Jitters

I remember 2004 with horrifying clarity -- the knot in my stomach during the debates, the depressing aftermath of election day, the week-long peppermint bark binge.

November, 2004 taught me to pay attention to the half of this country that doesn't think the way I do, and to respect the power of their dissent. That month, and for quite a while later, I listened carefully for whispers of just what, exactly, a second Bush Administration would mean, and mostly, what I heard made me sick.

Growing up in the last quarter of the 20th century, there was no shortage of young adult fiction to illustrate all the worst mistakes in our nation's history. I grew up reading about the idiotic death toll at Gettysburg, the senseless cruelty of the Japanese-American internment camps, the insistent refusal to see the truth behind Hitler's propaganda, and thinking: God, the shame of living through that time, of knowing that was going on and not being able to stop it.

Now, thanks to the miracle of the Guantanamo detainees, I now have some of that shame for my very own. My nephews, and perhaps my own children, can now ask me in years to come why my country did this horrific thing and why I did not try to stop it, and I will have exactly no answer. Well, other than: I was afraid of never being able to board a domestic or international flight without a full-cavity search.

Thank you, President George W. Bush, for making me a party to this utter fiasco and for illustrating, with greater clarity than I could have ever desired, the wisdom of G.K. Chesterton when he wrote "My country, right or wrong' is a thing no patriot would ever think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying 'My mother, drunk or sober.'"

So, there's that.

Then, happily, there is Barack Obama. Sweet holy mother of all that is good, there is Barack Obama.

As it happens, I was living in Chicago when the state senator made his run for the Senate in 2004. I went to a fund raiser for him at the Chicago Historical Society, heard him speak and shook his hand. From that moment to this, I've known he was an extraordinarily gifted leader, and I've been more than a little afraid that we'd never be smart enough to let him rise to the limits of his abilities.

I won't even pretend that I have some rational defense for this position. Much has been made of how some Americans vote for the guy with whom they'd like to have a beer. You may take from my use of the phrase "with whom they'd like to have a beer" that my decision metrics are a little different.

I want to vote for a guy who could pick up the phone and through sheer implacable reason and legal wit, bully my insurance company into covering my migraines. I want to vote for a guy who can talk for ten minutes about the balance of power and religion in Iran without once mispronouncing a name or forgetting any of the major players. I want to vote for a guy who, if he showed up in a movie, you'd bristle in disbelief and think, "Nobody's that smart." I want to vote for a guy who makes President Bartlett seem like kind of a schmuck.

I want to vote for a guy who would do his job the way I do mine. If we need to send flowers to a funeral home in South Bend, IN, I do not call 800-Flowers. I do not go to FTD.com. No. I hunt through Notre Dame alumni websites until I find the nicest hotel in town, then call their concierge to recommend a florist. And that's the kind of President I want -- the kind who will do whatever it takes to do his job to the best of his abilities.

I would vote for that guy if his name were Theodore Roosevelt. I would vote for him if he were Dwight Eisenhower. I swear to god, I would vote for him if he were Gerald Ford. But the fact that he happens to be a Harvard-educated, former University of Chicago law professor with a Kenyan dad and a single mom and a grandmother who just died of cancer?

Done.

Oh, and at the same time I get to vote to re-affirm the right for gay couples to marry? Don't mind if I do.

So now all that remains is for me to sit here on the far left edge of the country, waiting for polls to close and states to flick over from white to red or white to blue, and see what happens. It's almost more than I can bear. I can't wait.

And yet I'm so terribly afraid that the waiting is going to be the best part of this or any year for many years to come.

Or... uh, not.

It's On

So Joe Janes linked to me on his blog yesterday, thus throwing in to bold relief my total lack of posts for, oh, the last six months or so. Agh, the shame.

Okay, I can do this. How hard can it be? I just can't blog about work (hi, Genny!) or my personal life (hi, Michael!), or rag on any tv show that I kind of want to work on someday (hi, David Shore!)

Uh. Hmmm.

Oh! I went to Chicago this weekend and saw 84 members of my extended family, including my cousin Kelly who TOTALLY called me on my snark towards the filmed-in-Toronto-but-set-in-Chicago "Dresden Files." I stand corrected -- actual, dyed-in-the-wool Chicagoans will in fact ride in an open-top vehicle in the dead of winter between Chicago and South Bend, IN.

On that note, I scored a ride to Midway Airport in my dad's smokin' 1972 cherry red Oldsmobile Cutlass 442. Top down, scarf over my head, plexiglas safety goggles to keep the road grit out of my eyes -- it was like something from the Golden Age of Hollywood, if Ava Gardner's dad had kept a lot of industrial safety equipment in the back seat of his car. My dad has a CD he made with his own two hands, exclusively for playing on the CD player of the Cutlass. I distinctly remember "Love Shack" playing at one point, and although I got out before it came up, I know "You've Got a Friend in Me" is also on the playlist. That's pretty much my dad in a nutshell.

I also made time to see a little -- a very little -- Chicago theater over the weekend, including the excellent ten minute play "Cheddar Moon," by Joe Janes. Everything you've heard about it is true and then some -- it's just like every other one act love story between a bearded cafeteria lady and the ghost of the boy she loved some twenty years ago.

It is, in fact, hilarious and full of the kind of lines that make me pull out my notebook and start jotting things down so I don't forget them. I will just say this: Best stage fight with a soup ladle and bouquet of novelty pencils *ever.* Also, it kind of defies belief that the funny, adorable Mike Johnson can also play an oppressive and unlikable high school principal, but so it is.

Mainly though, I just walked around. As in, around the eight million tourists and smelly marathoners who were wandering the city in slow motion this weekend. I realize now that I am using Chicago to get my NYC fix, much the way heroin addicts will drink cold syrup and eat honey right out of the plastic bear. I log a couple miles every day, opting to walk every possible route instead of grabbing a cab or bus. It's not that I'm shopping or running errands. I'm soaking in it -- the reasonably coherent urban planning, the public transit that I never respected until I lived in a city that makes the CTA look like the Paris Metro, the historical architecture -- all the things that, honestly, are not readily available in Los Angeles.

In very little time, I began to miss Michael; waking up to a face full of sunlight; falling asleep in a soft, slightly salty breeze; the satisfaction of another miraculous piece of research delivered, but it was a nice change of pace, and in another two days, I might almost be caught up on my sleep.

I don't know much about what the coming years will bring. I think I can pretty much count on two weeks off between Christmas and New Years', even if it's my only vacation of the year. And it seems almost unavoidable that I'll be working through every summer as far as the eye can see. If a show starts in January, it works until August (and that's just for a 12 episode run.) If a show starts in May, it works until December (ditto.) I suppose somewhere there might be shows that staff up in September and wrap in May, but I haven't heard of one yet. Also, as supporting evidence, I notice a ton of industry people take their families to Hawaii for Christmas, which has the strong whiff of parents making it up to their kids for years of missed summer vacations.

But what I'm starting to realize is that I can squeeze a crap ton of vacation into a 48 hour bag, make a Sunday afternoon in Anaheim stand in for the week off that I really need, and enjoy the hell out of three days in Chicago.

She Looks Cold to Me. Does She Look Cold to You?

This woman has balls. Not literally, of course. (And in fact, you can verify this by scrolling down her page -- she takes that URL very seriously.)

Her blog is a no-holds-barred, here's-what-happened extravaganza of relationship-pile-up post-mortem. And it's frickin' riveting. Man, you just never know what you're going to find in the NYT.

The only other blog that even comes close is probably the Constipation Chronicles on Dooce. Alas, mental health has descended on Heather Armstrong, depriving us all over her awesome, blow-by-blow accounts of her lower colon's complete and total inability to get in the game.

I have nothing even remotely that juicy to spill, but reading through NakedJen's blog, I realized I have never recounted the Delicious Tale of How My Fiance Dumped Me.

I continue to stick with that title, even though I have since acquired a second, sturdier Fiance who toughed it out and actually went and married me, thus becoming an actual Husband.

But I digress. As our scene opens, the Fiance (or F) and I have been engaged for almost a year and a half. Our wedding is scheduled for nine months hence. It is universally believed among my friends that F is kind of a douche. When I defend him, my friends point to the fact that I bought him a framed, vintage Soviet propaganda poster for Christmas -- because he loves all things communist -- while his gift to me was a computer printer, which was promptly set up in his office. At this point, I generally changed the subject because there is no reasoning with some people.

The curtain rises on an apartment on Ave. B in NYC's East Village. It is Friday, March 15, slightly after 7 p.m. Kate is home from work, and sitting in the living room in anticipation of "The X-Files", which will start in about 55 minutes.

F enters from stage right and takes a seat in the really nice Crate and Barrel side chair F and Kate had purchased a few weeks earlier. Actually, since his raise, F has been on quite the tear with spendy, spur-of-the-moment purchases. But then his job is incredibly demanding and stressful, so if it he wants to spend some of his paycheck on a taupe side chair, so be it.

F then proceeds to explain that their relationship, the relationship between F and Kate, is not going well. He's not happy. Ah. Would he consider couples' therapy? Yes, he would. But for now, he thinks it would be a good idea if they considered themselves broken up. He does? Yes, he does.

There is more to this conversation, but all too soon, an hour has passed. F looks at the clock and observes that it is almost time for "The X-Files," and really, what more is there to say?

At that moment, Kate realizes that F has timed this conversation with Swiss watch precision, so that he'd only have to discuss this unpleasantness with her for approximately 55 minutes. Because after that, of course, she'd want to watch "The X-Files."

And scene.

Needless to say, I no longer argued with my friends about whether F was a douche. I did not, in fact, watch that episode. To this day, I have never seen it, but I'm told I'm not missing much. (It was about the Mexican Goat-Sucker, which has another name I cannot spell.)

F's timing our break-up conversation in this manner has won a number of bets for me over the years and several informal who-has-the-shittiest-break-up-story competitions. Four months later, he took me out to dinner and tried unsuccessfully to re-start our relationship. I haven't seen him since.

A week later, I left for Ireland and spent almost the whole time making out with an adorable guy named Tom. And, as we know, I ended up marrying a hilarious Yalie with a passing resemblance to Ewan MacGregor. So it all worked out in the end.

Did I Mention The Co-Pay Is Very Reasonable?

Thanks to the miracle of Facebook, the whole world knows I had a birthday recently. (Not that I'm complaining -- I haven't gotten that many birthday wishes since the year my mom brought cupcakes in second grade.)

This is also the time of year when I check in with my doctor and fill up on prescriptions for the coming year, including the all-important Bay-Bee-No-Hav, aka, birth control.

Now, I realize that fertility is a growing challenge for women in their 30s, and there's apparently a really terrifying chart that looks like Wile E. Coyote taking a short trip off a tall cliff which represents what will happen to my reproductive system in another five or ten years. (Although I may be an exception, given that my grandmother seems to have produced kids into early menopause.)

But I think it is JUST POSSIBLE that my doctor is laying it on a little thick. She asked, as she always does, about the MG + KP Plan for World Domination. And, as I always do, I said that we were thinking of kicking things off in a few years.

"Oh," she said, blanching to the color of her labcoat.

"What? Is that... not a good answer?"

"It's just you don't want to wait too long."

I don't say so, but no, of course I'm not going to wait too long. C'mon, who wants to start popping babies out on their 40th birthday? But my doctor seems to think I'm waiting for her to say something, so she clears her throat and continues.

"You know what happens to a woman's ovaries as she enters her 30s?"

*Enters* her 30s? I think to myself.

She shakes her head sadly. "They age. Harden into shriveled up raisins."

My mouth goes curiously dry as I listen to this.

"I had a patient, she coughed during a pelvic exam. Her left ovary fell out, hit the floor and cracked in half like an M & M."

I struggle to find words. "That seems... odd."

"Not really, it's all drying up in there." She points at my navel with her pharmaceutical-company-branded pen. "Like one of those Salvador Dali paintings with a melting watch."

"Really? I thought it was more-"

"Last week, an OB-GYN friend of mine went into the delivery room with a patient -- she couldn't have been more than 34."

"The OB-GYN?"

"The patient. She got up on the table, had her epidural, did her breathing... gave birth to a pound and half of sand."

"What?"

"Swear to God. But you know, she and her husband wanted to wait."

Then she scribbled something on my chart, flipped it shut and gave me the same smile she probably uses when her small child stands bereft over his just-dropped ice cream cone.

"See you next year!"

Great Moments in American History

The latest issue of Written By came this week. The official magazine of the WGA, it features a ton of great interviews and useful articles. Maybe my favorite thing, however, are the "for your consideration" ads that run in advance of certain award seasons -- usually with an excerpt from the script, to help the Guild members remember why this project deserves their recognition.

With the Emmy noms just a month or two away, I noticed that HBO wasn't wasting any time building support for "John Adams." Although I suspect there was some confusion at the printer's. Seems to me like a different version of this scene ran in Sunday's broadcast, didn't it? I'll have to check my Tivo.

John continues to read from the London papers. Abigail sips her tea, pensive. Colonel Smith stands behind John, covertly reading another paper with visible disgust.

JOHN
The Morning Post and Daily
Advertiser... ah, they, very
helpfully inform their readers
that I was so pitifully embarrassed
as to be very nearly tongue-tied.

SMITH
You must pay them no mind sir.

John looks his shoulder. Smith quickly hides his paper. John can’t help himself -- he’s drawn back to the printed page.

JOHN
(bursts out laughing)
Here is someone calling for me
to be hanged! Post haste! Charming.
God, what a country.

ABIGAIL
Colonel Smith, remove these papers
at once.

Smith begins to clear the table.

JOHN
It is of no account. Let them say
what they will. Although...

John grabs the top most sheet of newsprint.

JOHN

I defy any man to tell me this page three
engraving is an accurate depiction of...
(reads)
Miss Mary Holden’s god-given anatomy.

ABIGAIL
(looks over)
She does rather
over-fill her corset.

JOHN
(studies the page)
Yes. She does.

Smith looks over John’s shoulder. His eyebrows go up in amazement.

Abigail clears her throat.

Both men jump. John quickly balls the page up and stuffs it into the fire.

Boulud Is Rockin' That Leather Blazer, Though

I don't know why I love "Project Runway" and yet have so many problems with "Top Chef."

If anything, "Top Chef" has several marked advantages -- I do actually know about/like food, as opposed to clothing. (See: My several earlier posts w/r/t how I wear nothing but J. Crew.) Also, I'm from Chicago, and you can get me to watch ANYTHING -- including multiple seasons of "Early Edition" -- if there's some outside chance I'll be able to play "What's that neighborhood?" And if I were a gay man, I'd want to be Ted Allen. So there's that.

Sure, both shows have contestants with deeply questionable hat choices. (Trucker hats vs. novelty fedoras? Hmm. Might be a draw.) Oddball hairstyles. (Was there a workshop on using a whisk as a comb that I missed? Since when is "tufty" a look?) Cocky f***ing bastards. (Christian vs. Spike? I'd pay to see that any day. Winner takes Chef Molecule.)

One big, big problem: Tim Gunn vs. Padma. No. No. No. Not the same. One of these is a sage mentor, whose knowledge and wit is apparent in his entire person. One of these is an underweight bombshell who...

Yeah. Why do I care what this woman thinks? Honestly, I think I'd rather know what Michael Kors thinks of this food. She just does not convey food knowledge and experience at all. (Yeah, I know about the cookbooks. What. Ever.)

Then there's all the little things, like the way the contestants on TC are constantly being prodded into announcing the stage directions (time remaining, coaching people ou the door, whatever.) Notice that we never need that kind of false theater on PR -- we can see from the clock that it's late, that time is running down. Then Tim comes and tells us the designers have two hours to get their models to hair and make-up. Neat, economical, elegant. Why can't Padma do that? Oh yeah, because she's so annoying I zaa-zaa whenever she comes on screen.

Look, I'm in a tough spot. The writers' strike, the extra time on my hands -- God, I would give anything for PR to come back for a new season next week, but it's not going to happen. And "Battlestar Galactica" returning on Friday is actually going to make things worse. So I'll keep watching TC, and I'll zaa-zaa through the stuff I don't like.

But let's make one thing perfectly, perfectly clear:

Richard Roeper is NOT and HAS NEVER BEEN a "famed Chicago film critic."

Nothing against the man personally, but Chicago is not such a cow town that even Richard Roeper qualifies as famous. Well known? Okay, sure. Roger Ebert -- who won the first ever Pulitzer for film criticism in 1974 -- is a famed Chicago film critic. Ebert's late friend/sparring partner Gene Siskel is a famed Chicago film critic. Roeper is a guy who successfully navigated the rounds of auditions after Siskel's death to become the permanent fill-in on Siskel & Ebert's TV show. For that matter, Roeper would not get to set toe number one on TC, except that Ebert's continuing health issues have, for now, left him unable to speak.

(Now, is Posh Spice is an international style icon, as Die Klum informed us? That is for Mr. Blackwell to resolve.)

Almost As Good As the Zombie Invasion

I haven't lived in Chicago for going on three years now, and when we moved, it had been some months since I'd done any improv. So why do I still check Chicago Improv Network every couple of days to see what's going on?

Because without CIN, I'd never have seen the work of Zack, who wonders...

What if they were Klingons?

For example:



Oh Man'dee, you cut my heart out with a bat'leth!

Rubber Ducky, you're the one, to be sent to Gre'Thor! Prepare to die!




The only candidate to trust with ending the Romulan War is the one who voted not to attack the Neutral Zone in the first place.

Well played, Zack. Well played.

Don't Make Me Laugh

This is just a guess, but I think Benedict Carey is a guy.

You probably don't know Mr. (?) Carey, but he writes about health and medicine for the NYT, including today's piece on, oh boy!, pranks.

Here's the part that makes me think Carey is a mister:

“Being duped holds up this mirror to people,” Dr. Vohs said, “and may in fact show them where they are on the scale” — too trusting or too vigilant. Paranoia, too, has its costs, and it can sour relationships.

Running back the tape mentally, in this case meditating on how an embarrassing event might have turned out otherwise, is known to psychologists as counterfactual thinking. “The feeling of ‘I should have known better’ is the sort of counterfactual that serves to highlight your own shortcomings,” said Neal Roese, a psychologist at the University of Illinois. “A good deal of research has shown that these counterfactual insights can kick-start new behaviors, new self-exploration and, ultimately, self-improvement.”

Those observations may not leap to mind if you just showed up in go-go boots and an Elizabeth Taylor wig to a bogus 1970s cross-dressing party. Or if you fell for the e-mail message announcing you had won an award and should forward a draft of your acceptance speech to a supervisor.

But a good prank is, in the end, a simulation of a crisis and not the real thing. And it serves as a valuable reminder that not every precious box contains precisely the treasure you might expect.

What. The. Hell.

Here's a crazy, crazy thought: What if you just didn't pull any pranks? What then? OMG! Catastrophe! Disaster! People not being forced to discover they are too trusting!

Perhaps it's baldly sexist to say so, but I don't think most women pull pranks. Even among the institutions with the worst reputations, pranking is not the done thing. No, in our darker moments, my gender goes in for straight up, knife-in-the-back cruelty.

I've known women to do many, many shitty things to other women, but none of them fell under the casual veil of a prank. Stealing a boyfriend, us vs. them ostracizing, systematically humiliating a coworker -- this is the stuff of months, if not years in the making, not some one-day-a-year whimsy. It's far worse than cellophane over a toilet, and once it's discovered, the object knows well that the next step is to get far, far away from her tormentor.

As an Aries, I have a certain affection for all things April, with the strong exception of April Fool's Day. But upon reflection, I think my problem isn't that April Fool's is unnecessarily cruel. No, what I hate about April Fool's is that it's amateur hour, with short-lived pranks that suggest there's nothing worse lurking in the shadows. That, I think, really is foolish.

Edited to ad: No, wait. New theory. Women don't do pranks because we're really, really bad at it. This is just sad.

Interview with a Somewhat Attractive Blogger

I think it may be that the human mind can only comprehend a certain amount of excellence. Perhaps our memory fades, or newer memories push older experiences aside. It may even be that our mania for top ten lists is, in some ways, a defense against our inability to hold even ten excellent things or people or moments in our minds for any length of time.

This would explain why every conversation about the "top ten (insert superlative here)" anything always generates contributions that some participants consider extreme long shots, and why such conversations often degenerate into bickering about the basis for judging whether something is or is not among the top ten (insert superlative here) X, Y or Z. We are, essentially, making it up as we go along.

I do not, therefore, have a list of my top ten favorite books. I have a reliable list of books that I buy/recommend/give, depending on the recipient. "Harriet the Spy" has been given to many ten-year-olds of my acquaintance. Several of my brothers and one boyfriend have all gotten copies of "The Things They Carried," and I have given so many copies of "The Blind Assassin", I should probably buy the things by the case.

Predictably, I am very fond of "Pride and Prejudice," although I am terminally over-exposed to all things Austen right now, and have a bit of a literary ice cream headache where she is concerned. I read "Bleak House" last year and readily admit that it is a triumph and then some.

However, there are just two books that have earned an unshakable place in my heart, both for the same reason: I find myself forgetting that they were books and not people I once met. The first is "Whites," a collection of short stories by Norman Rush. The second is "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace.

I know IJ is a tough slog. In a long series of "brilliant novels by new writers," it is a much harder read than Donna Tartt's "The Secret History" or Mark Leyner's "My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist," much less the breakthrough works of Dave Eggers or Jonathan Safran Foer or Zadie Smith or... well, you get the idea.

I have stopped recommending it to people and I have abandoned all hope of MG ever getting past the first twenty pages. If you're thinking of giving it a shot, I will offer the following advice: Get through the first two hundred pages, then decide whether to give up or not.

Maybe I am the only person who, years after reading IJ, frequently forgets that she doesn't actually know six recovering addicts from a halfway house in Boston. But something about DFW's writing blurs the line between thinking and experiencing. I have never -- could never -- meet Don Gately, and yet I feel like I could recognize his Prince Valiant haircut from across a crowded room.

All this is preamble to this link, from a commencement speech given by DFW in the spring of 2005. (I found it through Jackie Danicki's blog, which is a comforting blend of travelogue, diary and beauty advice.)

Like his best fiction, DFW's address seems like something you're thinking yourself, except, of course, you're not. Here's my favorite part:

This, I submit, is the freedom of a real education, of learning how to be well-adjusted. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship.

Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship...

...Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving and [unintelligible -- sounds like "displayal"]. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.

Agggh! Windmills! In My Mind!

Halfway through last night's viewing of the 1968 version of "The Thomas Crown Affair," I realized with a pang it is the bizarro universe version of "Out of Sight."

I have seen the literal Thomas Crown remake -- made, by coincidence or not, a year after "Out of Sight" came out -- and remember liking it okay. But I'm startled to discover that everything that I love about "Out of Sight" -- the rhythmic editing, the syncopated graphic elements, the irresistible performances, the inescapable story logic -- has a joyless, dire twin within the original "The Thomas Crown Affair."

I don't think Elmore Leonard was consciously aware of the overlap when he was writing OoS, although if he was, I tip my hat to him. TTCA is such a shambling wreck of a movie, one fairly itches to take a crack at repairing its biggest flaws.

To wit: although Thomas Crown (Steve McQueen) is a stone fox, his most likable quality is that his crimes are very, very nearly victimless (not counting the guy who takes a bullet to the calf.) Sure, the bank is out the cash, but if anyone has ever been able to make an audience root for and sympathize with a bank, I will give that person a dollar.

Meanwhile, Vicki the insurance investigator (Faye Dunaway) exploits a hapless bankrobber's marital discord, steals his car and kidnaps his boy. Crimes so full of victims they're practically a victim fruitcake. By the time Vicki is telling the robber that his boy is fine and he can have his car back, I was consumed with hate for her and desperate to see Thomas humiliate her utterly.

That's not good.

"Out of Sight" fixes all those problems. Jack Foley is loyal, resourceful and kind. Karen Sisco gets dragged into the story against her will, and her interactions with criminals show a moral compass -- she gives a scraggly loser a second (and third) chance, but beats the crap out of a threatening thug.

The later film takes chances that could have backfired disastrously, and yet they work where TTCA falls flat. First: "Windmills of Your Mind." OMG. Also: TTCA's grid-and-panel credit sequence, which made me think that Thomas Crown would end up stealing a Mondrian. Um, no.

And: Faye Dunaway's implausible glamour. Seriously. Is Faye Dunaway making nail extensions out of her plucked eyebrow hairs? Why do her brows get thinner and her nails get longer in every movie? By "Chinatown," she's like one of those neurotic birds that plucks itself bald.

I don't, actually, think the similarities are anything more than coincidence -- I mean, how many ways are there to tell a caper story? Although I will say that "Three Days of the Condor" conversation is just a little suspicious. Yes, Karen and Jack need some shared point of reference, and it's a nice touch that they talk about two characters who quickly fall in love. But it also happens to be a Faye Dunaway movie with a handsome blond costar.

Ear Python

This has been going through my brain since an ill-advised tipsy viewing of "The Mikado."

(Which, btw, was wildly over-edited, with badly eroded vocal tracks -- granted, the print might be over 50 years old, but still. Hey, PBS! As soon as you're done with the Compleat Austen, let's get cracking on the Compleat Gilbert & Sullivan.)

Three little maids from school are we
Pert as a school-girl well can be
Filled to the brim with girlish glee
Three little maids from school

Everything is a source of fun
Nobody's safe, for we care for none
Life is a joke that's just begun
Three little maids from school

Three little maids who, all unwary
Come from a ladies' seminary
Freed from its genius tutelary
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

One little maid is a bride, Yum-Yum
Two little maids in attendance come
Three little maids is the total sum
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

From three little maids take one away
Two little maids remain, and they
Won't have to wait very long, they say
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

Three little maids who, all unwary
Come from a ladies' seminary
Freed from its genius tutelary
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

Smells Like Anhedonia

I miss sushi. Yes, I realize, Los Angeles has sushi. But I miss *my* sushi. The spicy tuna roll made with chunks of tuna and just a little spicy mayo, not this pureed mush they sell all over the Southland. I miss the Green Turtle Roll, delicious treat topped with shrimps and a wasabi creme. (Yes, I said it: creme.) I miss sushi that was easily obtained on my way home, or with a short walk around the corner. Maybe most of all, I miss sushi restaurants that are nice and good and not ridiculously overpriced. You can get two out of three, tops, on this side of the 405, but that's it.

I miss anger. I know it's around here somewhere -- or else, why did that cat flyer bother me so much? But for the life of me, I cannot seem to get angry about things that deserve my anger. No, those things only make me very, very sad. The best I've done so far: Some irritation with people who insist on walking in the bike lane. That's not going to cut it!

I miss delight. I don't know where it went. Maybe it's hanging out with anger? But nothing seems to do it these days. The movies in theaters seem like well-marketed wallpaper. Chocolate frosting helps for about 30 seconds, and then... blech.

Yes, I can connect the dots. I've been to this neck of the woods before -- dissatisfaction with the available options, local factory belching out the oppressive smell of unhappiness? This is Depressionville, population: me. My brain chemistry is protecting me from something, some lingering realization that's slouching towards me with a wicked gleam in its yellow eyes. In the meantime, my lobes slosh around in a tepid chemical mix, devoid of highs and lows, just this exhausting constant non-anything.

And like the driver of a 1981 Dodge Horizon, puttering through Gary, Indiana at 53 mph, there's not much I can do but roll up the windows, put the A/C on recirc and study the horizon, waiting for the distant outline of my destination to slowly emerge from the haze.

Go Ask Alice

The coffee shop around the corner has a flyer on its community board. The headline reads "I hate my life." Then there's a picture of a fluffy tabby cat.

Underneath the picture is this caption: "It was bad enough when my owners got a second cat. Then they got a dog! But to add insult to injury, they've started having kids -- two so far! Please take me away from this hellish existence. My name is Alice. I am seven years old and have been using a litter box since I was a kitten. If you adopt me before April 15, I will even help with your taxes."

Ha ha ha. So amusing. I am amused.

Also, incredibly, incredibly angry. Who are these fucking bastards with their humor and their droll attempts at covering up their total lack of decency? You love Alice enough to see her placed in a new, loving home AND YET not enough to say, slow down your rapid acquisition of non-Alice compatible lifeforms?

Understand that as I say this, underneath my chair is Anna, a napping jellical born in 1993. She's grumpy and stiff on cold mornings, has clumps of fur on her backside where she cannot lick herself anymore and when unhappy, tends to venge-poop 6 to 12 feet from the litterbox. But she's in my house, living with me. In fact, I adopted another cat some years later to keep Anna company, because I thought my long work days were making her lonely. Two years after that, MG moved in with his cat Fifi. Three cats in one apartment -- it can be done. It helps if you have a closet or a bathroom to hold the litterboxes, but it can be done.

Would we love to have a dog? Yes. Ideally a big, elegantly-nosed black lab along the lines of MG's beloved Lucy. But labs need space and we live in an apartment. With three cats. And in our weaker moments, we're not so much writers as shut-ins. So, no dog for us just now. And don't even get me started on why we're not hip deep in kids.

Really, it's the seven years that kills me. Anyone can decide that a kitten isn't working out after a week or two, and return the blameless animal in time to place it in a better home. But to hold onto an animal, leading her to trust you, and believe she has a home with you, and then cast her out because she's not as much fun as the rest of your menagerie? Because you like your bright-eyed Jack Russell terrier better? It's more fun to watch Spongebob Square Pants with your kids than clean Alice's litterbox, so what the hell, why not just toss Alice out on her tabby ear?

It strikes me as unforgivably mean, and it leads me to think that the flyer's author was righter than he or she will ever know: Alice does hate her life, or she soon will.

Oh, Malcolm Gladwell!

How could you?

It was with great personal satisfaction that I rolled my eyes and clicked away from Jack Shafer's recent anti-Gladwell dissertation on Slate. Mr. Gladwell's great crime? He'd told a funny story in public, and then, allowed the funny story to be taped and broadcast on "This American Life." Like virtually every funny story since the dawn of time, this particular tale wandered some distance from the literal, historical truth.

Yes, I said it. Sometimes, in order to be funny, people will fudge the truth. Worse, many writers are unable to resist the temptation to be funny. Sweet Jehosaphat on toast! Can you imagine? A person so addicted to being amusing that they do not report their experiences with the cut and dried precision of an AP News brief! Someone call Dr. Drew.

In his better moments, Mr. Shafer is a impish avenging angel, swooping down on weasel words and wringing the breath from ill-researched trend stories. For these acts of righteous journalistic vengeance, I have nothing but gratitude. But for whatever reason, Mr. Shafer is drawn to the Personal Yarn as if it were the journalistic killing fields, site of all that is horrifying and unethical in the world. (Note, for example, that Stephen Glass is not known for his hilarious monologues.) But he is, inexorably, drawn back to this topic every few months. Not too long ago, he went off on David Sedaris, and, as I say, last week he took aim at Mr. Gladwell.

Why this seems such a slippery slope is beyond me. Yes, we want Mr. Gladwell to be scrupulously honest in his reporting, but I have no difficulty believing he's capable of such effort and still, say, crack a joke now and then. One would sooner confuse the veracity of a Sedaris article with a Susan Orlean feature.

Ah, well. That was my position, anyway. And then Portfolio ran an article about Mr. Gladwell's spotty fact-checking. Then, a few hours later, they pulled the post.

Thank you very fucking much, Portfolio. Now I feel like a boob for writing off Mr. Shafer as a journalistic bluenose. And, for bonus points, I feel certain we can expect weeks, if not months, of additional posts on this subject from my favorite journalistic bluenose.

Get the Honorable Gentleman from Virginia Some Oil of Cloves

HBO's "John Adams" continues to alternate between thought- and giggle-provoking.

First and foremost, I would very much like some kind of primer on What Is The Deal with Wigs?

I can see, and even approve of the production designer's decision to keep George Washington and Thomas Jefferson in their own hair, at least through the second installment. (Likewise, Ben Franklin goes au natural, but then, how would you know he was Ben Franklin if he wasn't bald on top, with flowing gray locks?)

But the whole variety of wigs raises a lot of unanswered questions -- what does a man wear a wig in his natural hair color, even if he has no hair of his own underneath? When does a man decide to switch over to a gray wig? And what are the subtexts of the curly sheep's wool wig vs. the frizzy crown favored by South Carolina's Mr. Rutledge vs. the carefully styled option favored by everyone from the Quaker Mr. Dickinson to the Unitarian Mr. Adams?

Then, and this presses on me most fearfully, what is the deal with curious head bandage/unraveled turban worn by Dr. Franklin's fellow Pennsylvania delegate? I've been through Wikipedia, HBO and an interactive version of John Trumbull's painting, without finding any information. Really, it's most distracting.

And lastly, there is a kind of ludicrous grandeur to the entire proceedings. MG has issues with the dialogue, but that's not what bothers me. Rather, I wish we could have skipped scenes like the one in which an unknown delegate walks to Adams and regrets that they are not all on their way home already. Adams is like, "Uh, yeah, I guess." This aimless conversation continues for a few moments until, at last, Adams addresses the delegate as Mr. Jefferson. That mystery solved, Jefferson excuses himself, while the narrator explains "And that was the day that John Adams met Thomas Jefferson." Except, you know, not.

I'm still not clear on why Washington wore his military uniform to a civilian gathering, except that it, along with his perennial expression of "Cripes, my teeth are killing me", are his chief identifying qualities.

It seems I can expect no shortage of such moments, considering a later scene in which Franklin revises the Declaration of Independence, then compliments Jefferson on the excellence of his newly invented chair. The only thing missing was the moment where Franklin fishes out a key, ties it to a kite string and walks out into a pouring rainstorm.

Also the Final Season of "Blake's 7"

Dear "Torchwood,"

I love you, but you are not a good show. Sorry, but it had to be said. That wedding episode was full on retarded, up to and including the final scene in which, OF COURSE, it turns out Captain Jack was once married. Jesus, what hasn't that guy done? Give birth by C-Section? (Note: That would have been a much better idea, btw. Not that you asked me. I'm just saying.)

Nothing personal, I am a fan of the not good (see also "Scarecrow and Mrs. King," "Wizards and Warriors," and long stretches of your older cousin, "Original Formula Doctor Who, Now With Even More Monsters Made From Garbage Bags.")

Your with great affection and not especially reliable taste where genre fiction is concerned,

Kate

On Insane Conversations

Sometimes, all you can do is wait.  Wait for lunch to come so you can set it up for the
read through.  Wait for the call to come so you can transfer it to right line.  Wait for the
call to end so the writers can go back to breaking the episode.  Wait for the notes to
come in so you can make the necessary changes and publish the next draft.

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

At times like this, I think of Kenneth Koch's poem "The Boiling Water."  It begins:

A serious moment for the water is when it boils
And though one usually regards it merely as a convenience
To have the boiling water available for bath or table
Occasionally there is someone around who understands
The importance of this moment for the water -- maybe a saint,
Maybe a poet, maybe a crazy man, or just someone temporarily disturbed
With his mind "floating," in a sense, away from his deepest
Personal concerns to more "unreal" things.  A lot of poetry
Can come from perceptions of this kind, as well as a lot of insane
   conversations.
Intense people can sometimes get stuck on topics like these
And keep you far into the night with them.  Still, it is true
That the water has just started to boil.  How important
For the water!  And now I see that the three is waving in the wind
(I assume it is the wind) -- at least, its branches are.  In order to see
Hidden meanings, one may have to ignore
The most exciting ones, those that are most directly appealing
And yet it is only these appealing ones that, often, one can trust
To makes one's art solid and true, just as it is sexual attraction
One has to trust, often, in love.  So the boiling water's seriousness
Is likely to go unobserved until the exact strange moment
(And what a temptation it is to end the poem here
With some secret thrust) when it involuntarily comes into the mind
And then one can write of it.  A serious moment for this poem will be
   when it ends,
It will be like the water's boiling, that for which we've waited
Without trying to think of it too much, since "a watched pot never boils,"
And a poem with its ending figured out is difficult to write.

That is not, rest assured, the end of the poem. Like water about to boil, what seems
to be the end turns out to be the start of something else.

Occupational Hazards

I've been tortured lately by the spectacularly butter/vanilla aroma that wafts off even a very small amount of 21-year-old Black Maple Hill bourbon. Tortured because a) it smells AMAZINGLY GOOD and b) I'm not much for on-the-job drinking.

Add to this that 21-year-old Black Maple Hill bourbon is necessarily a limited edition item, and it's currently sold out throughout most of North America, and I have a real problem on my hands.

But thanks to the delightful gentlemen at Fireside Liquors, we are now the proud owners of 17-year-old Eagle Rare bourbon, which is maybe not EXACTLY as good as BMH, but still very, very good indeed. It's like taking little high octane sips of essence of a delicious, if slightly spicy creme brulee.

This leads to me to wonder how I can track down a bottle of the other whiskey I really like -- Bruichladdich, which some kind friends (hi, Kate & Jon!) were kind enough to bring for us when they went to Scotland some years ago. My memory fails me, but I think it was about 12 years old, and it bloomed like a rose with about three drops of water.

What Have We Learned So Far?

1. It is almost impossible to work and blog and get 7 to 8 hours of sleep. Something has to give. And I come from a long line of Olympic-grade sleepers, so...

2. MG loves the Rutles. We went to a Rutles event earlier this week and--wait, wait. I realize some of you might wonder, who are the Rutles? To express it in SAT terms, Nightline: Daily Show:: Beatles: Rutles. Cool? Cool.

Okay, getting back to the topic at hand. MG loves him some Rutles. Here's what he said about our outing:

Rutles reunion? Some said it couldn’t happen. Most said it shouldn’t happen. All I know is, Kate and I were raring to go from the moment the evening was announced. But being non-celebrities in a celebrity-driven town, it was not as easy as all that. First, tickets sold out almost immediately; second, Kate had to promise not to run up to Jeff Lynne and kick him for overproducing the Threetles.

Dude, for real. Jeff Lynne has some shin kicks coming. Man needs to keep his hands OFF THE SYNTHESIZER, YO. Isn't it a danger sign when your music turns out to be the pitch-perfect soundtrack for a film about a rollerskating rink where 1980 versions of the Greek muses like to hang out and, uh, rollerskate?*

For the rest of the story, check out MG's post on what by my count is his nine millionth blog, this one mostly about the Beatles.

* Not there is anything wrong with rollerskating. Rollerskating is effing cool.

C U L8r

Yes, I'm aware. I've fallen off the blog train.

Sunday was spent, shockingly, with MG. I know that's terribly old school to spend the weekend with your spouse, but that's how it rolls in our particular hizzy.

Some recent highlights:

* Borrowed a screener of "There Will Be Blood." All possibility of buying tickets went out the window when the writers' room spoiled 70% of the plot last Tuesday. I'm all for supporting the arts and not abusing academy screeners, but no way am I buying $22 worth of tickets when I already know 70% of the story.

* Am in the middle of a three day long craving for these wee Fannie Mae mints. Not Mint Meltaways, but the tiny chocolate/mint/chocolate sandwiches they sell in little paper cups, usually in a box with paper cups of something they call Peppermint Ice. Lucky for me, Valentine's Day is right around the corner, and last time I checked, the Valentine's Fairy does most of her shopping at Fannie Mae.

* Woke up at 6 this morning in preparation for an early morning phone call with an expert. (And wouldn't you like to know what kind of expert? Well too bad, because I'm not telling. Hahahahahahahaha!) Then, dear readers, I drove to the dentist for an 8 a.m. filling, with complimentary dose of novacaine. Then I jumped in my car and drove in to work, did some light research, and then spent the next eight hours in The Room, taking notes. (With a short break for some WGA-award-celebrating bubbly.)

And now I'm going home, maybe watch some "Breaking Bad", and if yesterday is any indication, hit the sack by 10:15 p.m.

P.S. I've been forced to log into iChat from inside the writers' room, in order to communicate with the other assistants. But if you know me and see me on your chat service, for the love of God, please ignore me. Somebody might have the balls to IM their buddies when they're supposed to be typing notes, but that person is not me.