Is It Still 2008 Without Fennel Pollen?

I love Whole Foods. When we began planning the move to Los Angeles, the first thing I did was map the location of every Whole Foods in the metropolitan area and draw a two-mile-wide circle around each scribbled "WF."

Partly that's because MG has a raft of food allergies that are much easier to deal with if you shop at a store that is fanatical about labeling every single ingredient in every single food item, down to the microns of solubized wheat protein in the dash of Worcestershire sauce mixed in with the yolks of their deviled eggs. (Which are, actually, from hell. Don't waste your money -- not nearly enough mayo, way way way too much yolk.)

Partly it's because we used to live in a neighborhood where the closest store WAS a Whole Foods, and we kinda fell in the habit of shopping there.


Partly it's because I have quite the budding addiction to charcuterie, particularly various terrines made with the livers of fattened water fowl.

Okay, look, let's not delve into questions who's-addicted-to-what. The point is, I am solidly pro-Whole Foods.

And yet.

When the two story underground garage is filled to capacity and backed up onto 23rd St., maybe things have gotten out of hand.

When traffic backed up on Wilshire because 23rd St. is jammed all the way into the intersection, maybe we need to reconsider our options.

When the line to get out of the store starts 30 feet inside the front door? Yeah, I think you get the picture.

Everyone was on their best behavior. I got a free piece of pizza for being such a patient customer, and thank god, the lines had been switched into one line/many registers, so you were directed to the next available cashier pretty quickly. But yes, it got a teeny tiny bit hairy there for a second.

One poor daffy lady, her hair in those giant volumizing curlers you always see J Lo wearing in the "behind the scenes" photos in magazines, wandered into the admirably uncrowded stretch open space in front of the registers, and made for cashier until an employee discreetly indicated the line of sixty seven customers stretching to the back of the store and then some.

She blanched, as well she might, for a few seconds later she would have been ripped limb from limb if the employee had not saved her from a life-ending gaffe. Free pizza can calm an unruly crowd, but it's powerless to slow an enraged mob.

Down the Rabbit Hole of Awesome

We saw Jack Gerber off to Joshua Tree yesterday morning, and then spent several hours flopped in a heap. It was fantastic to have Jack stay with us for the holidays, but we'd been in such complete host mode that we hadn't given any thought to what we'd do he left. After some laundry was put away and some Rice Krispie treats were made, I put one of our last Xmas movie rentals in and sat down with a gin and tonic to watch "The Last King of Scotland."

About an hour into it, MG announces that "Ball of Fire" is showing at the Aero at 7:30, in a double bill with "Twentieth Century." Good bye cozy night at home, hello brisk-if-somewhat-drunk walk to the Aero.

Over two years ago, I had a professor rave about "Ball of Fire," and I've been trying to see it ever since. There's a reason why it was hard to track down -- it came out on DVD this May, but before that, the last release was a VHS tape in 1998. And now that I've seen it, I can see why it is so fondly remembered.

Billy Wilder screenplay, Howard Hawks directs, Barbara Stanwyck shows some leg, Gary Cooper learns fisticuffs, Gene Krupa whips off two drum solos and a slew of old Hollwood contract players fill out the cast. (Henry Travers, the bulbous-nosed angel Clarence from "It's a Wonderful Life;"Oskar Homolka, the shifty husband from "Sabotage;" S.Z. Sakall, the plump, white-haired head waiter Carl from "Casablanca," as well as Leonid Kinskey, who was Sacha the bartender. And those are just the ones I recognized.)

The script itself is a model of hilarious elegance -- surprisingly so, considering it wasn't originally a stage play. The gold standard in this category would be "His Girl Friday," which clocks around with the efficiency of a Swiss watch. But my God, "Ball of Fire" takes this principle to an entirely new level, right down to the perfectly timed return of the garbage man. It has to be seen to be believed -- which is easily done, considering Amazon now has it on DVD for $14.99.

Less elegant but possibly even funnier (God, is that possible? Sure the fabric of space/time cannot contain more funniness?) was the second feature, "Twentieth Century." Are you sitting down? Okay. Howard Hawks directs; screenplay by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur (as in "His Girl Friday") with uncredited punch up from Preston Sturges and Gene Fowler. Carole Lombard is hilarious and essentially topless for all but the first scene (the film opened in 1934, i.e., before the Hayes Code drained the filth and gratuitous nipple shots out of movies.) And? And? You want more? Yes, you do. And very wise you are, at that.

John Barrymore knocking it Out. Off. The. Park. It's a role that walks the razor's edge of self-parody, but Barrymore locks into character and does not come out for so much as a nanosecond of the entire film. Everything that hasn't worked in the last four Jim Carrey movies, the last eight Robin Williams movies, plus miscellaneous seconds of Adam Sandler and Billy Crystal's careers? Look ye to John Barrymore in "Twentieth Century" to find the solution.

How can a mortal man narrow his eyes and hiss "You... ameoba!" without imploding at the contained hilarity? I don't know. How can one human being deliver the line "The iron door is closed!" four times in one script and yet, somehow, make you laugh harder every time? The mind boggles.

The script, in all honesty, is more ramshackle than "Ball of Fire," but I don't mind, and I don't think you will either. It's another must own, and yes, Amazon.com has "Twentieth Century" too, for $12.99.

The WGA is still on strike, so I will point out that, of course, none of the guys I mentioned above -- Hecht, MacArthur, Sturges or Wilder -- gets dime one from these DVDs. But then, neither does any other writer whose work was produced before 1960. The WGA members sacrificed those payments in order to get the studios to pay residuals on all future projects. That's almost more astonishing that John Barrymore's performance in "Twentieth Century." Thousands of writers (and actors, and directors) giving up all right to compensation for past work, so other people could get paid in the future.

I Like That Throw Pillow, Dave

We got our very first Brocade Home catalog recently. In the new year, I will be embarking on a burnt-Earth mass mailing cancellation campaign, in which I will contact various companies and insist they take our names off their mailing lists.

(Hey, I don't make snide remarks about the way you spend the writers' strike, okay?)

Anyway, I am really glad Brocade Home managed to reach us before Catalog LockDown 2008 starts, because it seems to be the first home furnishings company dedicated to helping consumers decorate their home like the inside of the monolith from "2001."

You remember: Dave Bowman dies, or something, and then suddenly he's in this super weird hotel-room-like space? Ah, yeah, it's the part of the movie that looks like this:

It's All About Perspective

I watched an early third season "Grey's Anatomy" last night. (I think. Unless this is their fourth season. Which, if true, boggles the imagination.)

I'd like to think that my "Grey's" spec captures some of the energy and lightness of touch of the original, but I'm guessing not, considering I'm 0 for 5 in the big TV spec contests this year. (Disney, thoughtful folks, sent me my ding letter the week before Christmas.) And I don't have it in me to go back and give it another polish, so there's some sadness to the realization that the ship has sailed.

Anyway, my point is, I never thought I'd watch another episode of "Grey's." Last season, with the canceled wedding and this season's arrival of Lexi Grey broke me. I couldn't take any more.

But as it turns out, I am weak. And as it becomes clear that I will not see any new television until, MAYBE, mid-June, I'm starting to make accommodations. Like watching shows I previously considered unwatchable. And, very likely, catching up on "The Wire" before it's January premiere.

It's the same principle by which I put off doing laundry all day yesterday, only to despair at 5 p.m. when the power went out. Not just in my apartment, or my building, but the whole block. (A question I still haven't answered: If the power goes out and my car's in the garage, how do I get it out? And in the event of nuclear attack, does that mean we're gonna die of radiation poisoning because we can't get out of town? Confidential to gloomy protagonists: Don't bother leaving a comment about all the ways we'll die before getting a car out of the garage becomes an issue. Just... don't.)

I started to make various back up plants to accommodate our newly blacked-out condition, and then just as I was about to leave for the movies... the power came back on. I tell you, I did that laundry like it was one big soapy holiday.

Also, That Frostbite Gag Went a Little Too Far into Gag Territory

I met a writer @ the Barham Gate picket last week who's working on some stuff for "The Red Star" comic book. I had never heard of "The Red Star," but the phrase "industrial magic" had me intrigued.

I got the first volume, issues 1-9, for Christmas, and bought the first half of volume 2 yesterday. And it is very, very good. It's a re-imagining of the 20th century if sorcery had been part of the industrial revolution. (I'm guessing that's the back story. I don't really know.)

It opens with a beautiful young Soviet officer (a Sorceress Major) named Maya, riding the cemetery train out to visit the grave of her husband Marcus, who died nine years ago in the state's crushing defeat in Al'istaan. It's Russia, and Afghanistan, and the collapse of the Soviet Union, only utterly different. And utterly delicious.

If I have one complaint, it's that the first installment opens with one brilliant wow idea, and then fails to really deliver on the promise of that idea. But it's still extremely inventive and awesome. Just not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe.

Speaking of things that are not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe: "Pirates of the Caribbean" is dead to me. I don't watch movies so I can walk out wondering how it will all end up. I watch moves so I KNOW how it all ends up. Suspense and cliffhangers are for television and the second installments of trilogies, dudes.

Boo to that. And also boo to picking Orlando Bloom over Johnny Depp. Although about an hour in, I did think "Orlando Bloom is the Cary Elwes of 2007" and by the third act, he showed up in full on Dread Pirate Roberts gear, down to the black head scarf.

(There are also a handful of dreadful anti-feminist implications in the final half hour of "Pirates of the Caribbean 3," which I will not touch with a ten foot pole. If you manage to write Keira Knightly into some kind of bad ass pirate queen role, and then leave her half naked in a dress on a beach, anything I might say on the subject would be wasted on you.)

Happy Boxing Day

I meant to mention this before, but the holidays have a way of distracting one from such things. My once-and-future boss has an awesome piece in last Sunday's NYT Style section, here:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/23/fashion/23weiner.html?ref=fashion. Very honest and very funny, all at once.

In a nice trifecta of surprises, "Mad Men" showed up on both the Times' TV critics best-of-2007 lists AND got a name check in Bill Carter's piece about how HBO has messed up royally. As in, if HBO had developed "Mad Men" last year instead of wasting their time with "John From Cincinnati,"maybe HBO's reputation wouldn't be in the crapper now.

As for Christmas in Santa Monica: Good times. I think standing rib roast may be the go-to meal for festive occasions in #403 for quite some time. I've just about got the hang of it now, and even managed to simul-cook gravy, popovers and two side dishes in the last 20 minutes. (Kudos to my excellent support staff, Michael and Jack, who chopped, cleaned and prepped their hearts out.)

And today: Leftovers and third wave baking for a few folks who were out of town on Christmas proper.

Interpretive Dance and Healing Little Girls

Who is more cool than the nurses working in the stem cell unit @ Children's Memorial in Chicago? Answer: Nobody.

The most awesome video I've ever seen:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZlgrdIeDoo

P.S. Merry Christmas, Donna's marrow! Go you!

Juno What? Jit Wasn't Bad.

I read the "Juno" screenplay before seeing the movie, and full disclosure, it made me eat my own heart with a grapefruit spoon. Funny, smart, original, on paper "Juno" is everything I've ever aspired to be as a screenwriter.

I was prepared to see the movie, and much like the first time I saw "Finding Nemo" or "O Brother Where Art Thou?", realize that someone already had the career of my dreams and despair that I would ever find my own spot in the sunlight. (Television very rarely fills me with such hopelessness, maybe because I realize that with so many hours of original television per year, there's always another shot at greatness. Movies are far dicier -- they take so much time and money, it seems there's just a finite number of chances to get it right.)

I liked "Juno" a lot. I probably shouldn't have read the screenplay before hand, but I couldn't help myself. A number of references went right over my head, but the ones I got ("Thundercats are go!") made me laugh. Even so, probably my favorite thing in the whole film is Paulie Bleeker's mumbled reply to Juno's claim that he's really cool and he doesn't even try. "I try really hard, actually."

Being me, I had problems with the film even so. (You may remember that the thing that dumbfounded me about "No Country for Old Men" was my complete inability to see something I would have changed or tweaked. I didn't like the ending, but I have no idea how to do it differently.)

Mainly, I didn't know what I was hoping for. Or, more precisely, I didn't know what I feared would happen. Juno is so capable, so steady, nothing seems to shake her. Even when (to avoid spoilers) the fates turn against her, it's hard to see what the problem is. She comes from a stable family, her stepmom already has maternal feelings towards the unborn child, and in her small Minnesota town, she's earned exactly one dirty look, one snide remark and a wide berth from her classmates. She reports that everyone makes fun of her behind her back, but we never see it, or the impact of that mocking on her ego. She's bulletproof.

Somehow in the course of making a movie about how a plucky heroine gets herself in a jam and manages to triumph, the writer and director managed to soften all the hard corners and rough spots of the jam, so it no longer seems like such a big deal.

Which, to check in for a minute with reality, is nuts. Teenage, out of wedlock, still a junior in high school pregnancy, is an extremely big deal.

I was, for all intents and purposes, vacuum sealed like a can of Hills Bros. coffee from birth until well into college. And I mean, well into college. But even so, the spectre of unplanned pregnancy loomed large through all four years of high school. What if this innocent flirtation blossomed into actual dating? And what if dating blossomed into necking? And what if... And right about then, I'd start working through exactly how screwed I would be if I got pregnant.

The disappointment of my teachers, the judgment of my peers, the awkward moments in health class. How would I take gym? What about the PSATs? The ACT? The SAT? The AP Exams? The upcoming production of "The Foreigner" that I was supposed to stage manage?

And that was just in the time it would take me to carry the trash from the back door to the alley.

So what I'm wondering is, how do you spend six months writing a screenplay, and a couple years making the resulting movie, and never touch on any of this? No one Juno likes and/or respects ever judges, criticizes or rejects her for the decision she makes. In other words, no one ever *tests* that incredible resolve and fortitude -- in fact, considering the comfy snuggly world she moves in, I'm not sure where that resolve and fortitude comes from. (Note, by the way, that even though her biological mom has ditched out on her, she's welcome and loved in her dad's new family -- and not spending her life traveling between the two households.)

Look, it was a sweet movie and I enjoyed it. All I'm saying is: If you're going to tell a story that, frankly, many millions of teenage girls have lived first hand, you might honor their suffering and experience by at least touching on some of the crap they had to deal with and yes, overcome. Otherwise, it's like opening "Saving Private Ryan" with shots of twenty soldiers skipping off a troop transport and up a garden path through a rose garden to have a little tea party before heading in country.

Eff You, Frank Capra...

Just saw "It's a Wonderful Life" with MG... and cried through almost 40% of the film, starting with the tearful scene of revelation with Mr. Gower and lingering through the walk to the car.

Okay, WHAT did Capra do? I don't get it. How can you put together a two-hour, by-the-numbers black and white classic and wring me out like a dishrag? How?

I don't get it, I don't like it, and if I ever meet Capra in the great beyond, he and me are gonna have words.

And Don't Even Get Me Started on Hoagy Carmichael

I've seen "To Have or Have Not," hmmm, a dozen times. Maybe more. There's not a single good thing in the whole movie -- it's just a chaotic shambles. Ernest Hemingway hams it up in the source material, William Faulkner drinks his ass off as he wrote the script, Howard Hawks cribs major swaths of "Casablanca." And yet I love it so.

I love 19-year-old Lauren Bacall. Slim isn't the word. She's a size 0 by 2007 standards, and since it's 1943, she comes across the tallest drink of water to ever wear heels. I don't think any 19-year-old has ever been so glamorous or knowing before or sense.

Humphrey Bogart's earning his paycheck and checking out Ms. Bacall's rack whenever he thinks the camera isn't looking.

Walter Brennan is nailing what, conservatively, might be his 900th rummy role. He's got this crazy jittery walk and insists on asking people "Was you ever bit by a dead bee?"

But above all, I love the dialogue. Rich, campy, over the top and wonderful.

"You know how to whistle, doncha Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."

"A dead bee can sting ya just as bad as a live one, 'specially if he was mad when he died."

"Sometimes I know just what you're thinking. And sometimes... sometimes you're just a stinker."

Bleh

Yet another one of these "men vs. ladies, who's funnier?" stories, here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7153584.stm.

I could give a shit about the methodology here, or whether a unicycle rider is, in fact, the idea test of humor.

Let's cut to the chase: Men are funnier. Period, end of story. Ask Christopher Hitchens if you don't believe me.

love,

Kate

P.S. I've given this a lot of thought, and at this date, have decided would *much* rather be the gender considered comedy deficient -- makes it much, much easier to crack people up when they don't see it coming. Poor men, y'all got Robin Williams blowing your cover. First time in my life I actually have something for which to thank Ann Coulter.

P.P.S. When are the surly 13 and 14-year-olds of the world going to rise up and give Hitchens the beat down of all time? He's totally stolen their gig -- saying half-assed shit, then refusing to admit there might be another perspective. That's been the entire raison d'etre of young teenagers for at least 50 years, and now Hitchens has razed all the usual topics to rubble. Mother Teresa wasn't so great; Hanukkah is a shitty holiday; we should scrap our government and start over. Not to mention the ballpoint pen tattoo of the Van Halen logo on his left hand. Jesus, dude, hurry up and die of alcohol poisoning before you ruin being a teenager forever.

Sesame! It's Sesame!

Blogger has added a new filter for comments, which is a mercy because I really dislike having to personally moderate comments. Blargh, no thanks. So as of now, if you have a Gmail, LiveJournal, AOL, TypeKey or WordPress account, you can log in and comment with abandon. Have at it!

I only turned comment moderation on because I got spammed (no kidding) by a Norwegian male enhancement website. It was all Gs and those funny looking Os and the word "Viagra."

But it could be worse. Slate.com has a piece up this week, offering a wrap up of all the questions sent to Explainer which weren't answered in the last 12 months.

I used to get questions like this when I worked at iVillage and assembled reader queries for our team of experts. At times, you can scarcely believe the sender was actually able to turn on their computer, much less find your website.

These are Slate's questions, but like the requests I used to get, they fall under six basic categories:

Why Do You Ask? Actually, Never Mind. I Don't Want to Know.

• I haven't seen this in the news, but perhaps you could explain it anyway. Why do people feel like destroying things when angry?

• Why does having a foreign accent make a person seem more attractive?

• Is it possible in any way to prove that someone was on crack cocaine nine to 10 years ago?

• Which is the best hearing aid? Why are there so many different ones, and are the ones that allow you to hear others' conversations across the room legal?

• When a man lies to his lawyer to obtain a divorce from a wife of 47 years when she is ill and does not even know and cannot defend herself, is this legal, or perjury?

• If an unscrupulous bar owner was to mix diethylene to, say, whiskey, what would the effect be on the consumer?

When Stoned People Go Online

• Could you play sports in space, if you had a spacesuit?

• In Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Identity, he says that Jason Bourne can pack with great economy of space, allowing him to pack much more in a small bag than it would seem. How would one do this, and is it even a real thing?

• Can a baby get drunk off of nonalcoholic beer?

• Why are some cats softer to the touch than others? Is it possible I have the softest cat in the world?

• Why do men almost never win on ABC's Wheel of Fortune?

• Why don't we drop medical waste and nuclear waste into active volcanoes, the "ultimate high-temperature incinerators"?

• Can dogs be mentally retarded?
• When a fly lands on a ceiling, does it execute a barrel roll or an inside loop?

• If I drank a bunch of orange juice, which caused me to get heartburn, then ate a bunch of antacids, would it neutralize the vitamin C, thus providing no benefits from the ingested vitamin? If so, if you ate antacids continually, would you get scurvy?

I Can't Help You with Your Screenplay.

• What infections do viruses and microorganisms suffer from? My guess is none. They only suffer from random mutations and suffering caused (mostly by humans) by chemicals.

• What do the SWAT teams do to keep their fitness? Like, do they run for half an hour, or do five pressups?

• What would happen to the rest of the planets and the sun if Jupiter were to explode, or somehow leave our galaxy altogether?

Would it be possible to "shoot" someone with "lightning"? Like, a Taser with no electrodes.

Do Your Grandchildren Know You're Online?

• I have been looking for an old movie from about the late '60s. I was born in 1960 and watched it as a little kid. It was a Santa movie and it had the Devil in it. It was like the Devil was trying to stop Christmas. I remember the Devil was wearing red PJs. Santa has a magic powder that would make people sleep. It was a cute movie. Please help.

• Why don't long-haired football players, many of them of Polynesian descent, get their tresses tugged during their gridiron clash?

• Why do most reptiles go to sleep when you rub their bellies? I have done it myself with everything from domestic water dragons to wild alligators, but I heard recently that it is bad for them—and they only appear to be sleeping, when in fact they are having trouble breathing. Is this true?

• Mitt Romney is running for president. His father, George Romney, a former governor of Michigan, ran for president in 1968. Is "Mitt" named for the mitten-shape of Michigan?

• Why do male ice skaters have routines that are so feminine in execution? After all these years, there should be some kind of movements on ice that would be more masculine-looking. The gymnastics shows have them.

• There was the most beautiful sunset here in Indiana last evening. Would the California fires have anything to do with that?

• Why don't they build into cars a secret button for police to use, and when these people are trying to get away from police down the freeway and city streets at 100 mph, the following police car could push the button, making the engine on the speeding car stop? Surely there must be some smart person who could make this.

• I've been looking for information on how the word "dick" became an insult, especially since people still go by the name Dick. Why would anyone choose that name, when it has other meanings?!?!

Really, That's What You Want to Know?

• Very rare to find a hotel room with a light on the ceiling, they're usually floor lamps or desk lamps. Is there some structural reason for that??

On the Internet, No One Knows You're Dumb

• How do surface-dwelling fish survive monster sea storms?

• How often are presidents born, and how often do they die? Do they die in bunches, or on average every four years?

• Is there such a thing as "crazy eyes," where the whites go all the way around the corneas and makes the person look psycho, such as those of runaway bride Jennifer Wilbanks and wife-dismemberer Stephen Grant?

• I've always wanted to know why bald heads shine!!!

• If mountains are measured from sea level, then the 12,000-foot peaks in Colorado are only about 7,000 feet above Denver since they lie on a 5,000-foot-high plain. That being so, a one-foot rock lying on the ground becomes a 5,001-foot-high mountain. Do we need to address this differently, if it really matters at all?

• This may be a dumb question. Most people spell their names as first name, middle initial, and last name. But some people spell their name as initial, given name, and then last name. Is the initial before the given name their first name, and they go by their middle name? Or is the initial before the given name their middle initial? If it is their middle initial, why would you put it before your first name, because then it is not in the middle anymore? It seems like conservatives or Republicans are more likely to list their name starting with an initial.

• Is it "open sees me" or "open says me"?

No One Talks About the Icy Speculum of the Marketplace

I am totally fascinated by the recent wave of bloggers and columnists scratching their heads and wondering what it means that two different 2007 movies feature pregnant ladies who decide not to have an abortion.

What's happening to this country? Does this mean it's cool to get knocked up by accident? Can we expect a spike in unplanned teenage pregnancies? Etc.

Yes, yes, all fascinating. Except for one thing: If you want to make a movie about people dealing with the fallout of pregnancy, you need someone to be pregnant.

And that's why the protagonists in "Knocked Up" and "Juno" don't have abortions. The characters justify their decisions in various ways, but that's really the bottom line. The same principle obtains in "Nine Months," but I don't recommend watching it to verify my claim. Just take my word for it.

The very, very bottom line is that film is a visual medium, and a lady doesn't get babylicious until the fourth month. Your best visual gags will take place between months six and nine -- when you are way, way past the point of no-return, abortionwise, both medically and culturally. Bump=baby.

I know I'm teetering on the edge of becoming an insufferable old bore. Two and a half years of film school has turned me into the narrative equivalent of the irritating economics major I worked with in New York, who insisted that taxes restrain economic activity. I hated his smug ass then -- and still retain a lingering hatred for Princeton alums as a result -- but I concede, he had a point. Not one worth extrapolating into the WSJ's stated policy of No Taxes Ever For Anyone, but a point nonetheless.

But just as reduced income will limit spending, it is also true that if you want characters to deal with a situation, you have to put them, irrevocably, in that situation, whether it's pregnancy or an office tower being held hostage by terrorists or a plane full of snakes. You have to deal with all the possible exits, and block them off, one by one.

And that, really, is the only reason why no one has an abortion in a movie about pregnancy.

Today, It Came!

I am a born wine steward. Someone should hire me to acquire young vintages for their cellar, or possibly, assemble a small inventory of cheeses, to be aged right up to the threshold of perfection.

Because I am very good at waiting.

How good? A brief survey of the internet reveals that Palm-branded smartphones have been around since 2002. I've wanted one since the very first Treo 180 came into existence. I subsequently wanted, in order, a Tungsten W, a Treo 600, a Treo 650, a Treo 700 and a Treo 750.

But there is no reasoning with Kate's Ability to Wait. For wait she can, as long as necessary, for the Device of Her Dreams.

I've limped along with basic cellphones -- whatever model you can get for free when you sign a two year contract. For a while there, MG and I shared one phone, licking our wounds after a savage termination fee debacle when we moved to Los Angeles. In the same window of time, I've had two PDAs, a Palm IIIc and a Tungsten C. And I love that little Tungsten C, but oh my God, a fully-functional wifi device it is NOT. And yet I hung in there.

Back in June, with the dawn of the iPhone, I was sorely tempted. I hate AT&T's network and their customer service. I hated that the iPhone worked with the much slower EDGE network. And I wasn't a huge fan of the touchscreen keyboard. And still, I was tempted. But no.

No, I waited until yesterday, when the waters parted and Verizon released the Treo 755p -- designed to work on the lightning-fast EVDO network. Thoroughly QA'd to work out the bugs that filled page after page of angry forum comments all over the internet. And most importantly, not hooked up to the fearfully spotty Sprint.

I hesitated for a moment, then remembered that the next generation iPhone won't be out until this time next year, which really means the soonest I could possibly want it would be late 2009. Reader, I bought the phone.

Verizon, god bless them, piled on so many rebates and discounts that it knocked the $570 price down to $250. Even so, I had several long, miserable hours, when I discovered that the phone would not be black or silver, but a shade called "azure green."

I know it sounds ridiculous, but when you've waited FIVE YEARS to buy a smartphone, you'd like it to be a non-stupid color.

Happily, azure green is basically greenish grey, kind of a scarab-shell color, which I can live with. The internet access is wicked fast, the voice quality excellent. J'adore.

It was worth the wait. And now, happily, the future stretches ahead of me, unoccupied by ambitions or expectations.

For now.

Get Thee Behind Me, Mushroom Pizza!

Writing on deadline will break you of bad habits faster than a mean nun with a ruler.

I still love sugar and chocolate and, especially, crusty bread. But every single one of these things makes me crash like a dosed-up heroin addict, and so I had to give them up in order to get my work done.

Now that the dust has settled, I'm having trouble going back to my old ways. I remember the crushing energy drop, the hours of lethargy, waiting for my blood sugar to normalize, and I just can't do it. For this reason, as much as any other, I have given up Peppermint Bark. Yes, you heard me. Me and the PBark, we're quitsville. Look, it's still minty delicious, and I still enjoy a small piece when I walk past a Williams-Sonoma. But that's it.

In a similar vein, I've shattered yet another barrier to the wheat-free life: Mac and cheese. In my version (stolen from here, and apparently, she stole it from Nigella), I roast a butternut squash then toss it with blue cheese and toasted pecans. I think it might be proof of God's existence.

Like With Milk, Only To Chin Dimples

I am ridiculously loyal. It takes enormous, even catastrophic events to make me reconsider my allegiances.

Without realizing it, my loyalties have apparently transferred to "Mad Men," even though I was on the job for little more than a week, and physically in the office even less than that. The first sign was the great satisfaction I felt when the show racked up two Golden Globe nominations and three WGA nominations. It wasn't a personal satisfaction -- interns don't have that kind of influence on final cuts of episodes. But it gives me so much pleasure to see so much hard work rewarded.

Almost as good, the TV critic for my hometown paper, Maureen Ryan, put the show at the top of her list of Top Ten TV Shows of 2007. That's awesome. If I ever meet Ms. Ryan, I may have to kiss her on the mouth. I hope she doesn't mind.

On the other hand, I wish I had a wet, icy snowball, perfect aim and a spot outside the offices of New York magazine, so I could bean John Leonard in the ear for inexplicably labeling this same heavily-praised show one of the "Best Ideas that Went South." This from the same guy who thinks Anna Friel* is the best thing on television and "Women's Murder Club" as the best new show of the year.

In a month or two, the strike will end and I will no longer be an out of work assistant, nursing petty grudges. I will have to rise above all that and be mature and not post on the Television Without Pity boards about how Don Draper is not Jewish. Not that I ever did that. And I definitely didn't post any comments about the show's research and the meticulous attention to detail w/r/t the pronunciation of "keitan," the little-known Japanese suicide sub used in WWII.

But right now, I owe Mr. Leonard cold, hard one to the left ear.

*I am Friel-intolerant. It is embarrassing to me, but she makes me nuts. I came to the fall 2007 season expecting to love "Pushing Daisies," and tragically, discovered in the pilot that I cannot look at Anna Friel or hear her voice for more than 5 second together. She's the strobe light and I'm the epileptic. It's not fair or right, but it's how I feel.

I Know, Global Warming!

I have angered Kate's Stomach. This is not good.

I don't know if it was the month and a half of remorseless focus on my thesis or if some internal chemical imbalance has righted itself. But those brief flashes of hunger I felt last weekend when MG's folks were here are back with a vengeance.

I got so hungry at 2 p.m. I had to actually stop and eat. That never happens. Then, having eaten, I got hungry again three hours later. WHAT THE HELL? It's almost like I'm alive or something.

It's possible, I suppose, that my anxiety about school was artificially suppressing my appetite. But then why am I now EXTRA hungry?

Clearly I need to think up something to worry about asap.

No Wants!

I could lie and say, I don't even know what a lolcat is, my mom sent me this and I thought it was funny. But that's not how I roll.

Yes, I have a lolcat problem. I routinely check icanhascheezburger.com for fresh, newly hilarious lolcat humor. I also quite enjoy LOLTHULHU, although it helps if you're somewhat familiar with H.P. Lovecraft. (MG wrote a hilarious H.P. Lovecraft/P.G. Wodehouse smashup about ten years ago, the best line of which involved some bluff colonel observing "I say, I think this Cthulu blighter wants to eat our soul, what." (Or words to that effect. I've begged MG to dig up this piece but he swears it's lost forever, so that means I get to make up whatever I want and claim he wrote it. Mwhwhahahahaha!)

The gradual unclenching of my brain continues apace. This morning I woke up without praying that I could sleep for several more years. That's a good sign.

I've also had some thoughts in the general vein of "You know what might be fun?" and the answer wasn't: "Hide in my closet until the end of the semester." MG and I are going to get a Christmas tree later today, and possibly take in a screening of "Juno," as well.

Also slowly drifting back to life is the part of my brain that looks to the future and thinks of things that might be nice to own in the not to distant future. You wouldn't guess that this is something your brain could stop doing, but mine can. My very sweet mother-in-law had an uphill battle last weekend, trying to figure out what I might like for Christmas, when all I could do was stare at sweaters as if they were a French verb I'd never seen before.

"I don't.... can you... is it something you *wear* or something you *eat*?"

Speaking of eating, that's a whole other category of fun. I was so unplugged from my appetite that all last weekend, I would grudgingly agree to go some where for a meal, even though I wasn't hungry. Then the second I sat down, I would be ravenously hungry. As in, starving.

That is also slowly improving, as I am realizing that I need to eat, then preparing and consuming food accordingly.

Anyway, the universe in its gracious way is helping me out. Just as I am starting to have some interest in Christmas presents, Cole Haan has marked down my favorite ballet flats and miracle of miracles, I think Verizon is actually going to release the Treo 755p in the next week.

And so the cycle of life continues. I think of things I want, and lo! they are available for purchase.

NBC Hates Me

I love "30 Rock." It is, hands down, my favorite show on tv. (Sticklers for accuracy may want to note that three or four other shows are not even on the air right now.)

So why why why is so hard for NBC and my Tivo to get together, and you know, make sweet, sweet DVR love to each other?

Once again, a new episode of "30 Rock" has aired and I don't have it on my Tivo. And that sucks.

Still Can't Stop Blogging

Celebrated the conclusion of two years and four months of graduate school with the World's Strongest Gin and Tonic and a viewing of the long-anticipated "Battlestar Galactica: Razor," which had been waiting on my Tivo for just this moment.

BSG has been on hiatus for six months or more at this point, and I guess maybe that's why I had forgotten that the show Does Not Eff Around.

Holy Crap. I was literally putting it on pause every couple of minutes, just to brace myself for the next wave of hot hell.

After that, MG came out and we started to watch "Treasure of the Sierra Madre." I will say, the film has some obstacles to overcome. For one, we know there's treasure, so the long first act leading up to the moment when Ol' Man Prospector does his ridiculous scampering dance of We Done Found Us Some Gold! was hard to get through.

Then, like the world's slowest moving reality show, the prosperity starts to change Hardened Tough Guy Played by Humphrey Bogart, as he becomes suspicious and cold-hearted. Or possibly he suffered a concussion in that mine collapse. But then how to explain his strange return to sanity when it comes time to leave?

We hit pause and went to bed at the 1 hour, 20 minute mark, with still 55 minutes of "Sierra Madre" left. I, for one, am not looking forward to the almost-hour-long denouement. I have seen enough episodes of "The Twilight Zone" to know that when three guys strike it rich in the Mexican desert, with almost an hour to go until credits, they're gonna learn that Money Can't Save Your Life When You Do Battle with the Elements.

And that's not even getting into the non-logic of the total stranger who insists they let him mine with them, or the Bandito who, thanks to some racist characterization, was dumb enough to think the miners would sell THEIR ONLY WEAPONS to guys who would clearly SHOOT THEM and TAKE BACK THE MONEY right after the sale.

Aye Carumba indeed, my portly racist stereotype.

Christmas Miracles

1. My long lost scarf arrived from Ireland. Technically not the lost scarf, but a replacement, yet I feared that it had been eaten by Customs and would never arrive. But no, it came yesterday afternoon.

2. With six hours of sleep, three caffeinated beverages, some sea salt and vinegar potato chips and the final hour of "The Winslow Boy," I managed to finish a draft of my rewrite homework.

3. Somehow, I am still awake and able to function well enough to do laundry. Which is a godsend, because I am down to my last pair of clean knickers.

4. MG has taken fantastic care of me through these last arduous weeks. This is not so much a miracle, as he is the best partner a girl could hope for, but in the spirit of being grateful for all the little things, he definitely belongs on the list.

5. I had two dollars discretionary money on my student ID and the film school's coffee stand was a) open, b) equipped with a working espresso machine and c) stocked with skim milk, so I could purchase what might be my very last medium non-fat latte for some years to come. It will be three years this February that MG and I sat on a bench outside Lucas, waiting for the school tour to start, when I decided to see if I could find a bathroom and discovered the Lucas Coffee Cart. Never in my life have I felt such a powerful desire to enroll in a school, as I felt at that moment.

6. Barring complete disaster, I have in fact finished my MFA. Only thing left is to get the fancy document in the mail.

Oh Dear God...

Pages written today: Zero.

Number of carb-craving vampires living in my stomach, whispering dark suggestions about an idiotically ill-advised trip to Pizzeria Mozza for a fungi misto special: One.

Hours remaining until I must stop writing, print the script and drive to campus: Twenty-two.

Number of remaining hours I will undoubtedly end up sleeping: Eight.

Therefore, remaining hours to work on this script: Fourteen.

How fucked I am right now: Very.

One Woman Dares to Ask...

Can you write an act and a half of a screenplay -- say, 50 pages or so -- in twenty-four hours?

Watch this space for the answer!

Countdown

T-Minus 90 minutes to Sweetbread Consumption.

Gonna be good. Can barely wait.

Yum.

Drunk on Carbs

Okay, yes, I've cut back on bread 'n pasta and whatnot. And maybe I'm not as used to the White Stuff as I once was.

But I ate three piece of pizza this afternoon, and you would have thought I'd taken up smoking opium, I was so disoriented and tired.

Some smart person who knows about nutrition could probably explain how something like that happens, but the hell with it. I'm back on the no-bread bandwagon.

Well, except for that leftover slice in the fridge.

Don't Tell Her I Said So

Willa the calico is having an attack of the high spirits known in our apartment as the Skirballs. (This is the name of a performing arts center in Los Angeles, but for some reason suggests not so much culture as frantic cat hijinks.)

She has already ripped around the apartment a half dozen times, always going at such a clip that she's almost horizontal when she corners, the centrifugal force pulling her over as she goes. She's also jumped six inches at the sound of a New Yorker page being turned and leapt sidewise from a crouch into a full on run for the food bowl.

Speaking of the New Yorker, Louis Menand wrote a piece this week about diaries, which presents, as always, the temptation of spilling my guts via blog. So far, I've only gotten as far as being brutally honest about my cat's borderline psychosis.

You stumble upon blogs that allude to circumstances -- and you might even be able to guess those circumstances if you know the writer a little. But that's not the same thing as spelling out the gory details.

(I happened upon the blog of an ex-boyfriend once and discovered that he'd had an especially brutal break up in recent years. But he was so opaque about it, I have no way of knowing if I'm the heartless bint who effed him up or not. If so, I doubt my apology would do any good. If not, how egotistical of me to write him out of the blue with the assumption that I'd crushed him like a grape beneath my Dansko. Being me, I decided I probably was the heartless bint, and privately repented of my carelessness.)

There is a horrific scene in "Harriet the Spy," in which all her careful observations are laid bare when her classmates discover her notebook. I wonder what lesson other people took from that moment? Perhaps to keep one's notebooks carefully concealed from prying eyes? For me, I took it as an object lesson in never writing down things you don't want read by other people. And I've taken that lesson pretty seriously, although I did drink 'n diary in college, with predictably nightmarish results. (God, what would we do without shitty college roommates?)

In years past, I've searched the internet with a fine tooth comb for any and all accounts of aspiring television writers and their efforts to break in. The best of these -- a blog by a guy who landed an ABC/Disney Fellowship -- ended with the fellowship, then went behind a password-protected wall, and has now vanished from the face of the Web. There are enough aspiring writers out there that you would think at least one of them would have a tell-all blog.

But then I find myself not-quite-spelling-out where I intern, or who I interviewed with and for what job, and I see the real problem. It's not that I don't want other people to see what I'm up to, it's that I'm afraid to say it out loud, for fear it will all turn out to have been a lovely dream.

This Can't End Well

I'm only ten minutes into this week's episode of "Project Runway," but this three trends/three person teams concept?

OMFG.

Can You Vote Like a Fifth Grader?

The WSJ has an article this week about some homeowners' feeling that the subprime bail out is "unfair." As in, if you got locked into an ARM and couldn't afford the reset, then you deserve whatever happens to you.

Although the wall between the editorial page and the newsroom is pretty solid at WSJ (and thank God, since I'm pretty sure the desiccated remains of Adam Smith are displayed, relic style, in the former), it's possible that this article represents the rare breach.

After all, the WSJ editorial page feels VERY STRONGLY that there should be NO TAXES EVER, but ESPECIALLY NOT ON RICH PEOPLE. (Their caps. I know, it's weird. And it's only those three phrases, but they allcap 'em every time.) And nothing triggers tax hikes like the government spending money to slow a runaway train aimed right at many thousands of middle class homeowners.

I will, for the moment, ignore the growing evidence that for months, if not not years, unethical mortgage brokers steered customers to subprime mortgages even when the customers qualified for regular loans, or better still, FHA loans, because it was more lucrative for the broker to do so. Let's just skip that part.

Let's go to the part where the government shouldn't help someone else out because it's unfair to you, because you made sure you weren't financially boned.

Since when did being a bratty oldest child become a legitimate political position? And I say that AS a bratty oldest child.

Is this a thing now? Are there going to be political positions based on all our darkest childhood moments? Will presidential candidates scuffle at the debates until a moderator tells them to knock it off -- and even then, maybe Edwards takes one last parting swing at Clinton?

In the same vein, I caught six seconds of an NPR piece which featured a woman saying "I don't want to pay to feed someone else's child breakfast at school every morning."

Right. No, good. Because that free breakfast is the equivalent of the free Clinique gift with purchase -- every kid for miles around is angling wildly for their bowl of Mini Wheats. And who wouldn't? Let's just have kids from low-income homes starve through seven hours of school. Screw lunch. If we're not serving breakfast, why not go whole hog. Fantastic. No absolutely, why feed other people's kids? Let'em starve.

Or better yet, let them drop out in the sixth grade when the frustration of trying to learn on an empty stomach finally becomes too much. Because packs of middle school drop outs roaming neighborhoods does wonders for property values. They're also great for not having your car stolen out of the garage in the middle of the night.

If we're all voting on what we consider fair, then I vote that I shouldn't have to pay for military-dictatorship levels of policing, just because some withered old bag doesn't want her tax dollars to be spent on Cheerios.

Can. Not. Stop. Blogging.

I know it's no longer November, and therefore, I no longer have to post every single day, but I kinda can't stop. It's addictive, forcing myself to completely shut down any/all self-censorship and just frickin' post.

I also cannot stop looking at Lolcats. I do not know what is worse -- that they make me laugh or that I can go through 20 pages of photos in the space of 15 minutes.

If James Joyce were alive today, his next book would be written in Lolcat. Iz funn to think lik kitteh.

Strangely, the rules of Lolcat are consistent enough that even a minor violation (a caption that says "pwease" instead of "pleez") sticks out like a sore thumb. Cats may have terrible spelling and in their eagerness, they may cut grammatical corners, but they don't lisp and they don't drop consonants.

In a related vein, I am haunted by the Chik-Fil-A commercial with parachuting cows. It's not just that the cows learned to parachute ... I mean, how did they get the parachute rigs on in the first place? Or find rigs that would fit them? And despite the absence of thumbs, they were also able to write the words "Eat Mor Chikin" on the parachutes.

And yet, through all of this, the cows never learned how to spell the words "More" and "Chicken"? Doesn't it seem like either of those things would have come up? You go to all the trouble to parachute into a football game and you don't even bother to spellcheck your parachute?

Maybe that's why your kind ends up in Happy Meals. Ever think of that, Bessie?

Drink the Kool-Aid

When all else fails, I write in front of the television.

On the couch, coffee at hand, laptop fired up, TV on. I need all four things -- the TV on when I'm at my desk just makes me turn around in my chair. On the couch with no TV and I surf the internet for hours. No coffee means I have to go get coffee. Laptop, obviously, because Final Draft doesn't work with a legal pad.

I'm not proud of this. I know better than to work in front of the TV. But no kidding, it works. I should stop fighting the idea that it's wrong and just give in -- maybe I'd be closer to 90 pages now.

But it also has to be a very specific kind of television. It has to be something I actually want to watch, which unfortunately for MG rules out football and UFO documentaries. Entertaining but not especially good movies on HBO are best. I did three pages watching "The Departed" and seven pages watching "Live Free or Die Hard."

(You may be saying to yourself, ten pages in four hours of movies? That sucks. And my grown-up brain agrees with you. It's not great. But its a fuckload better than zero pages in four hours of sitting at my desk, which is my grown-up brain's idea of a good work space. So I'm gonna go with my nine-year-old brain's idea of a work space for now.)

Some television I refuse to watch while writing -- "30 Rock," "House," "Reaper." Shows that I intend to watch with complete focus. And some shows, even though I don't like to admit it, are a little too terrifying/enjoyable to keep me company at the laptop.

Specifically, "Project Runway." I must have mentioned this before, that Tim Gunn is like the boiled down concentrate of every departmental chair, every professor emeritus of every MFA program in the nation. He's serene but interested, wise but fallible. (I read in the NYT, shortly after Liz Claibourne hired him as creative director, that the job enabled him to finally move out of a typical small NY apartment, which fits as well.)

The writers... I mean, designers, break my heart. They have such hopes for the future; they know what they do well; they know what they love. And they do the best they can to meet the challenges, never knowing if they've succeeded until the moment of truth.

Virtually every designer smiles and nods at his/her model on the catwalk, momentarily in love with their work all over again. The smile doesn't slip away until that horrifying moment when Michael Kors looks you in the eye and asks what you were thinking with the six foot long train.

Still more horrifying are the interviews with the designers who are OBLIVIOUS to the giant mistake directly in their path. Their colleagues see it. Tim Gunn sees it. But the smitten designer is so in love, so consumed with their plans, that they're blind to any and all possible problems.

Those moments send me reaching me for the Tivo remote, because in my frail state, I can't really take too much of what, bluntly, is full-on Kool-Aid Drinking. In fact, all creative endeavors contain hours and hours of Kool-Aid Drinking, but you don't know it at the time. And for all we know, it will turn out to be delicious, tasty Kool-Aid that will make us the envy of all our friends.

But, alas for reality television, you can't make an hour-long show out of nothing but calculated gambles that pay off brilliantly. Somebody has to fall on their face. And what every creative person fears, as they sit on their couch, typing away; or stand in their studio, studying the canvas; or strum a few chords and look at the scribbled lyrics they've got so far --- what we all fear is that this is the time we fall on our face. Yet if anything is gonna get done, we've got to set that fear aside and do the next thing. And the thing after that. And the thing after that.

New Page Count

Forty one.

Nobody's saying they're good. Nobody's saying they're readable.

But there's forty one pages with stuff written on 'em, and I say: Thank frickin' God.

Design Flaw

As a Special Treat, I went up to the Trifecta of Starbucks around the corner from #403. (No joke -- two Starbucks and a 'Bucksian counter inside a grocery store, all on a single city block.) Ordered my usual grande non-fat latte, set to work.

A little while later, a young miss comes by with wee shots of something she calls "Eggnog Frappucinos." A delightful little cup of frothy goodness, with a tiny straw, a whiff of whipped cream and a dash of nutmeg. Lovely!

Yesterday, seeking to give myself another Special Treat, I went to another Starbucks (not in the Trifecta, but one of two on the Third Street Promenade, three if you count the Hear Music store, four if you count the Seattle's Best inside the Borders.) I purchased a tall eggnog frappucino. First sip: Yum. Second sip: Mmm, noggy. Third sip: Maybe needs a little nutmeg.

Then: An inescapable chemical tang filled my mouth. That was the end of the eggnog frappucino.

My mind is blown. I ordered a drink that, conservatively, packs around 400 calories into a 12 oz serving. You'd think all that fat and sugary goodness would, at minimum, hide any repellent aftertaste. Best case scenario: You wouldn't need to add anything that might produce such an aftertaste. But no. You would be wrong.

And where did her boobs come from?

Okay, granted, I wasn't paying the most attention. But two hours into "King Arthur" (with Clive Owen, who, btw, is WAY TOO OLD for Keira Knightly, but maybe that's the point), I just looked up and I swear to God I have NO IDEA what is going on.

Guinevere is a Pict? I mean, a Wode? And they're fighting the Saxons? And Arthur, a former Roman centurion judging by his headgear, is with the Picts? WTF?

Also, G, word to the wise: All the really bad ass ladies cover up the mid-drift when charging into battle. Really cuts down on the abdominal wounds.

Minor aside: Went to a 7:25 screening of "American Gangster" on Monday night. Actual movie did not start until 7:55. HALF AN HOUR! And not for some "Transformers" nonsense, with Burger King tie ins.

What is the world coming to when you can't go see a classic rise-and-fall epic without 30 minutes of trailers before hand?

LOLGRENDEL

I have looked EVERYWHERE for a production still from "Beowulf," without success.

There's a bright shiny quarter waiting for the first person who sends me an image of Robert Zemeckis' gibbering monster with the following caption:

i can has a thane?

Pro/Con

If the strike ends this week: I get my job back.

If the strike doesn't end until June: That's a long time to wait for a paycheck.

If the strike ends this week: How the hell will I finish my rewrite?

If the strike doesn't end until June: I have plenty of time to polish "Evil Girl."

If the strike ends this week: I'm running out of days to walk the picket lines

If the strike ends this week: I'm going to be working 60 hours weeks, so I should catch up on my sleep while I can.

Earlier this month, I was playing a little game I call best case scenario: If there is a strike, I have time to write. If there isn't a strike, I have a job.

I have now played this game so much that I cannot tell if the glass is half full or half empty.

Oooo! I Am The Ghost of Crappy Writing Yet to Be! Oooooo!

Weird thing. Woke up one day last week, maybe Thursday, with one perfectly clear thought in my head: Everybody knows, looking at the "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" poster, that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie don't die. Not even close.

A brief side note: I never need to see MAMS ever again. Which is weird, because it should be my idea of a perfect movie. But it lacks...something. Hmmm, I wonder what.

Then I thought of something Joss Whedon likes to say, that he'd rather a viewer were upset about the death of character, than if they just went "huh" and kept watching.

I might have put it together then, but the truth is, Mr. Whedon is extremely good at killing off characters in a way that rips your still-beating-heart out of your chest, throws it on the ground and then kicks it into oncoming traffic. If you've seen "Serenity," you know what I'm talking about, but similar stuff goes down on every Whedon joynt.

(Side note: What does it look like when Spike Lee and Joss Whedon team up? Just something to think about.)

Next day, I guess Friday, I had a dream that my dad ran Lucasfilm. But he wasn't George Lucas, he was my dad. And Lucasfilm appeared to be inside the Warner Bros office tower where I used to intern for "Smallville."

Anyway, my dad, good guy that he is, had greenlit one of my scripts. We stood in the back of a test screening, watching scene after scene of all the stuff I love in movies -- girls kicking butt, unexpected love interests, last minute saves. But it wasn't any fun to watch. Because it was safe. I hadn't put anyone in jeopardy, once in the entire film.

(See if you can think which Lucasfilm productions might suffer from the same problem. I'll give you a hint. They're about a group of characters, about whom we know which ones live and which ones die. Just saying.)

So I woke up, more than a little horrified by the thought that my dad had put his career on the line to make a film without any recognizable danger or stakes. And right then, I felt a profound rush of gratitude that I was only on page 10 of my rewrite project and would, thankfully, have time to repair matters.

I am also grateful that my subconscious, sensing that the first lesson didn't quite take, went ahead and sent a second telegram, just to make sure.

The Power of Imagination!

I'm sitting on the couch, theoretically finishing up the first act of this rewrite.

For the last ten minutes, my cat Willa has been trotting around the apartment, freezing and whirling around to confront the evil-doer lurking behind her.

Except that there are only three cats in my apartment. One is sleeping next to me (Anna.) One is sleeping on my messenger bag (Fifi.)

And the third one is running around the apartment as if she's being stalked by a predator only she can see.

A Brief Safety Video

Kate and MG stand in front of their front door.

MG: Hello! Welcome to Thanksgiving with Mike and Kate.

Kate: We realize you have a choice of venues for your Thanksgiving and we appreciate you spending this national holiday with us. As you might have heard, we whip up quite the spread!

MG: Not to mention the gravy!

(Both laugh.)

Kate: And that's why we've put together this brief safety video, to walk you through some important pointers, in the event of a gravy shortage.

(Kate and MG exchange a dark, knowing look, then covering, smile hugely at the camera.)

MG: Let's get started!

(MG opens the door, and we enter #403, festively decorated for Thanksgiving.)

MG: Now, first of all, remember that, in all likelihood, we won't run out of gravy. Kate's been at this for several years, and typically produces almost a gallon of rich, brown nectar for our enjoyment.

Kate: That's a lot of gravy!

MG: It sure is! But of course, we cannot predict the future. In the event that the roux goes lumpy or, say, one of the guests steals the gravy boat and barricades himself in the bathroom...

(MG trails off, barely restraining his anger. Kate pats his shoulder.)

Kate: You couldn't have known... (to camera) let's just say, with great gravy comes great responsibility. A responsibility to not chug two quarts of gravy in under forty seconds, and a responsibility to not leave potential gravy-chuggers alone with the gravy boat.

MG: Agreed. Well! In the event of a gravy shortage, we'd like to offer some pointers to help you through a potentially difficult time.

Kate: Most people go through five stages of gravy-shortage grief. First, denial.

MG: (demonstrates) C'mon, there must be more gravy! Did you check the kitchen? What about the roasting pan?

Kate: Then, anger.

MG: Who the fuck makes a cup and a half of gravy for eight people? That's just retarded.

Kate: Of course, bargaining.

MG: I'll give you $50 if you let me lick your plate.

Kate: Depression....

MG: Oh my God, I can't believe we're out of gravy.

Kate: And finally, acceptance.

MG: Hey, are you guys making turkey for Christmas?

Kate: And of course, we don't make turkey for Christmas, but rest assured, whatever we *do* make?

MG: There will be gravy!

(Both laugh.)

Kate: That just about wraps things up for us. If you enjoyed this video, please feel free to view our other short films, including "Don't Go In There!: Four Reasons to Avoid the Bathroom Where We Keep the Cats' Litter Boxes"...

MG: And "Satan's Nutsack: Ten Signs that the Kitchen Garbage Needs to Be Taken Out."

One Gravy to Rule Them All

It started with my first co-Thanksgiving with the Gerbers, when it was revealed that Gram Gerber, maker of the gravy, was not there, and so, no gravy would be forthcoming. Falling back on my knowledge of pan sauces, I gave it a shot, with decent results.

The next year, I had a plan: I went onto Cooksillustrated.com and researched a short-cutty gravy methodology. And good thing, because living with MG had already started to atrophy my knowledge of pan sauces. (You would not believe the number of things I could make from memory before I started dating Michael and his miscellaneous allergies. I could do a hollandaise with one hand tied behind my back, as long as somebody helped me crack the eggs.)

Now, it's like the spawning of the salmon. I cannot be stopped. Even when, say, we're actually eating over at the neighbors and the turkey roasting away in #403 is just for MG's own personal consumption. Even then, I will leave a pot of giblets to simmer while we're out. We come back and I start to wonder, *could* you make a roux with corn starch? (Corn being the one grain that doesn't hammer MG's digestive tract like a Viking.) And hey, I've got nothing else to do while the turkey is cooling, why not deglaze the pan with some white wine? Eight or nine strainings later, and voila: A quart of dark brown gold.

It is so, so good. Oh lord.

Is it possible for us to skip kids and just have gravy instead? I mean, would anyone really mind?

Couple Miles South of Normal

Still in the mother of all funks.

I think the problem might be that, now that Norman Mailer is dead, his personal writer's block has hit the road, looking for some place to roost. And it's landed on our Santa Monica couch.

Let me just say, for the record, that Norman Mailer's Writer's Block is not welcome. I did not invite Mailer's Block in, I did not offer to inflate the Aerobed for Mailer's Block. If I thought burning sage would help, I'd torch a metric ton of the stuff, smoke detector be damned.

The fundamental disconnect, I think, is that NMWB used to hang out with the big guns -- Ernest Hemingway's Block, F. Scott Fitzgerald's Block, John Updike's Block (although I think Updike's Block killed itself in despair at its consuming failure to actually stop Updike from cranking out a Talk of the Town every two hours.) Mailer's Block expects me to drown it in aged scotch and Marlboro Reds. A 16 oz non-fat latte bounces off Mailer's Block like a Nerf bat.

Generally speaking, the kinds of things I consider to be mood boosters only bewilder Mailer's Block. It sits on its haunches, licking its scaly balls, while I strip the bed, do three loads of laundry and make the bed. "How is that supposed to scare me off?" Mailer's Block wonders, following me with its yellow eyes as I trot off to the kitchen to empty the dish washer.

This could be a very, very long weekend.

More Like Asscake Factory If You Ask Me

Am I the only one who feels like every trip to Costco is somewhere between scoring a ticket to Oprah's annual Christmas show and wandering through a foreign country?

The optimist in me thinks of Costco as a corporate version of Zingermans, a seeker of delights and treasures that might otherwise get overlooked. Every free sample I put in my mouth is always so delicious! Oh, Costco, how could I have judged you so harshly? Your tomato bisque is so yummy! Your dulce con leche cheese cake is so ... waxy? What the hell...

That's the Costco Sample Paradox in a nutshell. The first bite is great, the second bite is fantastic, and then, a few seconds after you've finished it off... you feel like you ate a crayon.

Technically, if you help yourself to a sample of the Cheesecake Factory's Gourmet Sampler, you pretty much have eaten a crayon. It says right on the box that the "Snow Cap Topping" (the creamy stuff posing as whipped cream) is made from palm oil, one of those awesome solid-at-room temperature fats that leaves a slick coating on the inside of your mouth after you eat it.

My inner pessimist surfaces after my third or fourth unpleasant free sample -- I can't quite grasp that I belong to a people who buy gallon tubs of tomato bisque -- bisque that contains 40% of your daily sodium requirement in every 8 oz serving. That's when I start to stare at the shelves as if I am strolling through a Tesco in Tehran.

It doesn't help matters that I have fallen off the carbohydrate wagon with a vengeance. It started with the suspicion that that my migraine meds were making me gain weight. (Chiefly because I had to stop taking it for a week, and in that week, lost three pounds. Hmmm.) Eff that, I thought. I'll just keep a running tally, and when I have definitive proof, I'll go to my doctor and tell her that I need to try something else.

Except that I didn't want to falsely accuse my meds if the real problem was the half pound of lasagna I ate the day before. So I stopped eating lasagna. And bread. And rice. In fact, pretty much all grain-based foods have vanished from my diet lately.

And now I've lost another four pounds. Kinda literally. Like, I don't know where they went. I'm not hungry and I'm not hitting the gym for hours every day. I did eat four ounces of duck liver pate with a fork the other day (b/c, you know, no bread), but other than that, there's really nothing bizarre about my diet. (For example, my macaroon habit alive and well, no fucking thanks to those crack dealers at Vanilla Bakery. You people are dead to me! You hear? DEAD! Which reminds me, I need to pick up a couple for Thursday's dessert.)

Seriously, the macaroon is the French Oreo, only made from butter and ... more butter. You know why French women don't get fat? Because their national pastry is so rich, nobody can eat more than two.

Clearly bread, pasta and rice are all secretly made out of ice cream. I mean, what other explanation is there? In fact, NYT science writer Gary Taubes thinks that humans were never meant to eat significant quantities of bready carbs and that the current low fat mania is scientific bunk. (Which, ironically, means that ice cream might be better for you than bread. I think I just broke my brain.)

Granted, I am not going eat a couple slices of ice cream every night, but at this point, I'm having trouble looking at bread, et al as if they were legitimate food items. (It helps that, having migraines, I am used to writing off foods as inedible because eating them gives me a whanging headache.)

Then you walk past shopping carts stacked with *multiple* trays of muffins. Not just muffins, but muffins with some kind of sugary buttery crumble topping. And it starts to feel like you're in Amsterdam, standing in line at one of those coffee houses that have a separate menu boards for coffee, tea and pot.

Yes, this crazy decadent nation of ours! When will we learn to make better food choices? And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy a whipped cream gun.

Uh, it IS Kate

Because I have a million errands to run today, I am poaching today's post from something my sister sent me.

Last August, the powers-that-be decided to cast the "Mad Men" interns as extras in the season finale. Todd the sound engineer would be played by my fellow intern, and Norma the voiceover artist would be played by me. Neither of us had lines, which is why we could even be cast -- speaking parts always go through the casting director.

Anyway, not wanting to be cocky, I kept this news to myself. Even though there were several master shots with me in the frame, I know perfectly well that you can cut anyone and anything out of a scene if you really want to.

Fast forward to the broadcast of the season finale. Nothing. Crickets. I call my family. Several of them have already watched it, and loved it. And? And nothing, it was a great episode.

Hmmm.

Finally, I put up a picture on Facebook from my day on the set. My sister Molly's like "Is that your Halloween costume?" Uh, no. I spill the beans. Her reply?

NO WAY. I watched the finale, so did larry! The scene were the three chicks are in the sound booth??? Wait...I remember that scene very clearly. Hold on.

NO WAY. There you are!! how the fuck did I miss that!! That is insane!

She decides that, obviously, our parents were just distracted when they watched the episode, or they would have recognized me. She sets about trying to rectify the situation, thusly:

After playing the scene 4 times with no light bulb going off, I paused the screen with you on it for Dad. He stared at it, trying to see what he was supposed to be seeing...

Me: You don't see it?

Dad: No...

Me: Look on the left side of the screen

[silence, light bulb still off]

Carrie Powers: Does someone in that screen look familiar? Like they are related to you maybe?

Dad: Well, I guess maybe that looks like Kate a little?

Larry: Uh, it IS Kate

Dad: Get OUTTA here!!

Then when we hit play and you walked out he practically screeched "The Walk! That's Kate!"

In fact, I think all of this speaks to my natural gifts as an extra. I am so restrained in my performance that even BLOOD RELATIONS cannot spot me on screen. Also, the writing, acting and direction are all so masterful that the audience is focused ENTIRELY on other matters -- as it should be.

Note to casting directors: I am available for shoots until the end of the strike. Past credits include "Mad Men" and the role of Piglet in the Oak Park River Forest H.S. production of "Winnie the Pooh." Weaknesses as a performer: Instantly identifiable by my distinctive, duck-foot stride. Could possibly work as a stand-in for Helen Hunt?

Dear Diary...

I woke up today feeling very grumpy about my screenplay, if by grumpy you mean so consumed with despair that your hands shake and you give serious thought to maybe just going back to bed until, um, January.

But since I was up, I went to the Assistants Rally @ Fox, where I saw Matt Groening (!) and Joss Whedon (!!) and my once-and-future-boss Matt (!!!), plus some friendly fellow assistants and some wee boxes of Milk Duds. (I mostly "saw" those wee boxes of Milk Duds with the back of my throat and the inside of my stomach.)

Afterwards, Matt invited his assistants out to lunch, so we joined up with the various producers and assistants of "The Riches" and went over to Westwood. The irony being that, technically, you don't have to feed me if you let me talk to writers for an hour and half. But since it was a restaurant, I tried to blend in. You know, when in Rome.

In the end Eddie Izzard picked up the tab, but it was extraordinarily generous of Matt to invite us, and of course, he had no way of knowing that a novocaine-addled British actor would swoop in at the last minute. (Mr. Izzard had an extensive root canal this morning. After which he attended a WGA rally. Talk about solidarity.)

And so, I am no longer consumed with terminal screenplay related grumpiness. I hope this mood swing lasts through the weekend, because I'm pretty sure I can't expect famous people to buy me lunch *everytime* I'm feeling down in the dumps.

Voices in My Head

It's been a while since I've gotten notes that I completely disagreed with. It happens sometimes that you stumble upon a professor who's never seen any of the ten or twenty films that made you want to be a writer. And of course, there's no way to control who else in your workshop.

(Rumor has it that some screenwriting programs have tried in the past to accomodate students' requests for certain professors and it quickly descends into backstabbing and gossip.)

Back in the day, when I'd get a note that would melt my brain, I'd hear this Golem voice in my head, shrieking "Shut up! Shut up! You don't know anything about my script, you idiot!" Maybe a little note of Ren/Peter Lorre in there as well.

Now, and I really enjoy this, I am struggling to finish my final assignment (the one I need to complete to earn my MFA) and what do you know? My little brain buddy is back.

Here, without exaggeration, is what he said to me ten minutes ago:

"Nooooo! You call that a scene! Agh! This is rubbish! Rubbish I tell you! Let's call it a day and go drink tequila out of a commuter mug."

The Hot Films of Summer 2009

I've walked past "Beowulf" print ads the size of a small building, and for the life of me, I can't figure out why Grendel's sexy mama looks real and Beowulf looks fake. There's a weird stiffness to his neck and shoulders that makes me think of the train conductor in "Polar Express," and his eyes don't seem to focus on the same point.

I guess it's just an "uncanny valley" thing. Mama looks just like Angelina Jolie, so if there's any aspect of her appearance I don't buy, my brain shuts it off. But I don't know the guy who plays Beowulf, and when you add to that whatever minute shortcomings result from the programming that created him, my brain hits the "reject" button.

Obviously "Beowulf" is going to mint money for the next couple of weeks, and I've already heard it's given the studios some food for thought. When the author's been dead for a couple centuries, that's one last writer you have to pay!

Some projects now in the pipeline:

National Lampoon's Canterbury Tales: A road trip comedy about ramshackle van full of college students from Pilgrim College, traveling across the country to see their football team play in the Rose Bowl. When the radio goes out on the first day, the students keep things interesting by placing a series of secret bets on who will get which hot fellow traveler in the sack, which in turn leads to a never-ending series of anecdotes intended to seduce their targets (or cockblock their rivals). Look for Sarah Silverman to sign on as the Wife of Bath.

The Fairie Queene: Alan Ball is in talks to helm this allegorical tale of a Knight (Daniel Craig) who vanquishes a dragon (Helen Mirren) to win the hand of his lady (Tilda Swinton). But despite his bravery, the Knight's thoughts never stray far from his beloved Queen Elizabeth (Sir Ian McKellen).

Paradise Lost: A lot of interest in this project from George Lucas, who's looking to cast Zac Efron ("High School Musical") as the young fallen angel Satan. Lo-o-ng first half of movie follows Satan as he conducts endless strategy meetings with other angels, then there's a couple of chase scenes that lead nowhere, and finally a deafening, sfx-heavy fight sequence between the rebel angels and a God (a CGI Orson Welles).

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God: Paul Haggis plans to write and direct this unflinching examination of how all humanity will burn in hell for its sins. Some controversy over whether Haggis crossed the line by inserting a subplot about a racist white banker (Philip Seymour Hoffman) who gets carjacked by an HIV-positive Latina social worker (Salma Hayek).

Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey: Nicolas Cage is set to star as a middle-aged accountant who, inspired by a walking tour of England, tries to correct past wrongs. In the final scene, we discover that the entire movie was the final hallucination of a man dying from autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong. David Lynch attached to direct.

(Additional reporting contributed by Michael Gerber.)

Point/Counterpoint

MG & I saw "No Country for Old Men" last night. I won't say I liked it, because I'll never willingly watch it again. But I respect the craft and skill on display immensely. And I remain, as ever, fascinated by the Coens and excited to see what they do next.

MG's takeaway was, ahem, a little less sanguine. By way of illustration, at one point, we agreed that the last time I was as agitated by a film as he was by NCFOM, was the night I came home from a Hitchcock double feature of "I Confess" and "The Wrong Man," in that order.

As I said then, if Alfred Hitchcock were still alive and had been standing in the foyer of the crit studies screening room when I emerged, a certain bald English dude would have got a knee to the junk. At minimum.

There's no salt in the wound like the salt of a movie you don't respect being rubbed in the wound of sitting through the movie in hopes it would somehow redeem itself before the credits.

I will say, and God help me if Prof. Drew Casper, holder of the Alfred and Alma Hitchcock Chair for Filmic Studies hears me say this, that having seen the dogs of Hitchcock's career, the Coen brothers are slowly, bit by bit, evolving into better filmmakers than Hitch was in his time.

Then again, I also believe Paul Simon's solo career was vastly better than that of Paul McCartney. So what do I know?

I'm Going Lewis Lapham On Y'All...

Slate recently observed that Lewis Lapham is addicted to reading contemporary times through the lens of ancient Rome. Thanks to my once-and-future job on "Mad Men," I have a similar problem, only my drug of choice is 20th century American History.

For example, let's toke on William Manchester's "The Glory and The Dream," 1974 edition, p. 36:

"Seen in perspective, the Depression appears to have been the last convulsion of the industrial revolution, creating a hiatus before the technological revolution. In the aftermath of the World War, the techniques of mass production combined to increase the efficiency per man-hour by over 40 percent. This enormous output of goods clearly required a corresponding increase of consumer buying power -- that is, higher wages. But the worker's income in the 1920s didn't rise with his productivity. In the golden year of 1929, Brookings economists calculated that to supply the barest necessities a family would need an income of $2000 a year -- more than 60 percent of American families were earning. In short, the ability to buy did not keep abreast of the volume of goods being turned out... Customers of limited means were being persuaded to take products anyhow, the exchange being accomplished by an overextension of credit."

In other words, corporations thrived through out the 1920s, and passed those profits onto shareholders and executives, but neglected to pay their remaining employees a share of the growing pie. For a time, employees were able to participate in the nation's prosperity by living on credit, until the bottom fell out of the market and all the bills came due. Only then did they realize that, in fact, their real wages had not kept up with the economic growth around them.

Boy, what does that remind me of? Maybe this.

Manchester doesn't seem to have been a firebrand or a radical, and he writes a fantastically readable historical narrative. To hear him tell it, the only thing that pulled the U.S. out of the Great Depression was spending Federal money, and lots of it. In fact, throughout the late 30s, the one phrase that would inevitably make Wall Street freeze up was "balanced Federal budget."

I.e., it was only 70 years ago that corporate America was forced to learn the blunt reality that it does not good to hoard your profits if nobody is left to buy the stuff with which you generate those profits.

When an economy grinds to a halt, a rich man is just as boned as a poor man. I'm pretty sure John Maynard Keynes said that.

Mission: Squashed

Huzzah! A partial solution to the great squash/sage/brown butter craving of 2007 has been found. Answer: Spaghetti squash tossed in a sage brown butter, with lots of parmesan.

Oh hell yeah.

Doesn't the existence of spaghetti squash pretty much definitively prove that God is real? I mean, what are the odds that a plant would produce a swollen fibrous sex organ that, when cooked, tastes almost exactly like a man-made food item, only more nutritious?

I am still working on some kind of dairy-free butternut squash soup concoction. It took a mash-up of three different recipes to resolve the last dilemma, so this might take a while. One I do know: Crushed Amaretto cookies WILL play a role. Oh yes.

Nap Time Yet?

Nikki Finke mentioned last week that USC students were using the picket lines to network "inappropriately," and I guess the LA Times is doing a story on picket line dos & don'ts, with lots of juicy stories of visiting pickets bringing their screenplays.

It would be a lot of fun to point and laugh at the clueless outsiders who think this strike is a great chance for them to break in, but as far as I can tell, these references to bad picket line behavior have no basis in fact.

I've seen my ballsiest classmate in action, and she's a model of tact and charm in motion. She spots someone, smiles, and then compliments them on something of theirs she's seen. (My God! The bloody cheek of some people! Complimenting a writer on his work!)

Meanwhile, on the line I usually visit, the writers have blown me away with their friendly welcome and encouraging offers to answer questions or introduce me around. And since I started, I've seen people will even less experience than me -- out right fans, even -- show up, do some laps, take a picture and get nothing but big smiles and thanks from the writers. Jane Espenson and John August have both mentioned on their blogs that their readers are welcome to stop by and say hi -- and they mean it!

It would be a great story if all these successful people, walking back and forth in the hot sun, turned out to be jerks, or if their supporters turned out to be self-interested boobs. But unless there's some insane hijinks at another location (CBS Radford! I'm looking at you!), I suspect it's a figment of Nikki Finke's imagination.

Christmas Wishes

On the long list of things I'd like for Christmas which no jolly fat man is capable of bringing me (an end to the strike, a fair contract for the WGA, the completion of my last assignment for Rewrite 101), there are a couple things that seem like they should be doable, if the powers that be would just *try*:

- The Treo 755p for Verizon. The last, profoundly buggy phone in this line came out... two years ago? And this version has been out on Sprint since May. And yet, no Verizon version. WTF? I mean, not like I have the cash for it anyone, but still...

- Butternut squash ravioli in a brown butter sage sauce, but with no pasta. I had a weird interaction with some meds recently, which caused me to avoid carbs for a week or so. In which time I discovered, a la Oprah, that wow, carbs really bloat you up. I'm prepared to still ration myself the odd slice of bread now and then, but I see no reason to eat half a pound of pasta just because I like the butternut squash filling. I will get to the bottom of this!

- A public transit option from Santa Monica to the Barham gate @ Universal City that doesn't take TWO FRICKING HOURS! Jesus!

- Some way for Whole Foods patrons to move through the store without getting their cart mixed up with someone else's. Someone not only shanghai'd my cart, but they took out the the spaghetti squash I'd put in there. But left everything else. And yet, I've done the same thing myself on other days. (Although I just walk away from a cart when I realize what I've done, instead of dumping the groceries I don't want and making off with it.)

- A filter that prevents you from repeatedly visiting upsetting blogs. The truth is, a sane person can only post so often. Which is fine, even if doesn't provide that much reading material. But an off-the-hook nutball will post three, four times a day, and usually on a series of outrages and universal wrongs that make, frankly, very compelling reading. Except that after a couple of hours, I'm all wrung out from empathizing and being outraged on the blogger's behalf. The truth is, I should stay away from those blogs. But I am weak. And that is why I need my computer to do my thinking for me.

You're Soaking in It!

I've been working furiously on my Rewrite homework. If this strike hadn't happened, I would now be a 60-hour-a-week writers' assistant, and that would NOT leave a lot of time for producing a revised draft of a 120 page screenplay.

The very best thing about this terrible situation is that whenever I'm feeling down about the strike, I can scare myself with the thought it will end tomorrow and I'll have to kill myself to finish my school work by the end of the semester. (It's my last assignment for my last class -- when it's done, I'll earn my MFA. So, no pressure.) And whenever I get scared about the rewrite, I think: Well, if the strike ends, at least I have my job back.

ANYWAY. Sometimes all that work wrings my little brain out like a sponge and I have to put it in a bowl of warm water for a while. Except, instead of warm water, I use finished, high quality television and movies. Last night, I caught up on "Ugly Betty" (great); "House" (fantastic); and "30 Rock" (what I hope the afterlife is like when you die.) By the time I finished watching "30 Rock," not only was I feeling much better, but I thought: Anyone who saw that is going to be really pissed at NBC for not settling with the writers when they had a chance.

You know what's NOT helpful for the aspiring writer? "Silver Streak." I heard a "Fresh Air" interview with Gene Wilder a few weeks ago and...

Wait, time out: Did you know it was Wilder's idea to insert "Puttin' on the Ritz" into "Young Frankenstein"? He wrote the screenplay and that scene, in particular, was all his. Brooks fought him on it for days before finally deciding that if Wilder wanted it that bad, it must be a good scene. The NYT's review of the musical specifically mentions THAT ONE SCENE as the only musical number really worth watching. And does Wilder get mentioned EVEN ONCE in the review? No, he does not. Because he didn't write the book. And considering the result, I have to say: MAYBE HE SHOULD HAVE.

Okay, back to the "Fresh Air" interview. Gene Wilder's talking about working with Richard Pryor on "Silver Streak" and how Pryor was concerned about Wilder's scene in black face. The two of them think it over, come up with a solution, and successfully rewrite the scene. I thought: Wow, I've got to see that movie again.

Yeah, don't. It's a piece of crap. No, worse, it's a piece of crap with large swaths stolen from "North by Northwest," such that if you'd never seen NBNW before, and you saw it afterwards, you'd be like "Wow, this is disturbingly similar to the dreadful 'Silver Streak.'" SS is so bad, it makes other, better movies not as good by extension. I still respect Pryor and Wilder for making the black face scene smarter and sharper than originally written, but I have my doubts about the wisdom of taking the job in the first place.

On the plus side (and believe me, I had to think awhile before a plus side occurred to me), it did contain the following valuable screenwriting lesson: No one wants to watch the adventures of a man so incompetent that he gets thrown off the same train twice.

Once, okay, I'll go with that.

Twice? I'm out of there. I'm gonna go watch something where the protagonist actually learns from his mistakes.

Why We Fight

Thanks to our friend Kati, MG & I got tickets to last night's Jack Oakie Comedy Roundtable, at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences.

The speakers were phenomenal: Jim Brooks, Larry Gelbart and the acutely self-conscious Judd Apatow. (Judd's mentor Gary Shandling was in the audience and Apatow seemed almost beside himself at the apparent imbalance of his being on stage while one of the men he most admires watched from the cheap seats.)

Great questions, great discussion. For example: How funny is too funny? Is there such a thing as too funny?

Gelbart answered that you, the writer, are your only real gauge. You have to decide. Brooks agreed, and added that, generally, it's too funny if it's not character or situation driven.

During the clips, the speakers were supposed to move off stage and watch from the front row. Although a good idea in theory, going up and down the three carpeted stairs proved to be a little tricky for Gelbart. Also, an able-bodied page had wiped out on them during the opening remarks, thus planting the idea of a second fall in everyone's mind. Life: Now with useful illustrations of handy screenwriting techniques!

So for most of the clips, Gelbart just slouched down in his chair, and Apatow, like a good comedy writer, yes-anded Gelbart's decision, until the two of them were marooned on stage, waiting for the lights to go down, chins on their chests.

"We're trapped in a terrible physical gag," Apatow observed. And then, at last, the clip rolled.

Maybe the best advice of the night came from Gelbart, who was asked about how he works:

"I get up very early, 4 or 5 am. Really, it's just a sneakier way of living longer."

And on working for corporate bosses:

"Organization is the death of fun."

All three guys were so funny, and made so many deft observations about the nature of comedy, that even though everything is at a standstill ("We're striking just in time." - Gelbart), it was tremendously inspirational.

This is why there's a writers' strike. Brooks started out as a news writer; Gelbart worked for Sid Caeser; Apatow began on a sitcom. And because they were well paid for their work, they were able to keep working, keep writing, and ultimately produce movies like "Broadcast News," "Tootsie" and "Knocked Up."