Overheard in Hollywood

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

Overheard on television

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

I didn't make that up.

From the vault

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

Hate your roommate? 5 ways to bury the hatchet:

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

Body language blunders that could cost you a job:

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

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

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

Some things I learned from trial lawyers.

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

Happy Birthday, Justin

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

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

Delirium of Grief

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

This is how I will remember her.

A roast is for a pig.

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

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

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

Pantomiming to records can be fun.

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

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

F is for Foxy. Don't forget it.

Like the man said, "Nothing lasts forever."

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

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

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

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

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

I should be playing Guitar Hero.

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

I refuse to admit that Psych is so good.

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

Parking Lot Scene 2006

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

Here they are anyway:

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

Dear Myspace,

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

Andy Warhol's calculations were woefully off.

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

 

 



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

Beisuboru or "I was hoping for that reaction."

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

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

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

Epilogue

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

Second Epilogue

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

A play on words involving heat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly Slayer

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

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

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

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

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

Wet Wet Wet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lowered Expectations Watch: Still Lowering

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

Concomitant

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

You're violating the laws of the universe.

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

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

I cleaned my windows. Now I can see everything.

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

An exercise

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

It was so hot today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Windfall

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

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

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


INTERIOR. EVENING. A tacky Italian restaurant.

RICK

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


JEN

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


CUT TO:


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


KIP

I'm sorry you didn't like camping.


TESS

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


KIP

But that emasculates me.


TESS

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


CUT TO:


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


BRECK

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


CASS

Don't you mean WE won the lottery?


BRECK

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


FADE OUT.


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

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

Ceaseless Entertainment

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

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

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

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

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

I really admire Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.

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

I consider it my sociocultural responsibility.

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

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

Somnolence is not indicated.

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

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

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

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

Press to play. Wait! Not record! Dammit!

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

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

For the record, I did not care for X-Men 3: The Last Stand.

But it has led to a number of amusing conversations with likeminded friends. Notwithstanding the complete forfeiture of the previously compelling (or compellingly previous) conflict, which made countless gradations in the shades between white and black hats, there are just so many laughable moments. And, setting aside comments about what stupid "powers" the "bad" mutants had, why did they all look they were on a smoke break from their jobs at Hot Topic? Jessie and I burst out laughing repeatedly. At the extras playing picketers outside the clinics where mutants were getting dosed. At Kelsey Grammer just in general, but especially when The Beast said, "Oh, my stars and garters!" And when Angel flew over the Golden Gate Bridge, I leaned over to Jessie and said, "I'm gaaaaaaaay!" And that made us laugh, too.

We did, however, pay the sum of more than twenty-seven of your United States dollars to see the film. So, you're welcome, record books, and you're welcome, Brett Ratner. I thought Prison Break was filled with potential, and that was a disappointment, too. Good work!

La Furiosa

I was in the car on my lunch break today, and I heard a piece on NPR about the investigation of the alleged massacre in Haditha. Apparently President Bush commented that he is disturbed by the allegations and that -- if wrongdoing was in fact afoot -- people will be punished. But wait. Doesn't this stray from the standard Bush-camp line about not commenting about matters related to an ongoing investigation? (This question is rhetorical and intended for ironic pointing-out purposes.)

And while I was online confirming that I was spelling Haditha correctly, I stumbled onto this awful news story:


Mistaken Identity Stuns Crash Victims' Kin

- - - - - - - - - - - -

By ASHLEY M. HEHER Associated Press Writer

May 31,2006 | INDIANAPOLIS -- A family sat by their daughter's hospital bedside for weeks after an auto accident before they realized that the blond-haired young woman was not their daughter after all, but another college student injured in the wreck.

Their own daughter, it turned out, was dead and buried.

In a tragic mix-up, one family was incorrectly told their daughter had died in the April 26 crash in Indiana, and another was erroneously informed their daughter was in a coma.

The two young women looked remarkably alike, and the one in a coma suffered facial swelling, broken bones and cuts and bruises, and was in a neck brace.

The family of Taylor University student Laura VanRyn, 22, disclosed the mix-up Wednesday on a Web log that they had used to record detailed updates on the young woman's recovery.

"Our hearts are aching as we have learned that the young woman we have been taking care of over the past five weeks has not been our dear Laura, but instead a fellow Taylor student of hers, Whitney Cerak," the VanRyns said on the blog.

The family said that as the young woman began regaining consciousness at a rehabilitation center in Grand Rapids, Mich., she said things that made them question her identity.

As recently as Monday, the VanRyns reported: "While certain things seem to be coming back to her, she still has times where she'll say things that don't make much sense."

Officials at Taylor University, an evangelical Christian college in Upland, Ind., about 60 miles from Indianapolis, confirmed the case of mistaken identity.

"We rejoice with the Ceraks. We grieve with the VanRyns," said Taylor spokesman Jim Garringer. He said the Grant County coroner notified the school of the error.

Four Taylor students and an employee were killed when their van was struck by a tractor-trailer that had drifted across a highway median. Those in the van worked for Taylor's dining services and were preparing for a banquet for the inauguration of a new president of the 1,850-student school.

It was not clear who mistakenly identified the victims or how the error happened. The coroner's office did not immediately return a call. But the VanRyns, who are from Caledonia, Mich., said their daughter and Cerak, 18, of Gaylord, Mich., bore an "uncanny resemblance."

Most of the crash victims had funerals with closed caskets. A month ago, an overflow crowd of more than 1,400 people turned out for what they thought was Cerak's funeral in Gaylord, Mich.

The VanRyn family used the blog to provide progress reports on the young woman, reporting, example, that her hair was in pigtails or braids, that she managed to feed herself some applesauce, that she played a game of "connect four" with one of the therapists and did quite well, and that she performed an exercise in which her therapist gave her a word and she had to supply the word's opposite.

A call to the VanRyns was not immediately returned. An attorney for the Cerak family did not return a call either.

Prosecutors are weighing criminal charges against the truck driver, saying he may having fallen asleep at the wheel.

The mention of Connect Four made me want to say, "Pretty sneaky, sis." But that would just be wrong, wouldn't it? (This question is rhetorical and a means of disclaiming the tasteless thing I just did.)

Bork Bork Bork

I don't think it's just that it's the voices of children or that it's from a musical or that I can't understand any of the words, but Präriens drottning from Kristina från Duvemåla makes me smile, no matter how much insomnia and disillusionment urge me to frown. Or at least to conserve my energy with bland expressionlessness.

My sister is dating a lovely Swedish fellow, and it wins me no end of points with him and his friends that I own the three-disc soundtrack to Kristina från Duvemåla. Or the pricey compilation De Första Åren Agnetha Fältskog 1967-1979. They don't seem to mind that my devotion is to Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus and to ABBA rather than to Sweden.

Maybe I'm just trying to see how many special characters I know the HTML for.

"It Ain't Love Until It's Over"

These days, when my belly is full of pepper, when my fingertips ache for expressing -- I can't paint regret or want or relief. I can't sit still. I can't stand. I can't stand it. I ask so many stupid questions.

I feel benign. And satellite-like.

Maybe this will have been a turning point on which to one day look back knowingly.

I think of you much more than I'd ever be willing to say.

Full Circle

Yen and I went to see the Starlight Mints on Sunday night. It was more than two years ago that we first went to see them, and that was the first thing we ever did together. Commemorative value.

I wasn't feeling very well, and it was stuffy and sweltering at The Troubadour at first. But we eventually found our spot and took pictures and enjoyed the show. The heavyset lead singer of Dios Malos walked past us, smelling bad and bumping into my drink and spilling a lot of it. But that was the only bad thing that happened. Until we left and went to find my car. And couldn't. We walked for blocks, laughing and talking, and at one point thinking that two gentlemen were getting into my car and stealing it. I noticed that -- for the moments I thought my car was being stolen -- I didn't run over to try and intervene. I actually slowed my pace. Yen was apparently trying to figure out how to best use her shoe as a weapon. When we got closer and were certain that it wasn't my car after all, we laughed about it. I pictured myself hanging on to the hood of the car MacGyver-style. My violin was in the trunk and my iPod in the dash. Could I really let them get away? It's a relief my resolve wasn't tested. I had very little energy and would probably have fallen off right away and been run over.

After that, we walked for even more blocks, strolling past quiet little houses I will never have enough money to own, including one where a shirtless dude was sitting at his computer, his well-muscled back to his floor-to-ceiling windows which were only covered in the most transparent of gauze. I felt uncomfortable seeing him there. He has a hedge row in front, so there is some privacy from passing cars and neighbors directly across the street, but to strolling passersby...well, I'm glad he hadn't found anything on the computer that prompted him to sin openly. Because we would have had no choice but to stand there and watch. All of it.

We passed a house whose red-lit kitchen looked like the abattoir on a creepy whaling ship. We passed houses with moodily lit fountains and flashy little sportscars parked in the driveways. We passed houses I was sure we had already passed before. And I was so grateful it was Yen there with me. Because many other friends would have been angry with me for continually choosing to walk for blocks in the totally wrong direction. But with Yen, I could just be grateful for the extra time to laugh and smoke and whatever. She's one of those people you can have fun doing anything with. She is the easiest person to be around in all the world. And perhaps in juxtaposition to that, I decided to admit to myself -- and to the world at long last -- that I am high-maintenance.

I am high-maintenance.

I really, really try not to be. And I don't like to think anyone finds me so. It has taken me a lifetime to admit it. I have railed against the label since girls became old enough to be labeled in that fashion. I am accommodating and forgiving and generous and eager to help. Even more eager to please. But it's plain to me that I also have all of these expectations. And I wonder why I minded being told so before. I don't need to be brought flowers. I don't need to have the door opened for me. I don't need a great many things. But I'm also the furthest thing from a free spirit you ever did see. I hate that this is true. And then I wonder why I hate it. I guess when a fellow called me high-maintenance in the past, I prickled because I feared that meant I was more trouble than I am worth. But I am clearly more demanding than some people, though far more understanding than others. One of the people in that comparison is a heroin addict and the other is a quadruplegic. You decide which is which. One of them can be unconscious if it makes it easier.

The Starlight Mints had a violinist, a violist (with cute hair), and a cellist on stage with them. I thrilled to that. Mary misses going through the vibrato motions.

In other music news, I saw Grand Ole Party in San Diego on Saturday night with John Meeks, and that was all right. I don't like the acoustics at San Diego Sports Club, but the San Diego indie music faithfuls sure love that band. I need to hear their recordings. Or to hear them in a better venue before I can make up my mind. Great stage presence, but the vocals sounded like they were being sung through one of those old-timey megaphones. The Starlight Mints use one of those in a few of their songs, but they do it on purpose, so it's cool. Maybe I just reward points for deliberation. Accidental awesome is rare. And nearly impossible to recreate.

I also swam in my parents' pool on Saturday, and that was glorious. It reminded me that it is possible to feel good.

And I sang in church on Sunday morning, and I had my dad come up and read something before I sang, and he got so choked up he could barely speak. He's a big baby where biblical things are concerned. It's super cute. We make a great team.

So I missed out on all of my Cinco de Mayo fun plans, but the world kept turning. And as bad a birthday month as this has been so far, it's still my birthday month. And that's not for nothing.

Master at Arms

I'll say one thing for Jean-Luc Picard. He doesn't have to be physically held back by his crew as frequently as James T. Kirk. What a hothead that guy is. At least once per film, he's being restrained by two or more crew members, lest he do the thing that will jeopardize the safety of himself, his crew, his ship, or the universe. You'd think a guy who made it to admiral would have begun learning to suss things out when emotions run high. But then, I guess that's maybe why he lost his admiralship and ended up a mere captain again. Even though that's what he actually wanted. Maybe he just likes having his crew manhandle him. After all, it never takes that much effort to hold him back. And I've seen people who are making a fuss and have to be restrained. They may not break free, but they usually manage to mess their own hair up a little at least. In Star Trek: The Motion Picture, McCoy and Spock hold him back as the Decker Unit gives himself up to V'ger for the sake of Earth, but he's really just standing there protesting verbally. I suspect posturing. He never liked the Decker Unit anyway.

I often revert to my Star Trek vexations after coming across suspiciously human. It's my way of reminding you that I'm really just a cartoon character. Or it's how I throw you off the scent. I expect pursuit to be greatly depressed by a whiff of my Federation-issue pheromones. Back off, curious. It takes effort to make it to the grave alone.

Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?

I have this faint memory of a phone call and a sinking feeling. Of suspicion and fear. And impatience and resentment. I remember arguing about bottles of wine and who they belonged to. I remember not really being angry about the wine. The wine was a scapegoat. It lives out in the desert now. Never to return.

You come into a person's life where you come in. There's no changing it. You know them when you know them, where they are and when they are. You know what there is. And when more is added, and when more is stripped away, you continue to know the shadow of what was there. Paper doll fashions leave their silhouettes. You learn the absence of the image better than the presence of it. The absence persists.

Even longing begets focus. Even the kind that promotes flailing and frenzy. But this other thing. It's like a problem with my eyes. I can't seem to just look at one thing for even a second. I am everywhere and all over the place. And all the while, I'm nowhere. I ceased to exist some time ago. No matter how much space I take up.

Died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.

You think you only know me when you turn on the light, now the room is lit with danger.

Thursday night, I went to the UCB to see the Doug Benson Interruption with my favorite Boris, Boris Hamilton. We stopped by Birds before the show, and I left my tab open, because it was so crowded I couldn't get the bartender's attention with any efficiency and the show was about to start. We went back to Birds after the show to collect my card, and there was a tipsy and jovial Asian guy sitting at the bar who immediately wanted to make friends. He extended a hand without first offering a hello or a name. I shook his hand. And he said, "You're so beautiful." He said these words to my boobs. There was no mistaking that. I excused it at first. He was drunk. Maybe he was not making eye contact with me because he was shy. Or drunk. He started reading the slogan on my shirt and said that my shirt must have been given to me by Tom Hanks. I don't have any idea why that would be. A few seconds later, another young lady found herself standing near this same fellow and within earshot of me, and I heard him take up with her right away. He said she looked like someone. She said, "I get Amanda Peet a lot." And he said, "No, you look like someone in a Tom Hanks movie." I guess that's his entire rap. Finding ways to compliment women and also work in mentions of Tom Hanks. The suspicious consumer in me wonders if this is a guerilla marketing tactic I've not yet heard about. Plant boozers in local watering holes and have them mention celebrities for no good reason. I guess Tom Hanks has got his publicity staff working overtime. With his big Mona Lisa movie coming out this summer, I don't think he really needs the upkeep. That money would be better spent by Ted Danson's people, if you ask me.

A practiced conceit.

I speak words of despair with a big smile on my face. A big, crazy smile. It scares Jessie.

Re-emergence of that La Folia theme in pieces of the Restoration soundtrack has been playing into my melancholy. Baroque music makes my head swim. When violinists play and they sway around with the bow strokes, it looks like an affect, but I know where it comes from, and it isn't always a place of performance or pretense. Of course, it sometimes is. But sometimes when you play a violin, you feel like a string yourself, vibrating and resonating with all the noise you're making -- as stuffed as that shirt sounds. I miss playing in orchestras. I especially miss playing chamber music. I miss feeling my part of a complicated harmony. It's like that thing you do with your fingers and yarn, and when you pull your hands apart, there's some lovely web you've made, blooming from your fingertips. I'm mixing my metaphors.

I love the baroque music on Restoration. Even James Newton Howard's renditions of baroque music, so much of it having its genesis in variations on La Folia. Only a few months ago, I wrote about listening to the CD at a previous place of employment, and I also referenced having played the Corelli version of the piece at the Governor's Mansion on Guam. And when I go back and read things I wrote -- even things I wrote just a few months ago -- I find myself wondering if it was in fact better back then. It always seems as if it must have been. These days, as much as my spirits flag, I haven't even been writing anything especially poignant. Oh, I want to. But myabe I feel I've shown too many of my cards already. I don't need everyone to know who the culprits are when I'm speaking of disappointment and heartbreak. It takes the beauty out of it.

Finger Foods

I accompanied Kevin to a screening of two shorts being hosted by the company he is about to begin working for. One was an animated Indiana Jones-y thing that was very cute and had no dialogue at all. The other was Most, a lovely and sad little film, mainly in Czech, written by two guys, one of whose names was immediately familiar to me. I told Kevin he's the guy who played Johnny Lawrence in The Karate Kid, the mean blond boy and star pupil of the Cobra Kai dojo. I don't think Kevin believed me. But it turns out I was right.

After the screening and a small reception, we went to the Cat and Fiddle where Jeff met up with us, and we gabbed and drank and avoided befriendment from the guy to our left who obviously wished his companion had as much to say about Star Trek and bathroom etiquette as we did. To be fair to Jeff, Kevin and I were the only ones talking about Star Trek. But we are defined by the company we keep.

I've had difficulty getting past the gloom. Seeing sad movies sometimes makes me think that it is necessary and appropriate. That things aren't as beautiful when they are perfect and pretty. I am more likely to take a picture of something broken or smashed or chipped than of something brand new and untouched. I like the desolation of abandoned buildings. I like to picture how things used to be or how they might have been.

My body is sore from many gymnasium visits. My teeth are tired from gritting. I think working in an office promotes nostalgic episodes in me, because I am more inclined to listen to music and be reminded of things. And yet, there is nearly no sensory input that doesn't have the potential to send me off into a reverie. I am so busy remembering I wonder if I'm ever really here.

Instant Rebus

My friend Adam has only recently begun allowing me IM access to his attention. He uses Trillian. I use Adium. And apparently Trillian has a function that turns certain words in parentheses into icons. This is annoying and weird. And useless when you consider that people not using Trillian will only see the word in parentheses and not the picture. In addition, what if you just want to type a noun in parentheses? Maybe you won't want it to suddenly turn into a picture. I take this same issue with IM clients (including Adium) that interpret certain sequences of punctuation to be emoticons. You can type http://, but if you type ftp://, part of that becomes an emoticon. The middle part. And it's the face that looks sort of nonplussed. The half-frownie. And there's nothing you can do to keep it from doing that. Even though ftp is a commonly known and used protocol and URLs can begin with those characters any old time. But this is a secondary gripe.

A gently edited version of an IM exchange between me and Adam follows. The editing was done to remove extraneous conversation parts and to make me and Adam both look like excellent spellers and typists. To put it in context, I was reassuring Adam that, though I nearly refuse to ever type "LOL," I still find his witty messages amusing and clever. I also nearly refuse to ever use emoticons or to abbreviate. I am an IM and text message snob.

adam: (toast)
adam: God, Trillian is weird.
me: I don't use Trillian.
adam: What do you see in the line directly above the phrase, "God, Trillian is weird?"
me: (toast)
adam: Wait, do you see parentheses with the word "toast" inside it, or do you see a picture of toast?
me: Parentheses and the word "toast." Does Trillian replace the word "toast" with an icon of toast? How lame.
adam: They have millions of these.
me: Well, I am seeing text. And I prefer it that way.
adam: (book)
adam: (sushi)
adam: (candycane)
adam: (dice)
adam: (duck)
adam: why would you need these?
me: (intestine)
me: (taun taun)
me: (spigot)
me: (funicular)
me: (glowworm)
me: (spaghetti phone)
me: (mitochondria)
adam: (xmas)
adam: (audiocd)
adam: All mine are real.
me: Oh, listen to you. Yours are REAL. I don't have that function. I'm testing it for you.
adam: I just wanted you to know that I was still picking the ones Trillian put in the system and not making them up.
me: I figured as much. I was trying at being funny and showing off my vocabulary. And insanity.
adam: (squirrel) not kidding
adam: (ps2)
adam: (water)
adam: (flag)
me: What a useless feature.
adam: i hate it.
adam: (book)(toilet)(eye)(food2)(food)(write)(dice)
me: I'm just trying to imagine the pictogram sentence that would make. If it were a rebus.
me: "Bookcommode I munch munch letter craps." Whatever could it mean?
adam: (cheese)
adam: (error)
adam: (frog)
adam: (ket) (pc) (flag) (info) (file) (write) (work) (home) (globe) (robot) (bug) (octopus) (bunny) (squirrel) (turkey) (cent) (ufo) (apple) (balloon) (icecream) (soda) (fish) (webcam) (search) (key) (lock) (cheese) (wine) (wine) (hotdog) (bttf) (rb) (vc) (hourglass) (beep) (!) (talk) (n/s) (ap) (0)

And then we discussed the proper onomatopoietic representation of an archetypal porn soundtrack.

Fortuity

This past week, my iTunes Party Shuffle fortune has been nigh onto magic.

Caution: Bees!

When I was leaving work yesterday, there was caution tape cordoning off the pedestrian bridge between my office building and the parking garage. Apparently it was there because of a rash of bees that had been seen or reported. And I guess this is a fairly common occurrence at this address. To prove I really don't pay much attention to the world around me, I honestly can't tell you if the pedestrian bridge is lined with flowers or not. I think it is. But I may just be adding a fanciful skin to the monochromatic trek between parking space and cubicle. I can see rainbows in my head if I want to, too. I am very imaginative.

I was tempted to just walk under the caution tape and take the most efficient route to my car. I'm not afraid of bees. And from where I was standing, I couldn't see any bees. And I rationalize that the caution tape doesn't actually confine the bees to that space, so if there are a bunch of bloodthirsty, perhaps Africanized bees out there, they can sting me just as easily if I take the elevator down to the street and walk under the pedestrian bridge. Even moreso if I take the stairs. But I didn't want the lobby attendant to think I was being willful and obstinate, so I followed the extempore rules and secretly chided myself for having that momentary flash of panic when I first saw the caution tape and thought, "If I can't walk across that bridge, how will I get home. Or to the mall, for that matter." I wouldn't say I'm NOT strategically minded, but even I'm ashamed that my survival instincts didn't immediately remap the path across the street. It's not like I'm allergic to asphalt or anything.

Back when I was in high school and my mom didn't want to be asked to pay for my college education, she suggested that I join the Reserve Officers Training Corps. Now, that you have heard this story and can add to it the knowledge that I have never successfully done a pull-up nor scaled a wall with the aid of a rope, you will surely think me justified in having glared at her, turned away, and never revisited the topic again, except in storytelling in which the suggestion was positioned as absurd.

Photo courtesy of The Internet.

A little chin music.

Why don't I write about The Paul F. Tompkins Show as much as I used to? I'm lazy and a jerk. Those are the only acceptable explanations. But tonight, I attended the show, as I nearly always do, and I feel the (tipsy) impetus to remark on how great the show always is and how disappointed in it I never am. Maybe I write less because I've run out of synonyms for extolling Paul F. Tompkins' genius. That's just embarrassing. I own a thesaurus. Surely I can find ways to praise Paul without constantly repeating myself. Or not. If history is any witness, I've taken all manner of notes at show after show, but I've just seldom managed to retype them into a journal entry. Obviously rendering my note-taking worthless.

For the record, I have looked up the chin music issue, and it turns out that Dave "Gruber" Allen has nothing for which to answer to me. I guess "chin music" -- while it does also mean punching someone in the face or pitching a baseball a little too close to the batter's face -- made its debut in The Red Badge of Courage and meant an excess of jibber jabber. When I'm wrong, I say so. And then I move to another state and pretend we never met.

Kristin Herman is my favorite thing in the world. Samm Levine is my hero of aerial acrobatics. And AC/DC is good no matter who sings it.

Mutual Admiration Society

I have friends whose praises I do not sing often enough. I will try to rectify this in installments.

There is Yen. She is gifted and a genius and a soft-spoken angel with great taste in music and a fabulous sense of style. She took me and my mom to dinner in Monterey Park on Thursday night. We ordered beef tendons and goose intestines and other less gross-sounding things. I stole a menu because the pictures of things one could get were so appalling as to not be believed. She comes to my aid in a pinch. She brings sunshine with her, no matter how persistent my murk. She lives too far away from me, but that is her only flaw.

There is Jeff. He is also gifted and a genius. After having dinner and drinks at The Arsenal with Ryan and Kadie, we all went to see Drawing Restraint 9 on Friday night, because Jeff worked on it and his name is in the credits and everything. He even knows the way to the Nu-Art, which I apparently do not. Jeff is smart and subtle and supportive and generally down for the good times. He is too good at everything. It makes me ashamed to try things. That is his only flaw.

There is Jessie. My creative partner and a source of sane ballast in my often angst-ridden turbulence. Sometimes Jessie holds my hand when we walk places. I remember when I stopped letting my mother and father do that. And then when I started letting them again. Jessie has never not been allowed. Thursday night, Jessie and I almost went to a birthday party but ended up at the Coach and Horses instead. I took photographs of her on Saturday and ended up with what I feel is an excellent headshot. Then we went to Luna Park, and Jessie took pictures of me. There are so very few people in the world who I allow to see me as I really am. Whether it is a blessing or a curse to be so privileged, she is one of them. We go to the gym together a lot. And she makes fun of the faces I make when I'm on the stair-climbing machine. That is her only flaw.

The rest of you who may have hoped or expected to see a paragraph about you here, don't lose hope. I'll get to you. And you will love it when I do. I promise.

This it is everything perfect to my like.

Adam showed me this little film called The Forest in Winter. It is amazing and wonderful on many levels. He showed it to me on Salon.com, but I will post a link to YouTube, as you may not be a premium Salon accountholder, in which case, how not the best for you.

This film has affected my syntax.

Fits and Starts

Make a decision. Commit to something. Exercise some discipline. Follow through for once. Remember all those times you waited? Remember where that got you? Remember all those times you gave up? Remember?

There's a line that Orson Welles says in The Lady from Shanghai. "When I start out to make a fool of myself, there's very little can stop me."

Remember when you weren't afraid to look a fool?

I'll admit, I make rash decisions.

Not as a rule. And not as they pertain to important matters affecting my loved ones and mankind in general. But I get all het up about things and am inspired easily. And all it takes is a little snippet of sensible-sounding rhetoric, and I get pitched into activism lickety split.

I heard Michael Pollan on NPR's Science Friday tonight, after doing some stand-up, and in the time it took me to drive home, I had already decided to try and never eat corn or its byproducts again. I'll never succeed. I won't even stick with it for very long. It's one of those battles that would require me to move to France. Which I would happily do if there weren't these ugly matters of citizenship and animal quarantine.

I've been doing a great deal of study in recent months about food and biology and epidemiology. My mother lauds my recent healthy eating. Almost enviously. Which makes no sense. She says so herself. She wants what I'm eating, but she would die without rice. It's a fact. But I don't know what's so great about eating healthfully. Just having to stop and read the labels on things is enough of a pain to make grocery shopping less of a joy. In comparison to the carefree manner in which I once restocked my pantry, it's like going off to pick wildflowers but having to stop and look each petal-laden stem up in a book of ancient runes before putting it in your basket. And I should add that once found in the book of ancient runes, the description will be dishearteningly bland. And if it isn't, you will have to put the flower back. If I can feel a mixture of excitement and relief when I read the label on a can of lentil soup and find that it was made without potatoes, I may as well go stick my head in a pig. Being careful of course not to get any of the pig in my mouth.

So, Michael Pollan was talking about his new book, and none of what he talked about is intended to inspire asceticism. It's more anthropological and agropolitical than recipe-oriented. But he is a right smart dude, and everything he says makes you want to hear more. I want to believe that sustainable agribusiness can be attained. And I want to believe I can help with that by buying all the organic food that I've been buying. Just like I wanted to believe that I could make The Corporation an internationally-adopted manifesto by hyperlinking it on my blog and my MySpace profile. It costs a fortune to be conscientious, unfortunately. I'm committed for now. But I have several slow- and non-paying clients, and that will put a strain on my ability to buy organic blueberries. Even when they're in season, berries are not cheap.

Buy one or all of these provocative and socially-conscious items, won't you?

  

Aim High

When I was driving up the 405 today, I found myself alongside a big flatbed truck, toting one of those man-made rock-climbing walls, strapped down on its back or side, depending on how you define things. I love fake mountains at Disneyland. But fake mountains in gyms look dumb to me. Especially when the handholds are sort of designed into the faux rock surface. I don't know why climbers want to try and believe they are actually outside when they're working out on one of these things at some trendy fitness center. And the wall is not believable-looking at all. Not believable enough that you might forget and put sunscreen on before you gear up. Not believable enough that a well-composed photograph could be sent to your family as evidence that you've been to Yosemite. To me, they look like crumply mounds of papier mache with those little lick'em and stick'em rings all over them. The kind used to reinforce ring-binder holes. I just think a serious rock-climber might be just as inclined to scale the surface of a structure that is clearly man-made and not attempting to evoke one's inner granola-eater. Granola is terrible for you anyway.

According to Mel Gibson, it rained on Jesus, too.

I'm wearing a groove into the 5 and 405. I haven't been working on it as much these past few months, but every now and then, I get back to it. I had another quickie trip to San Diego yesterday and drove up this morning, straight to the office. Something I haven't had to do in ages. It brought back memories of doing it for the very first time. A trip that started with a goodbye. A week that ended with a good cry. A move that made little difference. A season in my life that was costly and curdled. A season far too lengthy to be called a season. Unless you divide your life into quarters. In which case, it was not nearly a season at all.

I spare myself a lot of the pondering that used to act as ready pastime. I no longer have a go to game to play when I am bored and must sit still and be quiet. When I must look attentive and engaged. I have no excuse.

I'm doing stand-up tonight and photographing and possibly appearing in a friend's film tomorrow and whatever happens Saturday night and going to San Diego again on Sunday.

I like the rain. It reminds me of every other day it rained. And it unearths greedy hopes of curling up in the safe dry indoors. There is something so very civilized about being able to close a door and lock it.

I miss the naivete in you that made it possible for you to say those things to me. I miss the naivete in me that made it possible for me to clutch them so tightly. They meant everything.

Why is this night the same as every other night?

I didn't leave the door open for Elijah. I have a small dog who can't be trusted

Photo Set

I have been uncharacteristically slow about editing and posting photos to my web site for most of this year. It's a sign of many things. But out of love for the people whose pictures I take, and out of pride for having taken them, I am offering the interim solution of my Flickr sets.

Here are some of the events you may have attended/heard about/missed/wished you hadn't gone to:

Disneyland with Michelle and Martín 04.09.2006

Happy Birthday, Tammy Golden! 04.06.2006

The Night We Almost Fought at M Bar 04.01.2006

St. Patrick's Day 03.17.2006

Garage Comedy 03.06.2006

L.A. Zoo 02.19.2006

Liquid Kitty 02.04.2006

Evan Moore's Housewarming/Cooling Party 02.03.2006

Disneyland with Kevin Kelly 02.01.2006

Chip Pope's M Bar Dance Party 01.27.2006

At the Movies with Kevin Tavolaro 01.18.2006

It's a Moist World

Change "moist" to "damp." I dislike the word "moist." I guess everyone does. Except cake-bakers.

I went to Disneyland yesterday and got splashed more thoroughly on Splash Mountain than ever in recent trips. And when I went to Room 5 in the evening, I went to write something down and found that my notebook was all squishy. That's a disappointment. Not even half full and rooooned. Wanting to copy everything over neatly into a second identical notebook is a hallmark of my desire to have things neatly written down and preserved. I used to play with Spirograph and Fashion Plates, both of which are prone to slips of the pen or the crayon, and it would drive me mad trying to get something to come out without any flubs. It took a lot to get me to rejoice in errors, and even now I do it only selectively. If I'm making an art project and I screw it up, sometimes that's for the best. And if a photo comes out with the exposed flare of the leader visible within the print, I almost like it more. But I will throw away an envelope if I write the address incorrectly, and I won't eat burnt popcorn unless it's to spare someone else's feelings.

A Crinkle in Time

I stayed home from work today. Woke up with a piercingly painful sore throat. So I decided to work from my couch. Out of concern for my co-workers. With the consumption of copious amounts of water and tea, I actually feel fine now. Fine enough to watch my pair of Deep Space Nine episodes, which happened to be the final episode of the series. It still makes something in me flutter. It still makes me tear up a little. It still makes me yearn for the lingering tendrils of nostalgia that once made remembering both wonderful and horrible. That final shot of Jake and the station is so lonely. The theme music, too. I long for a world of wide open spaces.

The future is a place you go by yourself. What you find there; there are no guarantees.

And the further you get from the origins of nostalgia, the more varied strata of other things stack up between you and the thing, and suddenly your memory isn't of the thing anymore but of your last memory of remembering the thing. I've talked about this before. Even this is an observation once removed.

I used to make popcorn and chicken sandwiches late at night. I never liked the scent they left on me. But it mattered less then.

Wilfred Wong tastes 8,000 wines annually.

Wilfred Wong tastes 8,000 wines annually. He is America's most prolific wine judge. When I read this, I thought two things: (1) Is that his real name? Because the alliteration is all too convenient, and if you were an Asian person picking a Western name for yourself, why would you choose one with so many unpronounceable consonants in it? And, (2) Am I a small-minded racist? Because I would be so much more likely to trust his point assignations if his name sounded French.

I don't think of myself as a racist, but maybe that's just because I'm too polite to be dangerous. When Jessie and I took a hip hop class at the gym last week (an experience more embarrassing than can be described), I was humiliated and frustrated to see how much better most of the people were getting the steps than Jessie and I. Except the Asian guy. I totally expected the Asians to get it. And then I corrected by pointing out one Asian woman with a cartoon-like overbite and saying, "Except her."

He was an idiot, but I loved him.

Love and Death is on now. I think Turner Classic Movies is doing an AFI Funniest Movies playlist. And god bless them for it. It's like a dream afternoon for an old person. Or me.

My dog will be the judge of your foley art.

Certain films and certain commercials have the sounds of doorbells ringing and people knocking on doors, and only certain ones fool Audrey into barking. I assume those are the ones that sound the realest. It usually startles me when it happens, and I end up resenting the program that started the ruckus. One of them is the Domino's ding dong audio logo, which plays repeatedly in every one of their commercials. It's easy to be angry with Domino's. Just now it was The Bank Dick on Turner Classic Movies. Duck Soup was on before that, and all that gunfire and shenanigans didn't rouse Audrey a smidge. But W.C. Fields knocking on a door sends her into hysterics. She has little to no opinion about science fiction sound effects or the sounds of someone being murdered. But if someone's at the door and politely notifying you of that fact, look out.

Curiously, both of these movies were playing in a multi-feature over at the New Beverly a year and a half or so ago only a week or two after I first adopted Audrey. Time is marked in mysterious and varied ways.

I've been saying "ish" for years.

If anyone ever accuses me of soaring on David Spade's coattails, let the record reflect that no such flight was ever taken. The chicken. The egg. In this analogy, I think I am both of them.

The Word

I love that Stephen Colbert is steadfastly etching "jizz" into the censor-sanctioned lexicon of late-night cable programming. It's about time.

Even if you have joined a religion that doesn't agree with podcasting

I hope that will not deter you from listening to The Ricky Gervais Show. You can get it at the iTunes Music Store or at Audible.com. Or you can just sit there and wonder how long it would take you to die if you immersed yourself in organic ketchup, nose, mouth, and all.

Ugh.

Perhaps it's just me, but I am experiencing no enthusiasm at all about Robert Wuhl's new project on HBO. And I think the lack of looking forward to it is mostly caused by the teasers they are running in which Robert Wuhl deconstructs the show and talks about why it works. Or maybe I'm just still experiencing too much aftertaste of Arliss. HBO has money and influence and a wealth of quality programming and the resources to create even more of the same. It's a mystery.

Oh, and Dane Cook's Tourgasm promo makes him look fat. I wonder if that bothers him.

As Good As It Was

I drove to San Diego yesterday to perform in some comedy shows. I also stopped over at Sarah's for Paul's birthday party, where some fun was had. We even went to The Lamplighter because Sarah wanted me and Beulah to sing karaoke. And I ended up on the stage alone. I sang "Rosanna." Then I left. And I really think The Lamplighter is a shitty bar. I always have. I always will.

I had to rush over to the comedy theater to play the late show and our monthly midnight show, in which I am allowed to say words more representative of the words that actually come out of my mouth when talking than one might be able to tell from watching the regular PG-13 show. The midnight show is a fun excursion. We don't do the short-form games of which I grow so bored. We do long-formy stuff, and we get to be more creative with edits. And none of this is entertaining to talk about. I had a fun enough time, despite some disappointments. And I drove home in the rain in the wee hours, listening to a very old playlist on my iPod that sent me into a strange reverie. Strange and painless. I was almost trying to force myself to feel nostalgic and wistful. It's like I miss all that heartache. Like I don't know how to want things in the absence of being denied them. This all ended in getting into bed at the hateful hour of five a.m., where I was neither sad nor happy and where I was so tired I couldn't sleep. So I read a Star Trek novel for a while and then forced myself to turn off the light and be quiet and still.

Who cares.

Now, I'm working again. And As Good As It Gets is on the television, and Audrey is my little Verdell, and I can't believe Helen Hunt won an Oscar for this movie. The movie itself is still reasonably enjoyable to watch, but Helen Hunt's performance didn't wow me the first time I saw it, and none of the letters in "wow" are in my feelings about her performance today. I much prefer her in that educational film where she takes PCP and jumps out a window.

John Cleese was not wearing socks.

I don't know why I notice these things. But I do. He was wearing a nice enough pair of tan loafers, but that bare ankle skin kept glinting at me from between the hem of his jeans and the top of the shoe. I remember noticing his upturned polo collars in that show about the human face. I wonder why I feel so compelled to be critical of John Cleese's fashion choices. Why should I criticize him? I adore him.

I took Martín to see John Cleese's one-man show at Cal State Long Beach tonight. I don't wish to write a review. But I will note that I clapped my hands together when learning that he shares my love for Phil Silvers. I wrote down the joke about Norwegians. And I remember going to see Fierce Creatures in the theater the weekend that it came out. I also went to see the re-release of Star Wars. It was possible to do both, for the record.

I haven't been to Long Beach much. Only to visit Martín back when he lived there. To pick him up on the way to Disneyland or to stop off and have a meal with him when I had a lot on my mind and a long drive ahead. He wasn't terribly nostalgic about visiting his alma mater (which it is). I am always interested to see how much less susceptible to fits of grotesque sentiment others are than I. How freeing that must be.

I hate how much work I still have to do.

I was hoping for Kermit.

You Are Scooter

Brainy and knowledgable, you are the perfect sidekick. You're always willing to lend a helping hand. In any big event or party, you're the one who keeps things going. "15 seconds to showtime!"

The Muppet Personality Test

Deprivation Addiction

Do I really like Guster as much as I think I do, or am I just upset that I waited until today to check their web site and learn that they're playing tomorrow night in San Diego and the following two nights here in Los Angeles? I think I really like them that much. But that the romantic loss is heightened by the almost of it. I don't think I could make it to the San Diego show tomorrow night. And the Roxy shows are both sold out. And if I hadn't gone to their web site today, I would just keep listening to them occasionally on my iPod and not give it another thought. Why get yourself all worked up, Mary? Oh, it's just like everything else. They say that silver medalists are more prone to depression than bronze medalists. I guess the bronzies are just happy they got anything. And the silvers will only ever feel they got awfully close but failed. I guess that's why I don't play any competitive sports.

How many times can you rediscover Pearl Jam?

I'm so immersed in comedy these days, I feel occasionally tugged to return to my previous passions. I once had a reputation for having awesome taste in music and for knowing about bands no one else knew about. That is a difficult reputation to carry or to sustain. At least for me. I'm too keen to be expert in all the categories. Ask me about books! Ask me about gastronomy! Ask me about the ancient art of warfare! Don't bother to ask me about celebrities and stuff, though. I just get my information from Defamer and The Superficial just like you do. I used to see a lot of live music. Now, I see a lot of live comedy. I don't necessarily not want to be able to do both. I feel the onslaught of metanoia. At least a temporary brand of it.

So last summer, Brad introduced to me this awesome and ingenious thing that was then called Music Plasma. It's basically just a relational database, but it creates a visual map of your preferences and uses them to suggest other things you are likely to enjoy. It is now called liveplasma, and it now includes movie preferences, too. You can easily waste three days building your preference map, and why shouldn't you? With this and Pandora.com out there, you'll never have to listen to a song you actually directly like again! And I used to let Amazon.com and my Real One Player tell me what I might like. The very idea.

I'm glad Jay won.

I just watched a fat guy stumble off stage like he had the vapors on Project Runway. It's a rerun. But still.

I had never watched Project Runway before yesterday. Now I have watched all of it, it seems.

This is what diaries are like when kept by dying wretches on desert islands.

I drove past that accident in Culver City. Saw a body under a tarp.

I worked a 21 hour day.

I can barely stand up.

The concept of "bonus" is sacred.

Therefore selling a Rascal-like motorized chair and then offering a free "bonus" of a grabber (like the kind the community service servers use to pick up trash on the side of the road), which you can use to reach a box of high-fiber cereal on a shelf well out of reach of your unextended human arm when seated and let's face it disabled, if you order now with this exclusive television offer seems disingenuous and erodes the value of the word.

The Power of One Eye

My dad's vision is getting better. Prednisone is working on his condition, which was confirmed to be ocular myasthenia after months of Kaiser not scheduling him to see the various physicians he needed to see. I know people say socialized medicine doesn't work. But other than having a staff physician living on site at your family's compound, what does? I was furious every time I learned that my dad was being made to wait months at a time to see someone when one of his eyes wouldn't focus and eventually the other eye's lid began spontaneously shutting. Apparently, things are going so well that he doesn't even have to wear the eye patch anymore. Yeh um wo ha me. That's my homage to little P.K. The Power of One was on while I was getting dressed this morning, and that movie makes me think of my dad and the day we watched it in the living room of the house on Freeport Road while I baked homemade bread from a Paul Prudhomme recipe. I don't think he liked the bread I made, but he liked the movie plenty. And later that night we went to a show that I was playing violin in. I don't remember which one. Probably Crazy for You or The Fiddler on the Roof.

I should note that extended use of prednisone can have unpleasant adverse effects. The two conditions I will never forget the names of since hearing them relayed by a co-worker many years ago are Moon Face and Buffalo Hump. They are real medical conditions, and they are exactly what they sound like. Sometimes I think all maladies should be named in this fashion. Except when I have one of them, in which case the conditions should be named in unintelligible Greek and Latin terms or after flowers.

I've had to work the night through several times this week. So I'm allowing myself a later start than usual. Walking Audrey so close to noon is extra nice. It's gorgeous sunny out. A breeze that smells like the right time of year. Memories of cell phone pictures and unclaimed time stretching out ahead and not minding the sun in my eyes or the smell of the outdoors in my hair. It wasn't so long ago, but it feels so far away that I can't believe it ever happened. Only the pictures prove any of it. And these days, I've been taking so few pictures that there is no promise of future proof. I lack inspiration. And I am brutally aware of it.

Unacceptable! (Mea culpa.)
It's not that I haven't had anything to say.
I did not watch even a second of the Oscars. I regret this in a way, as it is usually a fertile field for my exclamations and complaints. I did watch Jon Stewart the next time he was on his show, and he said words that sounded flip, but he seemed cranky about the fickle reviews he received. I guess he is allowed that. But it mars the image that I think previously made him so appealing: that of a very smart dude who can civilly commune with opposing intellects while keeping his justifiably smug superiority a complete secret. In the past few weeks, it's Stephen Colbert who has most thrilled and charmed me. I think the smugness suits him. The irony is subtle enough to be lost. And his delivery has gotten to be leagues better. Although that remote about the women's prison in Shakopee that Dan Bakkedahl did this week is among my favorites.
I was in San Diego over the weekend. That's part of the problem. I did a couple of shows at the comedy theater. Got to play Five Things both times. And then afterwards, I went and met John Meeks at Nunu's only minutes before last call. Then he and I sat and drank whiskey in my car with the iPod playing and me eventually singing along like the dorkiest nitwit ever until my battery died. I had to call a tow truck and everything. When my mom called at 6 a.m., I felt guilty. And when I got into bed at 7:30, I felt guilty and terrified of having to be up in only a few hours and still pretty drunk. But I was able to get up in time to get my errands done and to celebrate my mom's birthday (which was on Monday) with the rest of the family at Jasmine. For dessert, we were served those peach-shaped buns with the sweet bean inside. Somehow, and at the urging of one or both of my sisters, I ended up doing something to that bun with my tongue that fetched the interest of a host at the restaurant, who knows me and Sarah from the days long ago when we used to go to Jasmine for dim sum at least once weekly. He looked over Beulah's shoulder as she reviewed the pictures she was taking and said, "I want to see those pictures." Randy. I got very red in the face and wanted to leave immediately.
I drove back to L.A., having not watched the Oscars, and was mortified to hear Steve-O hosting Loveline with Dr. Drew. Good god. Not only can I not stand his bong-soaked voice with the audible fluttering tendrils of mucus in his throat, but he NEVER SHUTS UP. A girl called in to talk about her heroin addiction and how she is living in a tent, and he interrupted her at every chance, plugging his web site, inviting her to log on to his message boards and receive encouragement from him. I guess her tent is in an area with good wireless signal. And he interrupted Dr. Drew incessantly, too. And never for any amusing or informative reason. It was the worst. Really. Intolerable. I had to turn it off.
And since I have returned, I have had so much work to do and so little time to do it in that I've barely bothered to make notes about the things I wanted to write about later.
Wednesday night, Jeff came over and broke my PlayStation 2. But we fixed it. Like screwdriver-wielding surgeons. I wonder if surgeons save people's lives by just sticking their fingers in wherever they can and jiggling things around.
And I reconnected with an old friend from college this week and have been pitched into that dizzying pace of email exchange that leaves little time for public speaking. Whenever I am immersed in a scintillating exchange, I channel all the good stuff into that private dialogue and my public performance suffers. One day, I will learn to balance this.
I can't remember a single other thing.