Today the Red Death Rays of Judgement Are But a Delightful Sunbeam on a Baby's Cheek

I've already cast back through the sands of time to recommend a book whose quality, by any standards, I'm much too biased to judge accurately.

(Although MG will tell you that no amount of kindness or generosity will spare you from the red death rays of judgement that shoot out of my eyes when I stumble upon an awkward phrase or a clumsy piece of dialogue, no matter who wrote it.)

In any event, things have now calmed down to the point where I can read actual book books, not just biographies of Cary Grant or screenplays written by my classmates. And the first such title to cross my path was the fantastic Prisoner of Trebekistan: A Decade in Jeopardy!, by Bob Harris.

Astute readers will remember from earlier posts that I actually used to write trivia questions for a living, so you might think that the whole Jeopardy! angle had me at "What is hello?" Not so. In fact, writing trivia questions has turned out to be almost as disastrous for my personal growth as answering them on television has been lucrative for Bob. A handful of people can enter into the spirit of the thing, offering the helpful suggestion or directing me to an interesting source of things we're supposed to know but have forgotten. But most people want to play "I bet I'm smarter than the girl who writes trivia questions for a living!" Guess what? You are! I give up!

I'm sorry, where was I? Ah, yes, right! I HATE TRIVIA QUESTIONS! I HATE TRIVIA CONTESTS OF ALL KINDS! HATE HATE HATE HATE!

Yet magically, I really enjoyed Bob's book. Chew on that for a minute.

If you actually like/enjoy trivia questions and contests, this is still the book for you. In fact, I think Prisoner will probably become the go-to text for aspiring Jeopardy contestants. There's all kinds of useful advice about committing stuff to memory, and study techniques, and some tips on staying calm when your body would like to humiliate you utterly. (This is particularly valuable for me, as I keep walking into rooms with people who out earn me by a factor of a bajillion and who could brush away all my financial concerns like so much lint if they so chose.)

But for me, the best part was the story of Bob's journey through the strange and wondrous land of Trebekistan--the friends made along the way, the ways in which his success (and non-success) affected his sense of self and his relationships with people around him. I particularly enjoyed the moment when, just as I was thinking Bob was being a little hard on himself, his sister sighed impatiently and told Bob he was being a little hard on himself. (Wow, it's like she read my mind!) Not many authors will deliberately portray themselves as flawed human beings, and fewer still will walk us through the process of accepting those flaws. It shows a self-knowledge and grace as a writer that I really admire.

(Most writers--and bloggers--prefer to present a face of bland competence, or if they do make mistakes, to write a love song to those errors in judgement. See Frey, James and Bigger Fuck Up Than Me, Nobody is a.)

Judging from the blurbs on the back cover--Ira Glass (!), Joss Whedon (!!), Paul Feig (!!!)--I don't think excerpts of this post are going to find their way into the press kit anytime soon, but I'm a big fan of Harris's blog (not surprisingly located at www.bobharris.com) and suspected I'd like his book very much. Which I do. And lately, his posting has dwindled somewhat, owing to what he describes as "deadline pressures." I can only hope this means another book is on the way.

Also, Consider Making a Roux

My God, how I love the 26th of December! I love the absence of any pressing engagements! I love the normal store hours! I love the decompression from the previous month of unconscious build up to the Big Day!

Yesterday, by all accounts, was a very mellow, enjoyable Christmas. If it had been some random Monday in January, I would have considered it a day well spent. But with all the pressure of the holiday, it ended up feeling a little ramshackle, like the one B- on a transcript full of As.

But we traded some excellent gifts--am I the last person alive to find out about this Amy Sedaris book about entertaining? Oh man, what a great read!--and watched some football, and made some dinner.

The two big challenges of dinner were:

A. How do you tie a roast together when you've forgotten to buy twine?

B. How do you serve four different dishes whose recipes all end with the sentence "Serve immediately."? Especially if your kitchen isn't big enough for two people to stand in at the same time?

Some problemsolving went into Issue A. Some internet searches into the possible toxicity of sisal, which we keep in stock for the cats' scratching post, generated no definitive information. A run to 7-11 and a conversation with a man who did not know the English word "string" was likewise fruitless. But in the end, I was able to slip the pre-tied roast apart without breaking the butcher-tied string, brown it, then slip it back together. Although the experience was not unlike trying to pull control top pantyhose over the torso of a Sumo wrestler.

Issue B was also successfully negotiated, with the help of Michael and his brother Jack and no help at all from frickin' Cooks' Illustrated. Guys, you're supposed to be johnny-on-the-spot with the useful cookery advice, yet no one noticed that your "Dickens Christmas Menu" consisted of four dishes with significant last minute work? Bah!

In the end, the big nailbiter was: Will the yorkshire pudding rise, despite our oven's lack of a reliable thermostat? And the answer is: Yes, they did rise, and subsequently brown, and there was much pumping of fists in the air. Followed by the eating of yorkshire pudding, and roast, and mashed potatoes, and spinach salad and a spectacular gravy. Michael is under orders, should I die before him, to specify in my eulogy that I had a gift for gravy. And indeed, I don't think I overstep the bounds of modesty when I say I make some kickass gravy. I make gravy that could bring civilization to its knees, if civilization as we knew it teetered on the availability of high-quality gravy.

(My secret: Deglaze the pan with wine, then reduce. Also, consider making a roux. Neither are really *my* secrets, as much as they are the secrets of all trained chefs everywhere. But I've come through more than one holiday gathering where gravy prowess was in short supply, and so I carry deep within me a few key tips for producing a delicious meat sauce in under 20 minutes. Literally, it's a file saved on my PDA, along with a recipe for creme brulee and three domestic sparkling white wines that are almost as good as Veuve Clicqot.)

It's a Wonderful Life

Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan! – George Bailey

Merry Christmas, Santa Monica!
Merry Christmas, Third Street Promenade!
Merry Christmas, Clock Tower!
Merry Christmas, St. Augustine By the Sea!
Merry Christmas, Two Hour Choral Mass!
Merry Christmas, Soprano and Baritone Couple Two Pews Up Who Rock Out on “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”!
Merry Christmas, Lady Behind Me in Mass Who Makes Up the Words to Carols When She Doesn’t Know Them!
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girls Who Argue Loudly for Entire Mass About Whether to Stay Until “Silent Night” or Leave Now and Sing It Themselves on the Way Home.
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girl Who Answers Her Cell Phone During Communion!
Merry Christmas, Pacific Ocean!
Merry Christmas, Michael!
Merry Christmas, Cats Who Like to Chew Glittery Ribbons!
Merry Christmas, Mysterious Chocolate Smell in the Hallway!
Merry Christmas, Powers Family En Route to Ireland!
Merry Christmas, Gerber Family Hanging Out with the Dunnes!
Merry Christmas, Freshly Baked Monkey Bread!
Merry Christmas, Delicious Bacon!
Merry Christmas, Awesome Amy Sedaris Book I Got from Jack!
Merry Christmas, Everybody!

Christmas in Santa Monica

I feel like I've just awakened from a coma. From mid-August until last Tuesday, I literally did not have ten minutes that were not filled with either a) obsessing about work and/or b) actual work. My focus was so intense that I stopped dreaming about a month ago, and started brainstorming in my sleep. That's an exhausting feeling--waking up after 8 hours of unconscious story development.

In the last five days, I've finished up my Christmas shopping, cleaned the apartment (with a big assist from MG), rounded up some groceries, called back a friend I'd been trading voicemails with for over a month, and last night, did some laundry. The mind boggles to think how I could have gone from working on my thesis to packing for a trip to Chicago to boarding a plane--I think I would have had a breakdown. So just from a sanity point of view, I'm relieved we're in Santa Monica this week. But that's not to say I don't miss the folks in the midwest. If I were two separate people, I definitely would have sent one of me back to Chicago for the holidays. But alas, I am as constrained by the laws of space and time as everyone else.

This is not our first major holiday in Southern California. We've already spent two Thanksgivings and an Easter, but somehow, this feels more serious. In Greek mythology, Persephone was reportedly condemned to spend half her days in hell after eating a Pomegranate of the Damned. Spending Christmas in Santa Monica feels a little bit like eating the Pomegranate of Southern California. No matter what, we'll be entangled with this city for years to come.

The number one thing I've learned thus far: If you want to leave Santa Monica, get out of town before 3 p.m. After 3 p.m., you're basically trapped west of the 405 until traffic lightens up again after 7 p.m. You think I'm kidding. I'm not kidding. Back in October, Michael and I drove to a bakery located, no joke, 12 miles from our front door. We left our house at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. We stayed off the freeways, which in any event were blocked up in every direction. We stepped inside the bakery at 6:15 p.m.

Other lessons learned:

* Never, never, never go on the 405, except between 10 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. and even then, only if no other route suggests itself.
* Of all things, never, never, never take the 405 to LAX. Get off and take Lincoln.
* The best mall: the Grove.
* The most fun 10 minutes that cost nothing: The twice-nightly fake snow at the Grove.
* Bad times to visit the Grove: Friday nights, Saturdays, Sundays, Black Friday, the day after Christmas, days that end in Y.
* Worst parking lot: Westside Shopping Pavillion. It's like the set of a horror movie that's been converted into a parking lot. Dark, cramped, ramshackle, terrifying. In the event of an earthquake, I can only assume everyone inside will be killed instantly.
* Worst reason to visit the Westside Shopping Pavillion: The Bad Times Nordstrom. The saddest, darkest, dingiest version of the nicest department store I've ever seen. Like Communist Russia Nordstrom.
* Best sandwich: Roast Beef on Ciabatta at Clementine's.
* Best chocolate milkshake: Fatburger
* Best creme brulee: Ocean Ave
* Best tuna burger: Gulfstream
* Most annoying bar/restaurant that is really, really good: Father's Office. Recently busted by the fire marshal, they now make everyone wait in line outside until someone leaves. Is this better than the insane Hobbesian fight for tables that *used* to be the standard operating procedure? Unclear. Yes, the steak frites are awesome, but they're not *that* awesome.
* Least annoying bar/restaurant that's pretty good: Houston's. I'm embarrassed to say that Michael and I are borderline regulars at this chain restaurant. I feel a little bad about it, but in fairness, the locally owned options just don't measure up.
* What the Hell? situation of the year: Why are the desserts in this town so craptastic? Houston's more or less phones it in with a brownie and a warm apple crumble. I haven't had a decent tiramisu in months--MONTHS! I'm afraid to even try to find a cannoli. I was warned by my in-laws, but I thought they just hadn't looked hard enough. I stand corrected. This town has a puritanical aversion to high-fat dairy the likes of which you seldom see outside of an eating disorder support group.

*Best thing about 2006? Feast your eyes on this vision:

Danger: Contents May Cause You to Fall In Love

Waaaaaay back in the mists of time (i.e., 1999), I was surfing on the internet instead of writing trivia questions. (Although, to be honest, trivia question writing calls for a decent amount of internet surfing just in terms of pure idea generation.) Given my job writing trivia questions, I was understandably very taken with one particular corner of the World Wide Web, namely the daily News Quiz feature on Slate.

Basically, it was a do-it-yourself variation of Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update. Editor Randy Cohen (yes, this Randy Cohen) would harvest some obscure-yet-hilarious phrase or quote from the previous day's news, craft a tidy set up and then let readers submit their own punchlines.

Okay, so here's where I'm going with this. It happened that, one day in early February, 1999, that I read a reader-submitted joke on Slate that was so witty, so funny, so original, that I instantly fell in love with its author. In a lucky break for me, the author had a strangely familiar name--a name I thought I recognized from my time served at Oak Park River Forest High School.

So I wrote Randy Cohen--which I did a lot those days, as I also liked to kill time between trivia questions by writing pointless-yet-irascible emails to near/total strangers--and asked him if he knew this "Michael Gerber" and if, by any chance, he went to high school in the western suburbs of Chicago. Mr. Cohen's exact reply, if I recall, was "Hell if I know. Ask him yourself." And then he pasted in an email address for said Michael Gerber.

Fast forward to 2006, and true story, I'm actually *married* to that same Michael Gerber. And yes, he's a fellow Fightin' Husky*, although we never so much as made eye contact in the linoleum hallways of that institution.

Now, I can't reprint that News Quiz joke because if any women were to lay eyes on that short quip, I'd be fighting them off at the front door for the rest of the decade. It's that goddamn funny. But Michael, and his writing partner Jon Schwarz, are nothing if not humanitarians. So for the good of all mankind, they've put together a collection of all their *other* humor writings and published it in an easy-to-carry volume entitled "Our Kampf," which is available for purchase here. (After the holidays, it will also be available from Amazon.com and the like.)

As a favor to me, Michael held back any piece that was likely to draw attractive female admirers to our door, but of course, we applied no such test w/r/t Jon. So be advised, if you buy and read "Our Kampf," you may very well find yourself married to a humorist/policy maven by December 2008. I'm just saying, it's a risk.

*Note: Officially, the OPRF Huskies have no such modifying adjective, unfortunately, but I see no reason to let reality ruin my fun.

Wheee! The Rollercoaster of Artistic Doubt!

I spent yesterday reading my classmates' theses and watching trailers for upcoming movies on the Apple website. Here's how that breaks down:

1. Read classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that I am not that funny. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

2. Despair that I am a hack.

3. Watch trailer for "Wild Hogs."

4. Feel much, much better about my thesis.

5. Read second classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my characters are no where near as believable or well-observed. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

6. Despair that I am a hack.

7. Watch trailer for "Music and Lyrics."

8. Feel much, much better about my thesis.

9. Read third classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my plot is an incoherent, sluggish mess compared to the breezy, engaging three acts I've just read. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

10. Despair that I am a hack.

11. Watch trailer for "Hang Six."

12. Feel much, much better about my thesis.

13. Read fourth classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my thesis has none of the emotional sweep or human warmth of this piece. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.

14. Despair that I am a hack.

15. Watch trailer for "Evan Almighty."

16. Feel even worse

17. Watch trailer for "The Cleaner."

18. Miraculously recover sense of self worth.

19. Read own thesis, now that it's been a day and a half.

20. Discover 14 typos and several misspellings, including nunchucks (my guess: nun-chuks), Mahmoud Amadinejad (or, in my world: Mamoud Amadinajaad.) Plus one giant plot inconsistency involving a Great Dane that appears in one scene and vanishes for 60 pages.

21. Reset self-worth back to zero.

22. Drown sorrows in grande non-fat latte.

The first draft of my thesis is done

The sweetest eight words in the English language right now. Also rans would include: "Hey, let's open this bottle of Veuve Clicquot" and "Season Three of Doctor Who starts tomorrow night."

It would be nice if by "thesis" I meant a short academic work, such as might be published by a prestigious university press, or even a collection of short stories, such as is often produced by graduates of the Iowa Workshop. But no. In my case, thesis means a 120 page screenplay. (And the 120 part is already a problem--my professor was very firm that the screenplay should never be more than 110 pages long. No, don't ask me, I don't know either. But I admit, she has a point. Since I started applying for internships, I have yet to do coverage on a script that was more than 111 pages long.)

But for the moment, I am relieved and ready to let go of it for a while. Ha, actually, I woke up this morning wondering if I could turn the thing into a novel after graduation. But aside from that, I really am ready to take a break.

For the record, this was, essentially, my creative process for the last two months:

1. Write up a list of everything that has to get done, and the day it's due.
2. Panic.
3. Surf on the internet for six hours.
4. Count number of days until I qualify for a discounted Treo from my cell phone provider.
5. Review the list.
6. Begin work on the most pressing project.
7. Focus obsessively on the most pressing project, such that I spend six days writing a 12 page paper on Cary Grant, despite having some 200 pages of scripted material to produce in the very near future.
8. Eat Thanksgiving dinner.
9. Refuse to open bottle of champagne for Thanksgiving dinner because "champagne is for people who meet deadlines." Open bottle of prosecco instead.
10. Revise footnotes on paper after drinking half a bottle of prosecco with Thanksgiving dinner.
11. Undue post-prosecco footnote revisions the following morning.
12. Revise the list of everything that has to get done and the day it's due.
13. Panic.
14. Surf on the internet for six hours.
15. Realize I now qualify for discounted Treo from my cellphone provider.
16. Refuse to buy phone because "Treos are for people who meet deadlines."
17. Refuse to attend any movies, social events or optional activities that might release some tension and remind me why I'm film school in the first place.
18. Review the list
19. Begin work on the next most pressing project.
20. Despair that this project does not live up to my expectations.
21. Make bargain with self that this is only a first draft, and maybe there will be time to revise it before turning it in.
22. Turn it in, unrevised.
23. Casually ask professor if he plans to read the draft right away. Upon learning that he's not reading the final projects until the weekend, promise him a revised draft by Sunday afternoon.
24. Spend entire weekend massively revising script.
25. Send revised draft to professor at 9:47 p.m. on Sunday night.
26. Revise list of everything that has to get done and the day it's due.
27. Realize list now consists of one item, the second 50 pages of my thesis screenplay.
28. Realize I have no interest in writing my thesis screenplay.
29. Panic.
30. Surf on the internet for six hours.
31. Break down and see "Casino Royale."
32. Remember what I liked about my screenplay in the first place.
33. Rewrite entire first act of screenplay.
34. Realize this means I now have to write the last 75 pages of my thesis screenplay.
35. Get started.
36. Start to feel better about myself.
37. Come down with a cold.
38. Take cold medication.
39. Keep writing.
40. Become very confused by my own script outline.
41. Take cold medication.
42. Have disturbing dream in which the actor who played Swearingen on "Deadwood" expresses interest in a part in my screenplay.
43. Swear off cold medication.
44. Keep writing.
45. Drink my weight in orange juice.
46. Sleep for 14 hours.
47. Wake up and read what I have so far.
48. Start fixing plot problems.
49. Discover that Final Draft has become horribly buggy and changes formatting if I so much as breathe on it.
50. Start writing my revisions on electronic stickies and pasting them into the main document.
51. Realize I need three more scenes and you're done.
52. Write two scenes.
53. Try to copy them into the main document.
54. Lose two hours work when Final Draft crashes before I can hit "paste."
55. Re-write the two scenes.
56. Write the last scene.
57. Paste it into the main document.
58. Try to print.
59. Track down the 36 formatting errors Final Draft has found.
60. Fix the 36 formatting errors.
61. Try to print.
62. Put paper in the printer.
63. Print.
64. Put studs through the 120 page document.
65. Worry about my professor's reaction to the length of my thesis.
66. Put script in FedEx box.
67. Write professor a note.
68. Put note in FedEx box.
69. Drive to professor's house.
70. Leave script inside professor's screen door.
71. Drive to Jerry's Famous Deli and pick up corned beef sandwich, large bowl of matzo ball soup.
72. Drive home.
73. Eat corned beef sandwich, most of the matzo ball soup.
74. Sleep.

Sicky Sicky Sick Sick Sick

I stayed home from a holiday party in our building yesterday, out of a desire to not infect the nice people who invited us over. Also, sensing that this sniffle thing had a couple days to go, I cancelled a facial I had *really* been looking forward to. I'm bummed about both decisions, even though I know I made the right call.

At the same time, I did NOT back out of a scheduled meeting of the Women of Cinematic Arts (a USC student/alum group I joined last fall), and this morning at the crack of 10:15, I trotted off to the dentist.

In the first case, I missed the last WCA meeting for a friend's birthday, and I thought I could probably keep my distance from the other attendees. (That's a harder trick to pull off when everyone's giving you happy-holiday-hugs and the like.) In the second case, I thought: Well, I feel like crap anyway. Why waste a perfectly good healthy day on a tooth cleaning when I can kill two birds with one stone? And anyway, don't dentists usually wear surgical masks?

(In fact, they do, and mine had a mask on his head, but not pulled over his mouth. I was upfront about the cold, so who knows why he chose to have unprotected dental hygiene time with me.)

A recurring theme, here, however, is that it is ALWAYS easier for me to cancel things I want to do, and harder for me to cancel things I dread. No, the things I dread must be faced, head on, like steamed vegetables or next year's FAFSA.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that my teeth hurt, like, a lot, and it's so demoralizing to realize that even when you're feeling gunky and low energy and can't really taste anything, it's actually possible to feel worse. Tooth pain is a weird form of discomfort. There's nothing to be done for it except wait for it to subside. But I keep wishing I had one of those jelly-filled rings little kids chew for teething pain. It seems like that might help.

In the meantime, I've grown weary of the Def-con 10 intensity of adult cold medicine, and as I usually do, I've made a day three switch to Dimatapp. Sure, it's for kids. So what? It stems the mucal tide without turning my sinuses into two desicated raisin-like pouches. I was awakened last night by another 4 a.m. bout of Nyquil-induced retardation, and resolved that it was time to break from this medicine-induced fog.

It's Snot Blogger

Whew. I'm back. I switched to Blogger Beta on 12/3, and, as sometimes happens, the internet ate my blog. It was right here where I left it, but I couldn't get on and post. Wow, angry making. I went through all five stages of grief, and by the time Blogger emailed me to say the problem was fixed, I kinda didn't care anymore.

That was Friday, and now, two days later, I've recovered my raison d'blog: Trippy cold medicine after effects.

Yes, I have a cold. Not too bad, but super drippy. Just my nose goes drip drip drip all the time. Okay when I'm awake and can stop up the drip with a Kleenex, or blow until my eardrums pop. (Thanks for the tip, MG!) But you can't sleep and drip at the same time, so I took some Nyquil before bed last night.

In a piece for, I believe, Harper's Magazine, an author once took a massive dose of Nyquil to explore the effect on his brain. He described the resulting mental state as being reduced to his "lizard brain." Those were his exact words. I believe it. Nyquil has a way of dampening down all the higher mental functions until you're almost too dumb to function.

Four hours into the six hour dose, I woke myself up in a panic. Something is terrible wrong, I thought. Why do I feel so stupid? Maybe I'm having a stroke. No,wait, look: crumpled Kleenex. I must have a cold. Oh, right. I took some Nyquil. That explains it. Okay, let's go back to sleep.

Thirty seconds later, I went through the whole thing again. Over and over, until I finally wore myself out and feel sound asleep. If anything, it was probably the Nyquil wearing off that did it, giving me back enough basic reasoning to remember for two seconds that I had a cold.

But with the passing of the Nyquil, so returned the drip drip drip. Happily, even in my sleep I am something of a problem solver. When I woke up this morning, my right hand was tucked under my nose, holding two-inch prong of Kleenex inside my left nostril. Thomas Edison would have been so proud!

What the Eff?

Okay, granted that I don't know very much about sports. But I've already attended four years of college at a public university, so I thought I understood what enrollment at the lushly-bankrolled, very private USC would mean. Instead I find that the nearest comparable public university...

A) Is in a cuter neighborhood
B) With much less crime
C) And a better location
D) Plus costs 1/4 what my tuition costs

and most galling of all...

E) Has a football team that kicks my football team up and down the field for four quarters.

(Right, four quarters? Two halves, that's soccer, right? Or maybe hockey. Anyway, it's definitely not innings, that much I know for--wait, what was I just saying? Oh, right...)

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?

I woke up yesterday enrolled at a school with a MORTAL LOCK on the #2 spot. When I went to bed, we'd had our ASSES HANDED TO US by a bunch of public school punks whose own administration has to periodically taser random students just to keep them in line.

Maybe if I were just a UW alum, this wouldn't bother me. But as I might have mentioned before, I married up. And if I've learned one thing from being legally bounded to a Yalie, it's that with massive tuition bills come certain bragging rights. Like, Meryl Streep went to school here, or the Vanderbilts built my dorm, or we invented the sloppy joe.

Meanwhile, $30K into a wildly-unnecessary graduate program, where are my bragging rights? In a crushed beer cup on the floor of the Rose Bowl, that's where.

What is even the POINT of having a hugely wealthy alumni base if we can't put that money to use bribing football players with SUVs, pumping them full of undetectable designer drugs and recruiting suspiciously agile 28 year olds? I ASK YOU!

By the way, some poor bastard furniture store owner is out a small pile of cash if he ends up honoring that "Everything you buy is free if UCLA wins!" promotion that got heavy radio play this week. My hope is that he covered his bets, literally, by putting down a tidy sum with his local bookie.

Shout Out

As discussed earlier, I do not do well with Christmas lists. Every year it gets harder and harder to think of things I need. But that being said, I'm not going to pretend that I don't benefit from the generosity of others.

Today's post is dedicated to one such gift, from one such person. The person in question is my mother in law, Trish. First, let it be said that Trish brings her A game to the whole gift-giving enterprise. From the first year Michael and I were dating, she's consistently blown me away. One year was a fluffy green angora scarf, the exact borderline snot color I love most in all the world. Another year was pink pajamas. The day before our wedding, she and Katie (my sister in law) gave me some tiny green studs that are among my favorite earrings of all time. (Pink and green are my total sweet spots. And lavender. In fact, I own so much of all three that sometimes I have to go out and buy a couple hundred dollars worth of neutral pants and tees, just to be able to leave the house without looking like a walking Juicy Couture* handbag.)

Okay, but here's the subject of today's post: The little black jacket.

Trish and Greg lived in California for about a year, back when Michael and I were still long distance dating. When we were preparing to move out to LA, she warned me that I might need a little something to protect myself from the evening chill. And she was right. But did I listen? No, I did not.

Long story short, Christmas of 2005, I get the perfect lightweight black jacket. Not too heavy, not too light. Cut perfectly. Looks great.

I wear that jacket constantly these days, as the daylight grows shorter and a brisk 58 degree chill settles over the city around 3 p.m. (Don't laugh. You'd be cold too if you'd been living at a continual 70 F for six months and then the temperature dropped 10 degrees. Okay, I'm a wuss. So what?)

I am not always a perfect correspondent. I am notoriously tardy with my thank you notes. But if I could, I would write a thank you note every day to Trish, letting her know how much I love this little black jacket.

*And now, to redeem myself from a hopelessly sentimental post: I hate Juicy Couture. First, because the name itself is reedonkulous--in fact, is there anything less Couture than Juicy Couture? Yes, I know what they mean. It's about the idea of couture, not the reality. But there's a world of difference between gay black vogue teams calling themselves "House of Dior" and "House of Chanel", and a pair of giggling fashionistas calling themselves "Juicy Couture." It's like the "gorgonzola cheese" I once found on a Panera Bread Co. salad. Apparently the menu writer just liked the sound of "gorgonzola cheese," because what was on the salad was not only not gorgonzola, it wasn't even recognizably cheese,

Second reason to hate Juicy Couture: They take the three greatest colors in the world--pink, leaf green and lavender-and hein'em up beyond all recognition.

Yeah, Okay, I Don't Know About That...

I've just wrapped up my Hitchcock critical studies class, except for the final next week.

Early, early on, my professor insisted to his 100+ obedient students that "the feminists" who insist that Hitch has a problem with women are wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Wrong. Exhibit A: He put interesting, vital female characters in his movies over and over and over again.

Yes, okay. Now can we go back and take a look at "Frenzy"? Or "Psycho"? Or "Topaz"? Or "Family Plot"?

As a fundamental litmus test, can you imagine Grace Kelly playing roles in those movies? No, I submit, you cannot. For the fundamental reason that Hitch wouldn't have asked her. But once the great beauties of the 40s and 50s stopped making films, Hitch had a problem on his hands. He needed actresses, but he couldn't find any that took his breath away, so he had to do the best he could, i.e. Kim Novak and Tippi Hedren.

If I haven't mentioned it before, I am a firm believer in the Myth of the Nice Guy, having witnessed first hand the stranglehold it can have on male/female relations in modern society. Here's how it functions:

1. Guy can't figure out women. Maybe he doesn't know any. Who knows?
2. Guy wrongly forms the opinion that women want nice guys.
3. Guy constructs a nice guy persona and uses this persona in all his interactions with women.
4. Many women sense that this is a persona and not the actual guy, and squicked out, they make their escape, often via anything with a pulse in the vicinity.
5. Guy comes to believe that this proves that women do not like nice guys, and prefer jerks.
6. Guy goes through life convinced women are totally inscrutable and makes no effort to interact with them as sane human beings.

(Yes, I've known "nice guys," and the well-known variant, "compulsive asshole guys." Last semester, a total stranger grilled me about Ian Fleming, then dismissed my answers as mistaken, despite having never read a single Ian Fleming book himself. In retrospect, I think he wanted my seat.)

I'm sorry to say that I think Hitch suffered from the Myth of the Nice Guy. I know he had a long, happy marriage with Alma (or so my professor insists), but I'm guessing that Hitch thought Alma was a one-in-a-million lucky shot, and that most women were neurotic monsters, nymphomaniacs, harpies or some combination of the three. And once he stopped working with women whose inescapable beauty and (ha ha) grace forced him to repress these beliefs, his films get crueler and crueler and crueler.

Of course, I can't say any of this on my exam, so I'll have to content myself with screaming it to the internet.

It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over

Wow, how about this crazy month of blog posts? And all while writing two spec scripts and a term paper about Cary Grant and Alfred Hitchcock? Whoa.

I totally owe my professor an apology. Contrary to my smart ass remarks in class, blogging did NOT slow down my work on other projects or distract me. In fact, it often served as a warm up/reassurance that I always have something to say. Not always something smart or useful or funny, but at least it's something. And isn't that the reasoning that launched a thousand blogs?

My professor's other big point was that a writer's blog is a valuable tool for promoting the writer. I'm not sure Cali-for-nyaaah really proves that point, but by way of apologizing for doubting him earlier, I will embrace this advice as well.

In these crazy days of YouTube and the like, this isn't quite the novel idea it was when we first made it, but I'm still terribly proud of this short film, made with my fellow members of Teatro Bastardo. In my most hopeful moments, I dream of selling a pilot to the CW, getting my tv prof to come on as the show runner and hiring all the Bastards to 20 week writing contracts.

I miss those guys like crazy, and never more than when I watch this video and remember the day we sat around the table brainstorming an idea that, frankly, was in terribly bad taste when we started, and probably still isn't particularly appropriate.

Ah, fuck appropriate.

P.S. You'll need Windows Media Player.

Done and ... Let Me Get Back to You on That

Hitchcock paper is written, proofed (thanks Michael!), printed out and in my bag as I sit in the Student Production Office. It doesn't have page numbers, thanks to a last minute bug with Word for Mac (boo!), but is otherwise in good shape.

I fairly itch to work on a) my pilot and b) a third pass on my Grey's spec, but alas, I have to go attend the final Hitchcock lecture.

In the meantime, here's a line of dialogue overheard at the cafeteria. The speaker is a young woman, around 20, addressing a table of mixed gender friends.

"You guys, don't I totally seem like the sequin type?"

This comment was met with universal agreement, and then the discussion turned to "nudist phases," which everyone at the table admitted to having at some point in their early years. I can only assume that conversations of this type are blooming all over campus, as people are forging the kind of earnest, unshatterable friendships that come out of trading slightly embarrassing anecdotes while under tremendous amounts of stress.

Unless, of course, you're a graduate student in the writing program, in which case you eat by yourself so you can hurry out to your car afterwards and grab your laptop for a quick 15 minutes of blogging before class.

The Artist's Way of Hand-Holding

If you're an aspiring writer and wondering how to get started, there's no shortage of places to look. Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way" has definitely helped me take myself seriously as an, ahem, artist. David Allen's "Getting Things Done" (which I always misremember as "Get to Done") has lots of good advice on managing workflow. Recently, a buncha screenwriting websites have been pointing readers to this list of fixes for writer's block, courtesy of Maggie.

But there's another condition that I only recently discovered. I'm used to procrastinating, I'm used to writer's block, I'm even used to all-consuming self-doubt. Yet until last week, I had never experienced what I like to called "my inner freaked out 12-year-old."

If you've ever known a 7th grader to spend an entire day constructing a diorama on the subject of photosynthesis or glaciers or Pablo Picasso, despite the fact that one's junior high GPA has little/no bearing on one's long term success in life, then you've probably witnessed the freaked out 12-year-old phenomenon.

Sometimes there are warning signs. Spending 30 minutes in Walgreens, unable to decide between the six pieces of posterboard available as a possible backdrop for the aforementioned project. A particularly intense posture--sitting on one's knees, forehead braced on your non-dominant hand, eyes boring into your work as you veeeery carefully print a caption underneath a printed out picture of an aloe plant/moraine/palomino. An exasperated note in your pre-adolescent voice as you tell your well-meaning parent to "go awaaaaaaay."

Certain preconditions can indicate an increased probability of freaked out 12-year-old. I did not have high powered, Harvard-educated lawyers for parents, but apparently some individuals of this stripe can drive even the most laid back 12-year-old into a frenzy inside of two hours.

I was not such a 12-year-old, for the simple fact that I was so convinced that I was a total genius, and as such, should not have to work hard to get good grades. Hahahahahaha! Yes, well, that's what I thought. And given that I was reading at a 12th grade level by age 9, it must be admitted that a lot of the time, I didn't have to work hard to get good grades. (As long as you don't count math as a subject. Or science. Or music.)

But even though I wasn't that kind of kid at age 12, it turns out, I very much am that kind of kid now. For weeks now, I've had this perpetual weight pressing me into the ground--I have so much to do, I have so little time, it has to be good, it's not good enough yet, how am I ever going to get this all done.

And the truth is, when you get to this place, all the morning pages and action lists in the world will not help you. It's not about procrastination or being blocked--it's about feeling like you have more work to do than you have breath in your body. Which, in fairness, you probably do. I think the leading cause of freaked out 12-year-olds isn't a lack of perspective, but unfortunately, an excess of perspective, an overwhelming awareness of exactly how much you have ahead of you.

It helps if I think of my workload as a plate full of Brussel sprouts. When they're well made, I love Brussel sprouts, and I love having eaten Brussel sprouts--nothing makes me feel more virtuous. But even so, a heaping plate of one food, any food, can be overwhelming.

1. Throw in some treats. My mother in law has a kick ass recipe that involves bacon and, I think, balsamic vinegar. So one way to keep moving forward is to throw some treats in there. Maybe a short nap, or a latte that, strictly speaking, you don't especially need.

2. Bite size pieces. My to do list at the start of this month had, like, four things on it: Thesis, Grey's spec, Hitchcock paper, pilot. By last week, I was so sick of staring at those same four items I could have screamed. So I turned it into a much longer list of smaller tasks.

3. Do the easy stuff first. Once in a while, I'll order Brussel sprouts and find that only the outside of each little sprout tastes good--the insides are bland and unpleasant to chew. So I start with the littlest sprouts, the ones that have the best surface-to-volume ratio, to build up my enthusiasm. This month of blog posts has served much the same purpose.

4. Cut corners. Okay, I'll eat the sprout, but I'll be damned if you can make me eat the stalk. So when I'm feeling overwhelmed, I trim off the particularly firm base of each sprout and hide it under a bread crust. Similarly, I've found that I can get through anything if I just flail away at it, with no thought of whether it's actually good. Good is for second and third drafts. With first drafts, I'll settle for done.

I'm sure there's other stuff I could try. For weeks now, I've refused to go to the movies, or hang out with friends, or generally socialize for more than 10 minutes, and in retrospect, that's probably been less than productive. But my spec has been mailed off, my Hitchcock paper is a thorough proof-read away from being done, my pilot is coming along and my thesis ... isn't due for two more weeks. Point being, my inner 12-year-old has come very, very, very close to freaking out, bursting into tears and locking herself in her room, but she hasn't done it. Bit by bit, sneaked viewing of "Prison Break" by piece of peppermint bark*, she's hung in there. And that's enough for me.

*I don't, as a rule, recommend sweets. When your head feels like a Cadillac Escalade, the last thing you need is a blood sugar crash.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

Especially if you have no clue what that might be.

Exhibit A: My least favorite day of the year is the 24 hour period beginning directly after dessert on Christmas Day and continuing until the following afternoon. What is there to look forward to? To plan for? To work on? You're adrift in a sea of great books and CDs, and really, it's all too much to process.

Exhibit B: My most favorite day of the year is the 24 hour period immediately preceding the opening of Christmas gifts. Oh, the anticipation, the excitement, the hope--will people like the gifts you got them? Is that Mrs. Scotto at the door with leftover tiramisu? Do we have any nutmeg for the eggnog? Ah, good times.

Exhibit C: I had more fun planning my birthday dinner last year than I had actually attending my birthday dinner. I know this is true because, as it happened, we had to cancel the birthday dinner and to my surprise, I didn't mind at all. A couple days later, we decided on the spur of the moment to do a raincheck at a neighborhood place. My only real complaint was that I didn't have the fun of looking forward to that dinner as well.

Exhibit D: As I work on my 8 million projects (really just 4, but who's counting?), I keep thinking "I should pull the plug on X and focus on W, Y & Z." But then I think "Yeah, but that means X is done. And I'm not happy with it being done in its current state." Which means, for those of you playing along at home, that I am deliberately making myself work to the point of exhaustion because *that seems like more fun* than accepting what I've got so far and moving on.

Everybody Dance Now

I once spent a very entertaining evening with Alex, a then 12-year-old boy with a consuming interest in Dragon Ball Z. He had invented a super hero, entirely of his own creation, who was completely undefeatable. It reminded me so strongly of the many, many times in my life when I wished I were secretly invulnerable.

Last year, while the Honda was getting an oil change, I went for a walk in the surrounding neighborhood of Santa Monica. On one leg of my journey, I passed a father doing yard work while his two young (8 and 6, I'm guessing) sons rode impossibly small BMX bicycles up and down the side walk. The dad had set up a ramp, maybe 6 inches at its highest point, and while he trimmed the hedges, the boys took turns taking the ramp at the greatest speed they could muster with less than 2 feet of leg to employ at the pedals. They were not getting much "air", as the experts might say.

But as the older boy passed me, headed back towards the starting line, I overheard something. As he rode up and down the sidewalk, totally absorbed in this not-at-all dangerous stunt performing, he was humming the base line of the song frequently played beneath the introduction of basketball players at NBA games. You've probably heard it. It goes: DUN dun DUN, Dunt dun dun DUUN dun...Are you ready for this?

When I wonder why the hell I torture myself like this, fighting an uphill battle against way too much work in way too little time, I remember Alex and boys like him, and try to lose myself so completely in my work that it becomes play, and if Michael walks by my desk, all he'll hear is me, humming to myself "DUN dun DUN, Dunt dun dun DUUN dun..."

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Much of the inspiration for my participation in NaNoBloMo--or whatever you want to call this blog-a-day thing I'm doing--comes from a very enthusiastic, very encouraging professor, who has a blog of his own here.

He's not a writing professor. I don't want to blow his cover--he's not as much about putting it all out there on the internet as some of us--but you could say his class was kind of a semester long membership in the Girl/Boy Scouts of Hollywood. Not exactly how to start a fire or tie a knot, but how to keep going when you're down on yourself, how not to blow your first big check on a Porche. That kind of thing.

Here's the thing--which you'll notice if you visit his blog: He has enthusiasm to BURN. I think maybe that's how he heats his house on cold winter nights--just throws a brick of enthusiasm on the fire and watches the flames roar. So even though it goes very much against my own instincts to be optimistic or look towards the future with anything other than a cynical sneer, I will now attempt to enthusiastically outline my goals:

1. A kick-ass term paper about the roles of Cary Grant in the films of Hitchcock. Length: 12-14 pages. Best qualities: Thoughtful, well-researched, coherently reasoned, and hopefully, an entertaining read for my poor D.A., who has to plow through a couple hundred pages of Hitchcock papers before the semester is over. Due: 11/29. Current status: Strong first draft, needs a polish and citations.

2. An excellent second draft spec for "Grey's Anatomy." Length: 55-60 pages. Best qualities: Continue to nail the voices of the characters, while heightening the drama of the storylines I'm weaving through the episode. Plotting that is tight, engaging and even a little anxious making. With, ideally, some humor thrown in for good measure. Due: 11/29. Current status: Half a first draft.

3. An interesting pilot script to submit for the Josh Schwarz Fellowship. Length: 55-60 pages. Best qualities: Funny, smart, original and coherent. Due: 12/1. Current status: A partial outline.

4. A promising first draft of my thesis script. Length: 100 pages. Best qualities: Heartfelt, hilarious, engaging. Due: 12/11, with a possible extension to 12/18 if I ask nicely. Current status: Fully outlined, 25 pages written.

If I'm absolutely honest about it, I should probably trim one of the things off the list--and the pilot is the only thing even remotely optional. But I can't help it--I've been working on story for so long, I just can't bring myself to pull the plug. But it's been weeks since I didn't have a continual pile of things to do, and sometimes it occurs to me, I can't keep this up, can I? But then I again, I also never thought I'd have 25 posts in 25 days.

Thanksgiving Aftermath

After a few hours hard work, Michael tucks into a well-deserved meal.



And exactly what did all his efforts produce? Take a look:



I've said it before, I'll say it again--I am a really lucky woman.

A Thanksgiving Slide Show

As you can see, Christmas has already come to Santa Monica, with the traditional decorations of a festively-lit tree and a water-spewing topiary dinosaur.











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The cats are also grateful today--because they have a couch to sit on.

Me, I'm grateful for my favorite Santa Monica landmark...the clock tower!

If I Were Behind On My Term Paper

I personally love the title of OJ Simpson's now cancelled book, "If I Did It." I imagine it took them a while to narrow it down from the various also-rans:

"If I Had Done It"
"If I Were a Murderer--and I'm Not Saying I Am."
"Hypothetically Speaking, If I Wanted to Kill My Ex-Wife and Her Friend..."
"Maybe I Did...and Maybe I Did"
"I'm Not Saying, I'm Just Saying."
"Okay, Let's Say I Did It"

Can we therefore expect more such titles from ReganBooks? Personally, I'd love to read...

"If I Did Steal Two Elections" by Karl Rove
"If I Had Used Steroids" by Mark McGwire
"If I Had Boned My Intern" by Bill Clinton
"If I Am An Ass Hat," by Rush Limbaugh
"If It Was a Giant Mistake to Invade Iraq," by Donald Rumsfeld
"If I Had Married Liza for Her Money," by David Gest
"If I Had Married Brittany for Her Money," by K-Fed
"If I Had Married Katie to Fight Rumors I Am Gay (Because I Totally Am Not Gay at All)," by Tom Cruise

Huh.

I'm deep in the throes of a term paper on Cary Grant's roles in the four Hitchcock films--which is a fascinating subject, btw.

But here's the thing that dumbfounds me: Over and over, Grant makes films that are beloved by modern audiences--"Holiday" and "Bringing Up Baby" leap to mind--that were flops in their day. I don't get it. And here's another odd thing: two of the definitive roles ("The Awful Truth" and "Arsenic and Old Lace") that fans most embrace? Are in two movies that he hated making, with directors who, he thought, didn't get him.

Then, weirdly, years later, Grant makes "An Affair to Remember," with the "Awful Truth" director Leo McCarey. He seems to have enjoyed making the film--but the end result is dreadful. Someone should have forbidden McCarey to put any more adorably imps on film. (shudder.)

Last thing: I don't even care about Grant's sexuality at this point, but why is it so hard to get a straight (ha ha) answer from anyone? One book insists Grant was having an affair with his roommate Randolph Scott. Another doesn't even mention that the two lived together for years. (In Santa Monica! Woot!) Still another snorts derisively at the very idea (honestly!) that Grant was less than a red-blooded het. It's not that some books are trashier than others--it's that some trade in a perceived conventional wisdom, and others exist in a universe where that conventional wisdom has never seen the light of day. It's bewildering.

No, No, No, No, No. No.

I've done enough improv to have lost any and all lingering shame over making a fool out of myself in public. (If you can swing it, I recommend this highly. I only wish I'd developed this skill in college--I would have saved a fortune on all the alcohol I consumed to short circuit my over-developed self consciousness.)

But no, I am not ever going to apply for a slot on "The Amazing Race," high humiliation tolerance or no.

1. I cannot drive stick.

2. The first time I was required to move up/down from any point more than 12 feet off the ground, I would start projectile vomiting and not stop until the producers let me out of the task.

3. Michael. Lactose intolerance. A world of dairy and languages we do not speak. 'Nuff said.

4. I cannot drive stick.

5. My non-European geography is realllllly spotty.

6. First day I go more than 4 hours without coffee, I'll walk out.

7. When I'm running late--even for a coffee date--I get so anxious I'm almost nauseous. The idea of EVERY DAY agonizing over whether/how late we're running? Hell. Total hell.

Recipe for Kate's Dream TV Show

Another homework-assignment-as-post. This time answering the question: What is my idea of a great TV show?

Ideally, it's an hour-long drama ... I love a lot of sitcoms, but they feel like friends from work you run into on the street. Your time together is so short, you really only have time for a hello, a quick cliff notes on their life at the moment and a good-bye. I much prefer meeting old friends for dinner, or having them over for an evening. Lots of time to catch up, no need to rush. That's the way I like my television.

With a season commitment from the network ... It's very hard for me to enjoy shows that might vanish before my eyes. I've been burned too many times before--"Cupid" and "Nothing Sacred" both leap to mind. It's so depressing to watch 8 episodes of a show and then find the rest of the season has vanished into the mist. This year, my love for "Veronica Mars" has been tempered by my lingering fear that I would be left holding the bag when the CW decided to cut their losses. I just read that VM got an order for a 20-episode season. Not exactly what the industry calls "the back nine," but close enough for me.

And a girl protagonist ... Michael teases me about this, but in fairness, I think most people have a powerful need to see stories about themselves or at least, individuals like them. Growing up, I was used to glimpsing the ladies in minidresses working tirelessly in the background behind Kirk and Spock, waiting patiently for the glimpse of Mary Jane in between action scenes on Spiderman. I no longer remember who was the first full-on girl hero I saw on screen. Chronologically, it was probably Princess Leia, but I don't remember very much about my first exposure to "Star Wars." Cognitively, it was either the Bionic Woman or Wonder Woman, both of which I would have watched every night of my life if allowed. Think about it: The only people you've ever seen do brave or amazing things are people so totally unlike you as to be aliens. Little girls can't look at Capt. Kirk and think "I'm going to grow up to be just like him." Then one day, someone who looks like an adult version of yourself karate kicks a bad guy. Who wouldn't be in love?

With an awesome right hook ... I have taken a solemn vow not to write any more scenes in which a girl beats the crap out of a heavy bag, nor to automatically revere any television program or movie in which a girl kicks ass. But again, I saw a lot of women in short skirts squealing as bikers shoved them into the dirt, or clenching their fists helplessly as their boyfriends were pummeled by neighborhood toughs. The day I saw Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar, not Kristy Swanson, I'm afraid) roundhouse a vampire, I almost fell off my chair.

And a complicated personal life... "Buffy" and "Xena" premiered at roughly the same time, and I remember hearing an NPR piece about girl-centric television. I believe an excerpt of dialogue referenced a vampire who was dressed like El Debarge. Hmmm, I thought. Sounds interesting. Then, quite by accident, I heard a radio commercial for "Buffy," in which a deep-voiced man described that Buffy was irresistibly drawn ("Who are you?" a girl interjects) to the One. Man. She. Must. Not. Be. With. ("Don't touch me," a man demands.) Dude, that is one complicated relationship. I was hooked before I saw the first episode. Over the years, I've refined this category to...


Good people making bad decisions and vice versa. The classic in this category is "The X-Files." No doubt, Fox Mulder had his reasons for wanting to uncover certain conspiracies--but it was hopeless. He was outmatched, outwitted, outschemed every step of the way. But he never stopped trying--despite the ever-present temptation to let it go and bed down with Scully. In the same category, the evil vampire Spike's crush on Buffy, and the inexplicably noble things that lead him to do will stay with me for a long time. (I will now publicly admit that I once dreamt that Spike showed up at my apartment, devastated by Buffy's cruel treatment, and I sat him down and urged him to get over her, because she was no good for him. It wasn't sexual at all--and I know that's hard to believe, if you've seen James Marsters with his shirt off. Seriously, I was just so sorry for the poor guy.) But above all else, what I really need is ...

Flawless long-term plotting. David Lynch made an excellent start with "Twin Peaks," but the guy had no idea how to hold together a television series. I believe Chris Carter meant well when he started "The X-Files," but Fox had him over a barrel, and he had no choice but to stretch out the story. And the further he stretched it, the more the seams showed. I'm inclined to think that J.J. Abrams, though by all accounts a good guy and a visionary, just doesn't have long-term storytelling chops. (It was "Alias" that taught me the difference between good fight choreography and bad--and that even the best fight choreography in the world can't help you if your viewer doesn't doubt for a minute that your heroine is going to get away scott free.) The acknowledged master, of course, is the same guy who taught me the importance of ...

Stories that help you get through the day. Nobody likes to be preached at or made to feel stupid. But somehow, without sounding sanctimonious, Joss Whedon and the Buffy writing staff taught me a lot about what it means to be an adult: The hard decisions that have to be made, the compromises you make, the way people can surprise you--and perhaps most of all, the importance of being true to yourself, whatever limits life places on you.

A Glimpse Behind the Curtain

John August--whose screenwriting blog is fantastically useful--has an all-purpose bio posted on his website today. His advice is to customize it as needed. By happy coincidence, I also need a bio for a couple upcoming submissions. And I'm still trying to post every day through the end of November. So, here goes:

Kate hails from Oak Park, Il, hometown of the writer Ernest Hemingway, actor Tom Lennon, and humorist Michael Gerber*. The oldest of five children, she found escape from the rambunctious insanity of her siblings through the work of Jane Austen and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Inspired to spend the rest of her life safely encased in an imaginary world of her own making, she dedicated herself to telling the fictional adventures of a series of dark-haired, dark-eyed misunderstood loners. To this end, she earned a bachelor's degree in philosophy and English from the University of Wisconsin at Madison, where she very nearly failed out of 16 mm Film Production, and to her great surprise, won a couple of awards for her senior project, a short collection of poems. Stumbling into the nascent world of interactive game design, she wrote trivia questions for "You Don't Know Jack" until the collapse of the domestic CD-ROM market forced her into unemployment. During the long search for another writing job, Kate got married, did a lot of improv and wrote three spec scripts for "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." They were uniformly terrible, but the first 10 pages were good enough to secure her a spot at USC's School of Cinema Television. She and her fella currently live in Santa Monica with their three cats, while Kate completes her MFA.


*Kate has never met Ernest Hemingway, but she once held Mr. Lennon's pants for him during a costume change for a high school production of "The Foreigner." She is currently Mr. Gerber's "wife with benefits." If you know what I mean. Yeah, they're doing it.

It's the Little Things

Why don't we give more respect to the actors who read audiobooks? A great performance can save a mediocre audiobook--and a mediocre performance can damn an otherwise fantastic audiobook.

I just finished Carl Hiaasen's "Skinny Dip," and through its 13+ hours, Stephen Hoye never wavered. Men, women, young, old, educated, backwoods and every where in between, he nailed them all. Could Meryl Streep do as well? I doubt it.

My hat's off to you, Mr. Hoye, for a job well done!

(Honorable mention goes to Frank Muller, who did an equally good job with "Tishomingo Blues." I don't usually laugh out loud at Elmore Leonard, but thanks to Mr. Muller's hard work, I did.)

P.S. If you own an iPod, you have to check out www.audible.com's incredibly easy-to-use library of back episodes of "Fresh Air" and the like.

Texas &%$#ing Hold'Em

That's the game of choice they play in the new "Casino Royale." (Makes dismissive noise.) Has Bond switched over to margaritas, too?

I can think of no good reason to swap out the actual card game featured in the novel and countless previous Bond films--baccarat--for the crazy new game all the young'uns are so keen on. If you have no idea how the game is played, watching it explained on screen is a treat, because if you don't have $10,000 to lose in the next 10 minutes, you'll never play baccarat in real life. It's the game the Japanese tourists are playing at the lush tables in the softly-lit side rooms you walk past on your way to the craps table. It's insane-o high stakes blackjack, with a little French thrown in for good measure. What's not to love?

I'll probably see the new Bond movie once the hell weeks are behind me and I have the time to spare, but I hate this impulse to dumb things down, make them accessible, protect people from feeling a tiny spark of confusion as they watch a movie. Don't feel bad, guys! James Bond's not so different from you--see, he even plays Texas Hold'em, just like you!

Great! Now I can fantasize about being someone who's exactly like me. Awesome.

I Wanna Be a Song Girl

Some kind of athletic thing was going on this evening on campus, and actual honest-to-god Song Girls or aspiring Song Girls or distaff Song Girls were clustered around the Lyons Center, in various states of warm up.

I don't, actually, want to be a Song Girl. But I'm always fascinated by any subset of a new culture, including the curious support system of semi-pro cheering and musical accompaniment that surrounds every major college football team.

It made me remember an afternoon, the summer of my 14th year. I had just gotten a word processor--my first--and combined with my 8th grade typing class, I was quickly becoming a writing fool. Yet the more I wrote, the more I felt pulled in a hundred directions. I wanted to be a marine biologist. And a private detective. And a newspaper reporter. And possibly a space captain, if faster-than-light interplanetary travel was invented sometime in the next 30 years.

I didn't know which way to go. But hilariously, the one option I didn't think of is the one that is glaringly obvious to me now. Anyone as consumed by her own imagination as I was in my 14th year has only possible future career: Fiction writer.

Daniel Dennett=Asshat

In high school philosophy (yeah, that's right--and? It wasn't even a Jesuit school. OPRF Huskies in the hizzie, yo!), we read an essay called "I Am Daniel Dennett's Brain." Like all 17-year-olds, I was happily entertained by the mind-blowing thought experiment of parsing off your consciousness into an entirely different place and not even realizing you're not, technically, in the body you consider to be "you."

So all due props to Mr. Dennett for being a wicked smart mofo.

But that said? The guy is an asshat.

Maybe that's an occupational hazard for philosophers--I imagine a couple middle aged Greek guys were effin' pissed at Socrates' bone-headed refusal to seek a compromise that didn't result in him drinking a hemlock latte.

Recently, Dennett had some fairly complicated health issues, and against all expectations, some people prayed for his recovery. When Dennett was well enough to set hand to keyboard, the first thing he did was chastise those folks for embracing a kind of medieval voodoo anti-science. "Thanks, I appreciated it, but did you also sacrifice a goat?" is an actual question he's refrained from asking his compassionate acquaintances.

I am ashamed for Dennett that he can't make this very fundamental leap. Whatever people say, the vast majority of our actions are motivated by self-interest. Let's not make a big deal out of it. You know, self interest is like boogers. Everybody's got some in there somewhere. If you don't, you've got a much bigger problem on your hands.

Look, I don't doubt that many religions claim that various rituals and sacraments are for the benefit of someone else, but c'mon! If you've ever prayed in your life, you know who it benefits first and foremost: The pray-er, not the prayee. So much of the torment of human existence is denying what you really feel, what you really think. When you pray, the first thing you do is give in and admit what is most on your mind. That in and of itself generates tremendous relief.

Now, I know, in some traditions, prayers often take the form of hoping fervently to be something other than what one actually is. But isn't that too, a fundamental acknowledgement of what is foremost on your mind? I don't want to be gay. I want to be pregnant. I don't want to die. Before you can say those things out loud, don't you first have to say them to yourself, privately? And yes, perhaps, you will be persuaded to hope for things that are not strictly good for you. But if that's the case, it's not that you don't know how to pray. It's that you don't know your own heart.

(If my definition of prayer sounds a lot like meditation, well, duh.)

So can someone explain to me why I, who took and dropped logic 3 times before I finally passed, can figure this out and Dennett cannot?

Or how about this? Why do I know that it is a shitheel move to chastise people who wished you well? Maybe crapping all over people is Dennett's version of a coping mechanism, but if so, crapping all over Dennett is mine. Here's my prayer: Don't let me slip into such hard-hearted obstinacy that I push away the good will of others, rather than acknowledge that not every moment of life is best used for relentlessly proving that I'm right.

The K List

My favorite part of every O: Oprah magazine is "The O List: Some Things That I Think Are Just Great!" In a bad month, it's an assortment of crap various publicists have sent to O magazine lately. In a good month, it's like shopping next to Oprah. Wow, stay with that image for a minute...

I have my own list. The aforementioned espresso pot, of course, has a place of honor on the K List. But also:

Clear, golf-ball sized white lights, strung across light posts. Whether for a festival or, as on Santa Monica's Main Street, just a regular part of the streetscape, I think these are awesome. They make me feel like I'm on set of "Cinema Paradisio." Or possibly Barry Levinson's "Avalon." Anyway, they're cool.

Chicken salad with curry and raisins. Oh Jesus, where have you been all my life? How many years have I wasted, eating other kinds of chicken salad when I could have been eating you, chicken salad with curry and raisins?

Dansko clogs. Recently declared "unwearably hideous" in (ahem) a certain Midwestern newspaper, I would not be able to leave the house 4 days out of 6 if not for clogs. They give me a little height, but with good arch support and walkability. The only downside: Once every six weeks, I fall off the heel and drop like a sack of potatoes. It's not pretty.

Advil Gel Caps. If I had these in 1996-2000, I would have spent $1000 less on migraine medication. Three of these babies can knock out all but the most pernicious proto-migraine. (P.S. It's pretty easy to spend $1000 on migraine medication over 4 years; my pills retail for $20+ a piece, and I used to get migraines, oh, every four weeks or so. And sometimes it took more than one pill to knock out the lil' fucker.)

Prosecco. Yes, yes, of course I love champagne. But it takes some serious work to kill off a bottle of Veuve, and who wants to let a $35 bottle of champagne go flat? To me, prosecco is a delicious and much more affordable alternative. And because it's a little less nuanced, I don't mind so much if it's not absolutely teaming with bubbles the next day.

Rhetorical Questions Answered, Pt. 1

In checking out various links for yesterday's post, I stumbled upon Maureen Ryan's Watcher column for the Chicago Tribune. In her last installment, she asked why no one ever writes about women who are competent, intelligent, in great relationships and still interesting. The original piece has been taken down, but a revised version is here.

I can answer that question. Such women--hell, such men--don't show up on television because it's almost impossible to tell a story about them that an audience would watch for FIVE YEARS.

One of the best screenwriting professors I've had began his first class with the admonition that as writers, we must never be boring. He broke the idea of boredom into two root causes:

1. Overwhelming confusion - When we don't know who to care about, what to care about, or why we should care about it. With all due respect to Fellini, when I think of his later work, this is the exact emotion that washes over me--uncomprehending boredom.

2. Total certainty - When we know exactly who our protagonist is, what they're going to do next and why, and how it's going to turn out. I had a hefty dose of this experience while rewatching "Rope" recently. If you know where it's going, sitting through a screening is draining--you just run out of things to think about. Ditto the experience of sitting through a Catholic mass celebrated by a priest with no particular gift for sermons.

The cure for both conditions, according to my professor, was to walk the delicate line between hope and fear. Continuously give your audience something specific to hope for, but never stop supplying hints that the exact thing they fear most might come to pass.

This particular class has completely reshaped my writing, but even if I didn't find it helpful advice, I can't deny that it's validity is proven anew almost daily. Another Hitchcock film, "The Wrong Man," drove me right to the brink of insanity because I had nothing to hope for throughout it's two hour running time. The poor schlub protagonist had literally NOT ONE CLUE about how to fend off the advances of the aggressively lazy detectives who suspected him of a crime he didn't commit. The Hitchcock Ex Machina ending did not surprise me, except that I was actually more angry, not less, when the credits rolled without providing a hint of closure.

Which brings me to Ms. Ryan's question: Why would I watch a show in which I had nothing to fear? If my hero is intelligent, competent and in a great relationship, then really, what could possibly stand in her way? Every criminal, no matter how devious or evil, would be caught by my gifted protagonist. Every wrong would be righted. And she would continue through life, knowing only success at every turn.

Not only does that sound unbelievably boring, I also have to say my protagonist sounds like an insufferable goody-goody. Bleh. I'd always wonder "Doesn't she ever doubt herself? Doesn't she ever screw up?" And if she never doubts herself, and never screws up, then what do we have in common? And if she's nothing like me, then how can I identify with her long enough to get through 42 minutes of plot every week?

Where Do I Get My News?

I start my day with the New York Times. I don't know why. I wasn't even that big a fan of the New York Times when I lived in New York. But when I moved back to Chicago, I lost all patience with the Chicago Tribune as a source of information.

For starters, any violent or sensational news that happens anywhere in the tri-state area will appear above the fold--either real or virtual. And the Trib is supposedly the respectable paper in town. Why is it I am reluctant to get my news from a paper that will headline an 11-year-old boy abandoned at the Taste of Chicago for a whole week?

This is not a recent development either. For a long swath of the 90s, Bob Greene ran approximately 9000 columns on the outrage of a biological parent being able to reclaim a child that had been put up for adoption without his knowledge. He would drag out one tragic five minute interaction between the adopted parents and the child (Baby M?) outside a courtroom. "And with that, Ms. Adopted Mom reached into her bag and handed her child a box of raisins. But for how long would mother and child be able to share moments like this? Tomorrow: A biological father who doesn't even know if his child prefers juice boxes or chocolate milk." For weeks, months, years on end. (And the whole time, he refused to acknowledge the fundamental logical inconsistency in his columns: If it had been his biological child, he would have fought to the death for custody and everyone who read his columns knew it.)

A lot of the columnists do not even live up to this standard--the auto critic Jim Mateja has had a baldly pro-SUV, anti-fuel efficiency stance for as long as I've been alive. If he's ever written critically of an SUV's abysmal fuel mileage, I've missed it.

So I begin my day by scanning the New York Times. Then I hop over to the Wall Street Journal. Then I check with the Trib, to make sure Chicago hasn't fallen in the lake. And then, because I now I live in Los Angeles, I go to the L.A. Times. And what I find makes my blood run cold.

The L.A. Times is owned by the Tribune company. Half the stories are reprints from the Trib. FROM THE TRIB! IN CHICAGO! Or vice versa! Way to inspire faith, guys. How can you serve the reclusive, cold-weather-trapped readers in Chicago and the outdoorsy, sunshine-drenched readers in L.A. with the same piece? How? (Oh, by the way, both the Trib and the L.A. Times reprint a lot of NYT stories. So there's another reason to cut out the middle man.)

(Seriously, the two cities have very, very little in common. Chicago is so weather driven that the gyms all have tiny tvs on the cardio machines. Los Angeles is so appearance driven that I've only found one gym with tiny tvs--one gym in an entire city! Chicago has a viable public transit system used by everyone from $11K welfare moms to $200K lawyers. In Los Angeles, nobody takes the bus unless they have to. And don't even get me started on restaurant desserts. I haven't had a decent tiramisu in six months.)

The headlines on the L.A. Times front page leave me ice cold. Okay, right now, the NYT top head reads: "Incoming Democrats Put Populism Before Ideology." The subhead reads: "Newly elected Democrats say they were given a rare opportunity by voters, many of them independents and Republicans, and now they have to produce."

I am heartily glad to hear this. I think I understand what this story has to say, and although I don't have time to read it right now, I'd happily look through it if I were on a two hour plane ride.

Meanwhile, red hot nails couldn't make me read the L.A. Times "Centrist path in Congress may rile Democrats' base" or the accompanying subhead "After toppling GOP in a hard-fought election, Democratic leaders find themselves in another difficult struggle -- with their own supporters."

I'm embarrassed to say that I'm not a sharp enough media critic to spot the key difference between these two stories, but I know I'd read one and line my cat's litter box with the other.

In little ways, the New York Times taught me about my adopted home when I lived there. Although I didn't read it every day and the Metro Diaries or whatever it was called (that weekly collection of Reader's Digest-like twee observations about our fair city) was a little much for me to take, I did eventually gain an understanding of the different populations of Manhattan, Queens, Staten Island, etc.

I keep TRYING to read the L.A. Times, but I just can't do it. I'm more likely to read all the Los Angeles-related pieces in the NYT than I am to read LAT. (In fact, I often feel like an NYT piece is more accessible, because it starts by explaining to me why I should care/think about the person/place/thing the article mentions.)

But I'm not a geographist. I will happily read stories about any quadrant of the planet, if it seems worth my time. I might be slightly more intrigued by some place I actually know, but not by much. Yet, oddly, I have already read the Alabama-centric "Sports Artist Sued for Mixing Crimson and Tide" (NYT) and I can't bear to even try reading "Pasadena facility honors marine." I've never been to Alabama, I don't watch football and I adore Pasadena. So, go figure.

I do listen to a lot of NPR, and that's where I get the majority of my CA news. My other news sources: Slate (although they are so relentlessly contrarian that just reading the headlines is a little exhausting), Consumer Reports, Ain't It Cool News and if forced, The Daily Trojan. (Although they did have a fascinating article on cruising last month--I'm waiting for the day "Veronica Mars" does a cruising plot.)

Yes, of course, I almost forgot my other "must read" stop: Television Without Pity

Love/Hate

I love flu shots. I love the idea of being protected from a nasty cold that would sack me like a rookie quarterback for a week and a half, minimum. To be in graduate school is to be in a two-year-long haze of not enough sleep, not enough vitamin C, too much vitamin coffee--basically I'm a compromised immune system on legs.

I hate shots qua shots. Hate needles, hate pokings with sharp objects of any kind. I tried to cure this by giving plasma in college then spending the money on sushi. Now, I often get an irresistible craving for sushi after any and all injects. Come to think of it, I had sushi for lunch after my flu shot.

I love my imagination--I have great, trippy dreams that I'm genuinely sorry to leave. Last night I dreamt about the Doctor--the British one, who travels through time.

I hate that I imagine things turning out badly far more often than the opposite. I was convinced I'd all-but-failed a tricky Hitchcock midterm two weeks ago. Nope, did fine. I was convinced the Republican gerrymandering had turned the country into a partisan battlefield. Nope, turns out the gerrymandering may have cost the Republicans a lot of seats. (Where did I learn this? In the Wall Street Journal of all places. Although I am always telling people that the reporting bears no resemblance to the editorial pages.)

I love my iPod. I'm now addicted to a few hands of solitaire and 20 minutes of an audiobook as I fall asleep every night.

I hate that my iPod has a life expectancy of 8 months (it's 16 months old, and the little guys are known for dying the day after their 2 years of coverage expires.) I just pray it holds out until the "true video ipod" arrives. I bought our current iPod for a cross-country roadtrip, and it salted my biscuits but good to discover four months later that it had been replaced by a smaller, lighter machine THAT PLAYED TV. Damn you to hell, Apple. But seriously, hurry up with that true video iPod, because I can't wait to buy one.

I love Senator Barak Obama. No joke: Every time I hear him speak, tears well up in my eyes. I know now what it means to live in a time with great leaders, and what it must have felt like to lose JFK, MLK, RFK in the space of ten years.

I hate that I cannot delight in Sen. Obama's work without dreading a) the day he gets nailed for a dumb mistake or b) his never getting nailed for a dumb mistake and some idiot takes a shot at him. Maybe this comes from growing up in the wake of the aforementioned assassinations--and living with a man who has never gotten past the death of John Lennon--but I just assume this world is too screwed up for someone like that to get very far. I was openly relieved to read in the Chicago Tribune that Obama had covered part of the cost of a fence between his property and the parcel next door--and said parcel belonged to one of the 8 million corrupt Illinois politicos wandering around Chicago. It was a small mistake, easily rectified, and Obama wrote a letter acknowledging as much. A couple more like that--giving a Girl School $5 extra change for a couple boxes of Thin Mints, putting too much postage on a postcard--and I'll sleep better at night.

I love that I spend my days making stuff up and trying to get good enough at it that someone would pay me to make stuff up for them.

I hate that it took me this long to figure out that this is what I wanted to do with my life.

Wish List, Part 2

Two years ago, I was so shaken by the election that I bought and ate 2 lbs of peppermint bark within 48 hours of the polls closing.

A lot has changed. For one thing, I now live in a climate that makes eating even 2 oz of peppermint bark a serious challenge. Really, you can't eat chocolate in 85 degree weather. It can't be done.

I've been thinking about it, and I've decided I only really need three things:

1. Fix the health care system so Michael can get some kind of practical insurance that doesn't cost $450 a month.

2. Stop holding people for 24-36 months without an open and just review of the evidence against them. Also, generally, undo the habeas corpus wrecking of the last 5 years.

3. Legislate the mandatory distribution of birth control and Plan B to interested women, regardless of the pharmacist's religious beliefs.

Michael adds, and I see no reason to disagree:

4. Don't frickin' privatize social security.

Cool? I'm not even remotely qualified to suggest a solution for Iraq, so I'll leave that to more experienced folks to fix. I don't need impeachments, or smack downs or pissing matches. (Okay, maybe a tiny smack down on pro-life pharmcists. Like stripping them of their licenses or forcing them to become nurse's aides. But not more than that. I mean, let's not make them wear punitive t-shirts or headbands. Although we could. Let's have some dignity.)

So if I could just have those four things, that would be awesome.

Getting Over It, Moving On

Wednesdays are insane for me, so I'm gonna go back to the big sack 'o old posts.

This topic is still a little raw, because it discusses the work of a man who just gave a certain School of Cinema-Television a certain $170 million endowment, and the only price he asked? Change the name to the School of Cinematic Arts. What word is missing in the new title? What word? Here's a hint: It's the word that represents the field I want to work in, and hopefully, make the kind of money that will allow me to make a few gifts of my own.

Oh, yeah, I'm bitter. First he took me for $9.25. Then he got to rewrite the words on my diploma. Fucker.

(I can just imagine the email I'm gonna get from the Dean if she stumbles upon this. C'est la vie.)

In all fairness, though, it must be admitted I have always had issues with badly written television and movies.

Yes, I said "badly written." Just "bad" is okay with me--I have always been very fond of the ancient and ramshackle Jennifer Connelly/David Bowie movie "Labyrinth", and not two weeks ago, watched Marlon Brando queen it up in "The Island of Dr. Moreau" with great pleasure. When everyone and everything about a movie broadcasts that they're only in it for the down payment on a summer house, I can rest easy in the knowledge that I'm in capable, if deeply silly, hands. On television, the entire "Star Trek" genre plays a similar role. Also "The Scarecrow and Mrs. King." But I digress.

What pushes me over the edge, however, is when certain people with certain words next to their names in the credits--words like "written by" or "executive producer"--make a concerted effort to do a good job, then at halftime decide to start stinking up the joint. That? That pisses me off.

So: Briefly, and only as the merest taste of what I think will probably be many years of bitching...

Things George Lucas Once Knew

1. Keep it personal. "Star Wars: A New Hope" begins with an establishing shot of a space battle and then cuts inside to two droids, trying to avoid getting blown to bits. C3PO observes that "Princess Leia won't get away this time." Why? Because he knows Princess Leia. Maybe 6 minutes later, Princess Leia is captured and brought to Darth Vader. The first words out of her mouth are "Lord Vader, only you could be so bold..." and Vader tells Leia "Don't act so surprised, your highness, you weren't on any mercy mission."

Note: THEY KNOW EACH OTHER! Maybe they don't send each other cards on Life Day, but clearly they know each other, at least by reputation.

Also: THEY ARE TALKING TO EACH OTHER.

Before I forget: WE CAN TELL THEY BOTH HAVE SOMETHING THEY WANT/NEED

By contrast, the primary villains in "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" are members of the Trade Federation. The heroic Jedi go to meet with the Trade Federation and the members ... DITCH THE MEETING to hide in a darkened room. Way to really pursue your interests, guys. And while they're scurrying around, we miss out on the chance to learn about them from their conversation with the Jedi, including, oh, I dunno, THEIR NAMES? Or say, maybe, WHAT THEY WANT?

2. Your character has a life. See also: Wants. Again, "SW:ANH" gives us Princess Leia sneaking around the ship, trying to avoid capture. Also, being held captive. Also, it is implied, being tortured. When we meet Luke Skywalker, he's a farm boy, doing farm boy things. When we meet Obi-Wan, he's an old Jedi, doing old Jedi things. Han Solo, drinking and doing business in a scummy bar.

Meanwhile in the prequels, people mainly walk down hallways and have conversations. In "Revenge of the Sith," Anakin and Padme have upwards of five conversations where, at most, SHE IS BRUSHING HER HAIR! Padme is a senator, the same job her daughter will hold in 19 years or so, but one of them is trying to evade capture and the other demonstrates a Jackie Kennedy-like fondness for changing outfits ever four hours.

Sweet Christ! "West Wing" has 42 straight minutes of conversations about government policy every week that manages to make it perfectly clear that the characters have lives (or try to, anyway) outside of their jobs. If Padme's not going to try to negotiate peace or arrange aid to afflicted planets or draft a speech urging that the Chancellor step down, maybe she could go for some pre-natal care? Or sew some baby clothes? Or eat a snack! Or take a bath! I don't care, but get off that goddamned sofa!

I'm not picking on Padme--Anakin similarly seems to do nothing but go into rooms in order to have a conversation with the person he finds there. If he's so interested in the Sith, why not go to the Jedi library and browse the Dark Side section? Or do some training drills? Or mediate in an effort to clear his mind?

3. More Is Not Always Better. "SW: ANH" starts in outer space, moves between Tatooine and various star ships (Millennium Falcon, Death Star), touches down briefly at a rebel base, the goes back into outer space. Basically, the whole movie takes place on two planets and a couple space craft. "Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back" has three planets, one asteroid, the Millenium Falcon and whatever Darth Vader is flying around in. "Star Wars: Return of the Jedi": two planets, a rebel base and another Death Star.

Are you starting to see a pattern here? "SW:TPM" has Naboo, underwater Naboo, Tatooine, Coruscant, and three different space voyages. "SW:Attack of the Clones" introduces 3 new planets, plus we spend time on Coruscant, Tatooine and Naboo. "SW: Revenge of the Sith" features another 3 new planets (NOT counting the three or four places in the Jedi slaughter montage), 25 minutes on a space craft, and short visits to Alderaan, Tatooine and Naboo.

The prequels burn through characters at a similar rate, which is probably why nobody seems to know anybody else. We figure out who Darth Maul is, and he dies. We spend two hours trying to figure out who Count Dooku is, put it together, then he dies in the first 20 minutes of the next movie. And then General Grievous comes out of nowhere and we have to find it in ourselves to hate this guy, even though he's just shown up.

Think about General Grievous. Now, think about Darth Vader. Or Boba Fett. Or even Jabba the Hutt? It's just easier to hate someone we've seen act like an asshole. Everytime an established asshole gets killed off, it takes the audience time to work up a new head of steam.

Speaking of steam, I'm running a little low. But there's more where this came from, oh much more.