiculous, but not if you are allowing yourself to believe that he is in fact a Jedi master and that some serious shit is going down, and I'm assuming you're allowing yourself to do that, as you just paid twelve dollars to see a movie called Star Wars. And yet every time Yoda was on screen, I heard swells of laughter. The same was true in War of the Worlds. Even in cases of graphic carnage or (intended) gravitas. People kept laughing. And I kept wondering what was wrong with them. Maybe it's because of movies like Blade 3, where the seriousness and humorlessness of the Blade character is inexplicably "spruced up" by the addition of Ryan Reynolds' wise-cracking, steroid-pumped, shit-talking sidekick. The Joe Pesci in Lethal Weapon 2 syndrome, if you will. To be fair, so many of the moments of high drama in War of the Worlds are so implausible and ridiculous that it makes sense that you might laugh at them. But not for amusement's sake. But I don't think this was wry laughter. This was the same disappointing laughter I heard when Kevin James dances in the trailer for Hitch. Shame on you, America. But then, maybe it isn't America's fault. Maybe America has just seen so many of these insufferable mood-lighteners and assumes that every uncomfortable moment is intended to tickle a little bit. Maybe it's the result of generation after generation of cinematic "bad touch." Maybe we're all going to end up strippers.

Oh, I have so many issues with this movie. The first fifteen minutes? Totally unnecessary. That sandwich shuffling scene? Waste of time. Morgan Freeman's opening and closing narratives? Largely uninformative. What did those aliens envy so much? What did they want with our planet? What was the value of the blood? And if it was so valuable, why vaporize so many people instead of sucking them dry? And while we're on that topic, the annihilation methods employed by these guys were hardly the portrait of good process flow. We have droves of more effective tools for mass murder. And certainly they could look to the Nazis for some lessons on efficiency in this area. Which brings me to another point, Schindler's List was only one of the many of his own films I saw Spielberg cribbing from this time around. Also on the list were Minority Report, E.T., Poltergeist, and -- if only in the sense that Robbie looked so much like Karen Allen -- Raiders of the Lost Ark. On the list of other people's films he cribbed from are Titanic, The Abyss, and Signs. And I should further note that I wrote the following in my notebook when I was about an hour into my first viewing: "Worse than Signs." If that is even possible.

This movie is a pastiche of convenient exit strategies in scenarios that have been painted to be impossible. It is also a multiple offender of a rule I learned in improv: If you introduce something, it had better pay off. If Tom Cruise picks up a piece of freezing cold asphalt and puts it in his pocket, that has to pay off later. Did it? No. If Dakota Fanning is shown to be a claustrophobic, that has to come into play at some point. Did it? No. Even when she was in a number of cramped spaces, including a basket filled with strangers freaking out and being sucked one by one into a big red rectum. She screams for no reason many times throughout the movie. She screams. Then stops. Then screams some more. There is no halo to the panic. It is both succinct and distinct. And therefore unnatural. But when she's actually in a small, suffocating area -- utter silence.

Even the music was evocative of Schindler's List in places. Especially when you're seeing a mass exodus of sad, trudging, hope-bereft people who have lost everything and have nowhere to run. But it was in one of those scenes that I wrote in my notebook, "No one would have minded if they were only here to kill the Jews."

Lord, do I have issues with this movie. Why did that marine decide to save Tom Cruise when he was getting sucked up into the thing and not the other guy that got sucked up into it only moments earlier? How did Tom Cruise know that there would be a grenade belt in that overturned vehicle? How did the pins for the grenade get into his mouth when he was hanging onto that marine the whole time? Why did that soldier at the end provide the narrative exposition about the erratic behavior of one of the tripods before hustling Tom and Dakota along as if he didn't have time to explain everything to a pair of meaningless strangers? Why did everything stop working when the electromagnetic pulse hit -- everything except digital cameras and camcorders? Why would an adolescent boy with a huge chip on his shoulder be able to convince his father to abandon him to certain doom by quietly insisting, "I need to see this. You have to let me go?" Why did everyone suddenly want to be on that ferry when the tripods showed up? What was so much safer about being corraled on a slow-moving boat than being on the shore? How many times did Tom Cruise escape death by mere millimeters? How did he get all that man ash off his leather jacket? Was that soldier at the end really able to say "Clear!" with any conviction when that alien's gelatinous hand went limp? Is he a space doctor all of a sudden? Was that TV news crew in the van even human? Come on.

Another thing that REALLY got on my nerves was the number of times characters in the film would speak to someone who would not respond, requiring them to just say the same thing over and over again. It was almost as infuriating as watching Tom Cruise say Matt Lauer's name to him over and over again in that ridiculous interview. "Dad. Dad. Dad." "Mike. Mike. Mike." "Robbie. Robbie. Robbie." "Ray. Ray. Ray." "Get in the car. Get in the car. Get in the car." "Get out of the car. Get out of the car. Get out of the car." Are these lines actually in the screenplay? Could it have been an accidental cut-and-paste glitch?

Oh, and that scene with the tripods scouring the scurrying masses with their searchlights could just as easily have been a Moonlight Madness event at Best Buy.

Speaking of the tripods, I know it's from the book and all, but these are as lamely unwieldy as the AT-ATs in Empire. You'd think they'd have vehicles that could like...fly or something.

I am so tired of the sameness of everything that is being churned out today. The few beacons of hope on the horizon are so very few as to be lost in the gaping black maw of everything else. Batman Begins was great, for instance (although I should write about that under separate cover and explain why it solidifies my misogynistic feelings toward nearly every ingenue in the superhero/action-adventure genre). But when trying to pick something to see last night, there were just so few titles out that were not guaranteed to actually hurt. I was left nearly no other option but to see this movie again. That's an algorithm the box office trackers probably don't factor in. Come on. Rebound? I'd rather be bitten by snakes. So I ended up seeing this movie twice. And no one is sorrier for it than I am. Although I have to say there is a certain sweet vindication in knowing that my first takeaway was not wrong. To my friends whose opinions I respect and who told me this movie was badass -- especially to the one among you who saw it twice and announced that it "holds up" -- I just have to shake my head, knowing that you and I probably want different things from a film. We can still be friends. And we can still play video games together and drink booze and stuff. But I can't really allow you to bandy your film recommendations so recklessly. Let's just get high and watch movies we already know are going to be bad. It's better for the friendship.

P.S. I think I like Christian Bale better emaciated. There is something wrong with me.

Trailer Watch

Stealth. Boo. I have managed to see this trailer on the big screen at least three times now, and it never ceases to cause me to make that face. First of all, are we really meant to believe that the three top pilots in America are a white dude, a black dude, and a chick? At least Top Gun was a little more honest about this. Face it. It would be three white dudes. Three white dudes with haircuts and ego trips and a tendency towards gum-chewing. Why do we have to be so beholden to diversity in our storytelling? If this was a movie where the world's top basketball players had to stop an unmanned fighter jet that had "gone rogue," they would be three black dudes. Period. Maybe one white dude. But really, probably not. I just love the way trailers these days give you every single important beat in the story right up front. We see the plane get hit by lightning. We hear them pronounce it sentient. We see that girl's ass. The only reason to go watch this movie would be to see if Jamie Foxx and that white guy accidentally touch each other's naughty parts in the mandatory three-way scene.

Narnia. I was excited at first. But it's already all wrong. What a shame. Every book from my childhood will be plundered before the end of it all. Who's slated to make the film version of Ferdinand the Bull? Probably Michael Bay. Fuck.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. This may be the worst trailer in film history. It totally makes me not want to see the movie. It's possible the movie won't be horrible (although I'm leaning in the opposite direction), but the trailer is just this halting string of close-ups of Johnny Depp where the music cuts out just in time for him to utter an unamusing one-liner. And I don't think it's playing to his strengths to have him look so much like a girl.

Bad News Bears. I already aired my laundry on this one.

King Kong. The people on the island look like those freaks in The Thirteenth Warrior. And, although I want to see this movie, again I wonder at the logic of having the trailer expose every single plot point. Maybe Hollywood is just too used to promoting remakes. It's custom now to take it for granted that the audience might not know how the story goes. If The Crying Game were being promoted today, I'm sure the trailer would show Jaye Davidson peeing standing up. Not that that scene ever occurs in the movie. And, by the way, I hope I didn't just ruin the big surprise for you.

Elizabethtown. Cameron Crowe movies are really just soundtracks at this point.

Free Association

The work I'm doing at the moment is very much brand-focused. It shapes the way I think about things. I watch commercials a little differently. I notice messaging where maybe I wouldn't. But it isn't a keen eye that caused me to take pause when I saw an ad for Universal Technical Institute, or "U.T.I." It's a trade school, and I'm sure they're mostly marketing to men, but isn't there someone who wants to do something engineering-related who knows what a urinary tract infection is and maybe doesn't want to go to school in one? It reminds me of those appetite suppressant chocolate chews they had back in the '70s with the unfortunate brand name "Ayds." They didn't last long. Their brand message was eclipsed by a much more popular disease with a homophonic name. You have to be careful what you call yourself. Sometimes it actually makes a difference.

Take my love in real small doses.

I'm gonna pull you in close. I'm gonna wrap you up tight. I'm gonna play with the braids that you came here with tonight.

I like the sound of car doors. I like the sound of them opening and closing. I like the sound of the handle being pulled. Someone's arriving. Someone's going home. People are going places. I like hearing it in movies, even. I don't know why. I don't get all giddy when I'm getting into my own car, though. For some reason, that is an exempt experience.

I have been unable to put words together. Unable to breathe at times. I have been getting a substantial taste of a breakneck pace. And in so many ways, I can't feel it or figure it out. I can't feel my fingerbones moving inside my hands. I can't cry in public. I can't write neatly. I can't stop wanting both more and less. I can't stop.

If there was just one thing to do, maybe...But I am doing four jobs and being five people and dreaming six dreams. And there is so little space in-between that I don't even have time to look forward. Plenty of good times. Plenty of them. But all in that blurry mode. The way I set my camera. The slow shutter. Light trails. Double vision. Everything gets all mushy.

It's funny. When I get like this. I don't even feel like telling the truth. About anything.

Jersey Girl is an embarrassingly awful movie. I am embarrassed for Kevin Smith. I am embarrassed for Ben Affleck. I am embarrassed for Liv Tyler. A scene from Sweeney Todd? This film is about as enjoyable as a kidney stone. I am embarrassed for me for telling anyone that I watched even five minutes of it. In fairness, I've only watched about ten minutes of it, but that's nine minutes too many.

I will stand by all this drinking if it helps me through these days.

Nonsense.

This song always sets me off. Sets me back. And it totally shouldn't. It isn't our song or anything. If anything, it would make you think of someone completely else. Not me at all. It wouldn't be the song we would both hear while doing Christmas shopping and be simultaneously overwhelmed with a sense of the bittersweet as we stand in two totally different stores in the same shopping mall unbeknownst to us. Like some predictable little scene in a Nora Ephron movie. I don't even know why it means anything to me. It shouldn't. I didn't share it with anyone. It doesn't need to be evocative. It may be as simple as the place I was in my life when I saw the movie it came from. Or what I felt and what I knew at the time. It isn't even that great a song. Or that well-performed. Why. Why. Why. This is non-scientific.

But when I hear this song -- and, depending on how my day is going -- I think things I'm happy to think. Or things I'd like to burn out of my brain with a hot thing. But without exception, I think of you. And it makes me want to have a conversation about it or write something down. It impels me.

Music inspires action in me more than nearly anything else. Unplanned puppetry. The sharing feeling. How can anyone in the world hear something lovely or good and think, "Oh, this is lovely," or, "Oh, this is good," and not want to share it with someone else immediately? How can anyone keep such things to themselves? I sometimes fear I will have to clap my hands over my mouth to keep from telling everyone everything I think. Instead, I write it down. And sometimes I make something of it. And sometimes I don't. But when I let it get away -- when I fail to say it or write it or remember it in some way -- I get the blues about it. If you think I save a lot of tangible things, wait till you get a peek at my intellectual property.

I can write it all down for writing's sake. And by the time I've gotten it out, the song has changed, and I'm no longer forced to think anything at all.

Fucking nonsense.

Is being less fat really such a laudable accomplishmment?

When I was in New York a couple of weeks ago, I saw Jared on the street. Jared, the Subway guy. The former fatso who tries to interest me in puny six-inch sub sandwiches by comparing them to actual fast food and pretending it isn't a case of apples and oranges. Forget apples and oranges. It's apples and turds, as far as I'm concerned. You just can't compare them. Is anyone surprised that a crispy chicken sandwich has more fat in it than a cold chicken sub without mayo or cheese? Maybe you would also be stunned to learn that a cheesecake has more fat in it than a string bean. And furthermore that eating a turkey leg is more fattening than eating a housefly. Oh, the hours I could fill with interesting facts you would apparently react to quizzically.

So I passed Jared on the sidewalk of Lexington Avenue, and he looked much as he does on television. Maybe shorter than I expected. But certainly no better dressed. I'm reminded of it because I just saw a Subway commercial he's in, and I find his face so unappealing. His teeth look capped or veneered, and his lips are too big and rosy and wrinkled. I just want someone to give him a pinkieful of balm. Wrinkly, full lips are just gross to look at. And he has 'em. And frankly, he's not so very thin. I realize he's not as fat as he used to be, but I'd hardly say he has a cute body. I'm just surprised that his story appeals to America at all. America is usually so fickle. So ready to abandon a once-beloved celebrity for putting on weight or beginning to show evidence of sun damage. So short-tempered when it comes to age and infirmity and carbo-loading. Why would the America that wanted Kate Winslet to skip a crumpet or two get behind this only slightly less tubby Jared and take his advice on foodstuffs? I wonder what portion of Subway's clientele wanders in actually believing they're going to board a train and go somewhere.