1. All of our cats have fictional back stories and personal lives which have been invented and embroidered by myself and MG. Including Willa's long-anticipated screenplay "The Skrakening," which she's constantly trying to get me to pass onto an agent, and her blog, which is mostly a thinly-veiled attempt to stir up interest in same.
2. I wear a lot of pink, lilac and green. In fact, when I moved out of Chicago, I gave away almost everything that wasn't one of these three colors, with the exception of some neutral pants, skirts and shoes.
3. I groove to grocery store Muzak. Particularly if it is a cover of "We Built this City" by Jefferson Starship.
4. I believe in talking about the positive before the negative.
5. I also believe in talking about the negative in terms of a problem to be solved, not a grievous crime for which there can be no adequate redress.
6. I believe in not saying anything if the topic under discussion falls outside of my area of expertise/taste/preference.
7. I leave tips that make the server question my sanity.
8. I listen to young adult novels about sexy vampires and troubled wizards on my iPod. Sometimes, I will go on extra long walks, just to squeeze in a little more alone time with a troubled wizard.
9. I like Disneyland. Specifically, I like Space Mountain. My only regret about our wedding is that it wasn't held on Space Mountain. That would have been awesome.
10. I make up lyrics for songs both real and imaginary. For example, the theme song to the HBO series "Rome" begins "Two centurions! In Ancient Rome! They fight crime! In Ancient Rome! One is really noble! One is a fuck up! In Ancient Rome!" The bridge continues "Watch out for tricky Atia! She will poison you in your sleep. And no one will ever know, except for..." (Chorus resumes) "Two centurions! In Ancient Rome!"
11. I also have songs for "House," "Dr. Who," and "Blake's 7."
12. I always get my car washed at a place under Century City Mall, even though it's probably $5-10 more expensive. Because they have a clear menu of car washing options, and because I like hanging out in malls much more than dodgy car wash waiting rooms.
13. In sixth grade, I made up a fake boyfriend, but I used the name of the cute actor on "The A-Team," Dirk Benedict (also cast as the original, Han Solo-esque Starbuck.) I thought this was incredibly slick and no one would ever put it together. My friend Beth figured it out inside of five minutes.
14. I once drove a car with a broken fan belt until the engine caught fire and melted into a solid block of metal. In my defense, I had been told that it merely had a coolant leak, and if I kept the anti-freeze topped up, I'd be fine. That's the one and only car I've ever killed, but it weighs on my conscience like a smothered puppy.
15. I enjoy a White Russian and avoid bars that cannot make one.
16. I bring my own white cheddar sprinkles to the movie theater and put them on the popcorn.
17. I will go to a theater for a movie I'm not that interested in if I know the theater puts real butter on their popcorn.
18. In high school and college, I ate White Cheddar Cheese Wheatables while I wrote stuff for class. When Keebler discontinued them, I had writer's block for several years.
19. I only discovered last week that a bully will back down if you stand up to him. Previously, I had assumed that it was also possible to outwit them through niceness. It's not.
20. Apparently, I am capable of standing up to bullies. I never used to be. I can't think what changed, but it's neat. Like I woke up one day and could speak fluent Spanish.
21.I enjoy a good cardigan.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Yeah, Michael Kinsley, I'm Talking to You
As happens sometimes, I spent 20 minutes posting an angry rant on a message board, and then thought: Why the hell did I waste the time and energy on this post when I haven't blogged in weeks?
The backstory on the following rant: I used to do improv in Chicago, and god willing, I will do improv again, in some city, somewhere. In the meantime, I still read the Chicago Improv Network on a regular basis. For one thing, a lot of old friends hang out and post there, so I can keep up on what they're doing. For another, it's actually a tremendously funny community.
Maybe half a year ago, CIN put up an improvwiki, an online encyclopedia of improv terms and traditions. For an artform and a community that is continually changing and evolving, it was an awesome resource, and the people behind it did a fantastic job.
This is where it gets sad.
Nobody involved with CIN, myself included, understands how to lock the wiki so that only registered members can post or edit items. This makes it essentially an unmoderated message board. To put this in terms of the wild west badlands the internet has become, it's like stripping your virginal 16 year old daughter naked and leaving her on the front steps of a whorehouse and hoping to find her, virtue intact, still standing there when you stop by two weeks later.
At this point, the CINwiki is pretty much gone, the original posts destroyed by spam bots that roam the internet looking for places to shove pointless links to hot girlssssss and c*ck akshun.
And I have to say this, even though I recognize its total obviousness even before I type the words:
Where is the fucking logic in spamming the world with links for porn and cheap Samsung ringtones? Dude! If I even WANTED a Samsung ringtone, the LAST PLACE I would go is a link I found WEDGED into a website about SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY!
The Nigerian Treasury scams, okay, I see the crazy (yet criminal) logic of posting all over hell and gone with your sad, broken-English stories of coups gone wrong and wire transfers for $K. Poor, helpless son of the recently deposed Mboto Omejawe, how could you possibly know that CIN/Craiglist/CourtTV message board thread about "Intervention" and that one girl meth addict who thought she was god/AICN isn't the best place for you to go looking for a trustworthy new internet friend?
Economists often say things that make no sense and then they say "Well, that's the logic of the marketplace!" I want to know: Where is the marketplace's logic when some bot is cramming the CIN wiki with links to herbal male enhancement drugs?
I think these same self-satisfied economists should suit up, ninja style, and hunt down mfers who abuse the commons in this fashion. And they could call themselves the Econo-ninjas, and have a catchphrase like "Help yourself to a heap spoonful of econo-justice!"
Oh, who am I kidding? I know this will continue, unabated, until the collapse of the global economy in 2016 and the consequent reversion to salt as the one true currency. But it makes a nice change from thinking about wounded soldiers lying on a piss-soaked mattress.
The backstory on the following rant: I used to do improv in Chicago, and god willing, I will do improv again, in some city, somewhere. In the meantime, I still read the Chicago Improv Network on a regular basis. For one thing, a lot of old friends hang out and post there, so I can keep up on what they're doing. For another, it's actually a tremendously funny community.
Maybe half a year ago, CIN put up an improvwiki, an online encyclopedia of improv terms and traditions. For an artform and a community that is continually changing and evolving, it was an awesome resource, and the people behind it did a fantastic job.
This is where it gets sad.
Nobody involved with CIN, myself included, understands how to lock the wiki so that only registered members can post or edit items. This makes it essentially an unmoderated message board. To put this in terms of the wild west badlands the internet has become, it's like stripping your virginal 16 year old daughter naked and leaving her on the front steps of a whorehouse and hoping to find her, virtue intact, still standing there when you stop by two weeks later.
At this point, the CINwiki is pretty much gone, the original posts destroyed by spam bots that roam the internet looking for places to shove pointless links to hot girlssssss and c*ck akshun.
And I have to say this, even though I recognize its total obviousness even before I type the words:
Where is the fucking logic in spamming the world with links for porn and cheap Samsung ringtones? Dude! If I even WANTED a Samsung ringtone, the LAST PLACE I would go is a link I found WEDGED into a website about SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY!
The Nigerian Treasury scams, okay, I see the crazy (yet criminal) logic of posting all over hell and gone with your sad, broken-English stories of coups gone wrong and wire transfers for $K. Poor, helpless son of the recently deposed Mboto Omejawe, how could you possibly know that CIN/Craiglist/CourtTV message board thread about "Intervention" and that one girl meth addict who thought she was god/AICN isn't the best place for you to go looking for a trustworthy new internet friend?
Economists often say things that make no sense and then they say "Well, that's the logic of the marketplace!" I want to know: Where is the marketplace's logic when some bot is cramming the CIN wiki with links to herbal male enhancement drugs?
I think these same self-satisfied economists should suit up, ninja style, and hunt down mfers who abuse the commons in this fashion. And they could call themselves the Econo-ninjas, and have a catchphrase like "Help yourself to a heap spoonful of econo-justice!"
Oh, who am I kidding? I know this will continue, unabated, until the collapse of the global economy in 2016 and the consequent reversion to salt as the one true currency. But it makes a nice change from thinking about wounded soldiers lying on a piss-soaked mattress.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Confession
I have a weakness for the low-rent. I can't help myself. Maybe it's because the relentlessly classy is so intimidatingly perfect, while something ramshackle and half-assed fairly screams out for help of some kind.
Case in point: The Dresden Files, a new show on Sci-Fi. None of the sophisticated geo-political commentary that you'll find woven through Battlestar Galactica--or Rome, for that matter. No, every episode is about a guy--an erstwhile wizard--trying to get along in the big city.
Nicolas Cage is listed as one of the producers, which I take to mean that he optioned the idea and brought it to the folks who put up the cash. I also assume he had some input on the casting, since Mr. Dresden is a wolfish guy with a seriously receding hairline. (I had the chance to sit in on a casting session with the great Nina Foch, and she had a remorseless eye for distracting facial flaws. The actor playing Dresden has what she would describe as a "muzzle.")
It's getting to the point where I'm watching Dresden *before* BSG. I don't know why. Nearly every episode has followed Harry Dresden's accidental entanglement with some young lovely, and the consequent need for him to solve a mystery using magic. The guy has a seriously thing for ladies--he seems to fall in love in the first four minutes of every episode. On the plus side, the actor really sells the hell out of his role. Last week found him passionately smelling--yes, smelling--a woman/werewolf. (I think he was going to track her scent? I'm not sure.) Anyway, if they ever give an Emmy for smelling a woman with a straight face, this guy is a shoo-in.
Okay, but here's the problem. The show is set in Chicago. They've got Chicago cop cars and Chicago police uniforms. They have footage of the skyline and shots of the El. They drop street names and nearby towns, and generally try to fake like they really are shooting in Chicago.
The end result is TOTALLY UNCONVINCING.
I am a sucker. I have *seen* the section of Warner Brothers lot where they film exterior scenes for ER and I still try to catch little pieces of actual Chicago on that show. Likewise, I have seen the part of the Fox lot where NYPD Blue used to tape, and I still scrutinize footage from that show, just in case that was one of the days they shot on location.
Hell, I recently edited some ER dailies (for a class) that I know for a FACT was shot on a soundstage in Burbank, and caught myself marvelling at how they'd matched the exact cold grey color of winter sunlight in Chicago.
"The Dresden Files" doesn't fool me for a second. It's OBVIOUSLY being shot in Canada--probably Vancouver, maybe Toronto.
Problem one: The light is ALL WRONG. Everything is lit with a gentle, golden warmth. I'm not a professional cinematographer, but in my experience, Chicago alternates between a cold grey haze (September through March) and an intense solar glare (April through August.)
Problem two: The accents. No way any of these people grew up in the midwest.
Problem three: The cops are super hot. Again, I call bullshit. Actually, that's an all-purpose note, applying to any city this might be set in.
Problem four: An episode just began with the on screen title: "Chicago - Near West District." Huh? You mean the West Side? Or Wicker Park? Last week, Dresden and a client drove to "South Bend" in an open jeep. South Bend, IN is at least two hours of freeway driving. Who makes that drive in an open car?
Problem five: Everytime the show tries harder to convince me it really IS set in Chicago, it only gets less convincing. The way Harry will deliver some voiceover monologue about the "way Chicago is." Or someone will whip out a map that's clearly one of the CTA pamplets that covers just the Loop and Gold Coast.
But see, here's the thing...I find it all the more charming for those flaws. Who can keep up with BSG, with it's constant weaving of WWII battle strategy and Crimean-War-Era military history? I'd much rather watch a show with some dings in the paint.
And the silliness of certain ideas--Harry uses a drumstick for his wizard's wand, a hockey stick for a staff--is very winning. He shares his apartment with the ghost of a dead, gay wizard who periodically goes off to sulk in an old skull--his own.
It reminds me more than a little of "Forever Knight," another Canadian supernatural show, that one about vampires. It was utterly ridiculous (the bad guy was named Lacroix, if that gives you some idea), but very gamely done.
On another note, Oscar Sunday marks the anniversary of our first visit to Los Angeles. Two years ago, we tangled with the blocked off streets and horrific traffic generated by the Big Night, squeezed into the In and Out Burger around Sunset and Highland, then plowed through the 405 to the airport, where we watched the first hour or so while waiting for our plane to board.
A lot has changed since then. I never set tire on the 405 unless absolutely necessary. In fact, I make a point of driving as little as possible, particularly in and around things like Oscar Sunday. Oh! And I've discovered I prefer Fatburger to In and Out.
Case in point: The Dresden Files, a new show on Sci-Fi. None of the sophisticated geo-political commentary that you'll find woven through Battlestar Galactica--or Rome, for that matter. No, every episode is about a guy--an erstwhile wizard--trying to get along in the big city.
Nicolas Cage is listed as one of the producers, which I take to mean that he optioned the idea and brought it to the folks who put up the cash. I also assume he had some input on the casting, since Mr. Dresden is a wolfish guy with a seriously receding hairline. (I had the chance to sit in on a casting session with the great Nina Foch, and she had a remorseless eye for distracting facial flaws. The actor playing Dresden has what she would describe as a "muzzle.")
It's getting to the point where I'm watching Dresden *before* BSG. I don't know why. Nearly every episode has followed Harry Dresden's accidental entanglement with some young lovely, and the consequent need for him to solve a mystery using magic. The guy has a seriously thing for ladies--he seems to fall in love in the first four minutes of every episode. On the plus side, the actor really sells the hell out of his role. Last week found him passionately smelling--yes, smelling--a woman/werewolf. (I think he was going to track her scent? I'm not sure.) Anyway, if they ever give an Emmy for smelling a woman with a straight face, this guy is a shoo-in.
Okay, but here's the problem. The show is set in Chicago. They've got Chicago cop cars and Chicago police uniforms. They have footage of the skyline and shots of the El. They drop street names and nearby towns, and generally try to fake like they really are shooting in Chicago.
The end result is TOTALLY UNCONVINCING.
I am a sucker. I have *seen* the section of Warner Brothers lot where they film exterior scenes for ER and I still try to catch little pieces of actual Chicago on that show. Likewise, I have seen the part of the Fox lot where NYPD Blue used to tape, and I still scrutinize footage from that show, just in case that was one of the days they shot on location.
Hell, I recently edited some ER dailies (for a class) that I know for a FACT was shot on a soundstage in Burbank, and caught myself marvelling at how they'd matched the exact cold grey color of winter sunlight in Chicago.
"The Dresden Files" doesn't fool me for a second. It's OBVIOUSLY being shot in Canada--probably Vancouver, maybe Toronto.
Problem one: The light is ALL WRONG. Everything is lit with a gentle, golden warmth. I'm not a professional cinematographer, but in my experience, Chicago alternates between a cold grey haze (September through March) and an intense solar glare (April through August.)
Problem two: The accents. No way any of these people grew up in the midwest.
Problem three: The cops are super hot. Again, I call bullshit. Actually, that's an all-purpose note, applying to any city this might be set in.
Problem four: An episode just began with the on screen title: "Chicago - Near West District." Huh? You mean the West Side? Or Wicker Park? Last week, Dresden and a client drove to "South Bend" in an open jeep. South Bend, IN is at least two hours of freeway driving. Who makes that drive in an open car?
Problem five: Everytime the show tries harder to convince me it really IS set in Chicago, it only gets less convincing. The way Harry will deliver some voiceover monologue about the "way Chicago is." Or someone will whip out a map that's clearly one of the CTA pamplets that covers just the Loop and Gold Coast.
But see, here's the thing...I find it all the more charming for those flaws. Who can keep up with BSG, with it's constant weaving of WWII battle strategy and Crimean-War-Era military history? I'd much rather watch a show with some dings in the paint.
And the silliness of certain ideas--Harry uses a drumstick for his wizard's wand, a hockey stick for a staff--is very winning. He shares his apartment with the ghost of a dead, gay wizard who periodically goes off to sulk in an old skull--his own.
It reminds me more than a little of "Forever Knight," another Canadian supernatural show, that one about vampires. It was utterly ridiculous (the bad guy was named Lacroix, if that gives you some idea), but very gamely done.
On another note, Oscar Sunday marks the anniversary of our first visit to Los Angeles. Two years ago, we tangled with the blocked off streets and horrific traffic generated by the Big Night, squeezed into the In and Out Burger around Sunset and Highland, then plowed through the 405 to the airport, where we watched the first hour or so while waiting for our plane to board.
A lot has changed since then. I never set tire on the 405 unless absolutely necessary. In fact, I make a point of driving as little as possible, particularly in and around things like Oscar Sunday. Oh! And I've discovered I prefer Fatburger to In and Out.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Things Over Which I Have No Control
Rubbing Time. A new ritual invented by my cat Willa at 8:34 p.m., February 8, 2007. out of nowhere, she decided to shake off her nap, walk over to my desk, and circle my legs for 40 minutes, rubbing against me the entire time. No idea why. Totally new behavior that I've never seen before.
My brain. Woke up at 8 a.m. with a migraine that was so profound that even the blood vessels in my right nostril hurt. Took Advil gel caps, waited 30 minutes, woke up 3 hours later with no migraine. Little did I know that the migraine wasn't gone, it was just hiding. My right eye started tearing about ninety minutes ago, and like an idiot, I paid no attention until that first, savage poke behind the right eye told me it was time to Relpax up. Now I'm sitting here, wondering if the Relpax will kick in before the migraine comes all the way back.
Tom Colicchio. The guy behind Gramercy Tavern, Craft and my favorite sandwich shop of all time, wichcraft. He's supposed to open his first restaurant in L.A. sometime in the next three months, but every time there's a news item about it, the opening date is pushed back. Oh, Tom! Don't you know I'm marooned out here with no reliable source of sweetbreads? Can't you pick up the pace a little?
J. Crew. I lost a beloved olive green v-neck tee back in August and ever since, J. Crew steadfastly REFUSES to stock any olive green v-necks. What the eff, J. Crew? What's your beef with olive green? I know, you've got the dark pine green thing going on, but that color is L7, baby. Strictly for the Land's End shopper, know what I'm saying? Give me some olive green sugar, J. Crew! I am your neighbor!
My stomach. I know nine Advil in 7 hours with a Relpax chaser is not your idea of a good time, but you gotta hang in there, dude. Brain's sending you a lot of uncool vibes about needing to throw up and what not, but Brain's in a bad place right now. You can pull through this. No, don't pay attention to the Vagus Nerve. Vagus Nerve is a big liar. Ask anyone. We get through this, there's a steak frites waiting for you at the Father's Office. Mmm...aioli. Okay, bad idea. Shouldn't have mentioned food. Forget about the food. Just focus on not throwing up. That's right. Good work. You're doing great.
My brain. Woke up at 8 a.m. with a migraine that was so profound that even the blood vessels in my right nostril hurt. Took Advil gel caps, waited 30 minutes, woke up 3 hours later with no migraine. Little did I know that the migraine wasn't gone, it was just hiding. My right eye started tearing about ninety minutes ago, and like an idiot, I paid no attention until that first, savage poke behind the right eye told me it was time to Relpax up. Now I'm sitting here, wondering if the Relpax will kick in before the migraine comes all the way back.
Tom Colicchio. The guy behind Gramercy Tavern, Craft and my favorite sandwich shop of all time, wichcraft. He's supposed to open his first restaurant in L.A. sometime in the next three months, but every time there's a news item about it, the opening date is pushed back. Oh, Tom! Don't you know I'm marooned out here with no reliable source of sweetbreads? Can't you pick up the pace a little?
J. Crew. I lost a beloved olive green v-neck tee back in August and ever since, J. Crew steadfastly REFUSES to stock any olive green v-necks. What the eff, J. Crew? What's your beef with olive green? I know, you've got the dark pine green thing going on, but that color is L7, baby. Strictly for the Land's End shopper, know what I'm saying? Give me some olive green sugar, J. Crew! I am your neighbor!
My stomach. I know nine Advil in 7 hours with a Relpax chaser is not your idea of a good time, but you gotta hang in there, dude. Brain's sending you a lot of uncool vibes about needing to throw up and what not, but Brain's in a bad place right now. You can pull through this. No, don't pay attention to the Vagus Nerve. Vagus Nerve is a big liar. Ask anyone. We get through this, there's a steak frites waiting for you at the Father's Office. Mmm...aioli. Okay, bad idea. Shouldn't have mentioned food. Forget about the food. Just focus on not throwing up. That's right. Good work. You're doing great.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Looking Towards the Future
Having just seen "Children of Men," I have the dystopic hangover of all time. If you're prone to being sucked in by movies (guilty), then you come away from "Children of Men" wondering what is even the POINT of getting up tomorrow.
This is a great place to be, emotionally, if you're a writer. Because you have to believe UTTERLY in tomorrow's possibilities to get anything done. Yesterday is fine, today is good, but you have to believe that, sitting at your desk, in five minutes, what you're working on will look much better than the blank page you're looking at right now. If you can't believe that, you are buggered.
And if you're in a place where you're not only able to invest in "five minutes from now", but the entire future stretches out in a vast wasteland...I guess it's time to turn in an application to Starbucks.
So here's what I'm looking forward to:
1. My first clam pizza at Mozza. I ordered the bacon-and-leek pizza to go last week, and ate 3/4ths of it in the car at the first stoplight. It wasn't an especially long stoplight, either. Man, that was a good pizza. So, yeah, I can't wait to eat the clam pizza.
2. Having an awesome thesis screenplay. Yeah, I said it. I think my thesis will turn out awesome and I can't wait.
3. Valentine's date with Michael and the Scrambler. At the Santa Monica Pier, there's a small amusement park with a tightly edited array of rides, my favorite of which is the American Scrambler. But I don't really like to ride it alone. I like to ride it with Michael, who punctuates every rotation with a loud, hollered "Scraaaaaaaaamble!" I know, the commercials on sports radio and the ads in the New York Times will lead you to believe that what I really is some diamond-encrusted piece of metal. And maybe some ladies do. But personally, I'll take a ride or two on the Scrambler.
4. The last Harry Potter book.
5. Newly waxed eyebrows. I've clearly let things go to far, and thank god, I'm seeing my eyebroweuse Julie tomorrow at 2:30.
This is a great place to be, emotionally, if you're a writer. Because you have to believe UTTERLY in tomorrow's possibilities to get anything done. Yesterday is fine, today is good, but you have to believe that, sitting at your desk, in five minutes, what you're working on will look much better than the blank page you're looking at right now. If you can't believe that, you are buggered.
And if you're in a place where you're not only able to invest in "five minutes from now", but the entire future stretches out in a vast wasteland...I guess it's time to turn in an application to Starbucks.
So here's what I'm looking forward to:
1. My first clam pizza at Mozza. I ordered the bacon-and-leek pizza to go last week, and ate 3/4ths of it in the car at the first stoplight. It wasn't an especially long stoplight, either. Man, that was a good pizza. So, yeah, I can't wait to eat the clam pizza.
2. Having an awesome thesis screenplay. Yeah, I said it. I think my thesis will turn out awesome and I can't wait.
3. Valentine's date with Michael and the Scrambler. At the Santa Monica Pier, there's a small amusement park with a tightly edited array of rides, my favorite of which is the American Scrambler. But I don't really like to ride it alone. I like to ride it with Michael, who punctuates every rotation with a loud, hollered "Scraaaaaaaaamble!" I know, the commercials on sports radio and the ads in the New York Times will lead you to believe that what I really is some diamond-encrusted piece of metal. And maybe some ladies do. But personally, I'll take a ride or two on the Scrambler.
4. The last Harry Potter book.
5. Newly waxed eyebrows. I've clearly let things go to far, and thank god, I'm seeing my eyebroweuse Julie tomorrow at 2:30.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Nobody Tells This Wookie What to Do
The Force Arrests Chewbacca
Ever since I moved out here, I've been torn between hating and loving this stretch of Hollywood Blvd. The vibe is somewhere between a year-round Comicon and the breakroom of the world's lamest auto show. It's also an excellent barometer of the current face of pop culture. For a while there, the sidewalk was carpeted with Ewan-as-Obi-Wans and Young Anakins. Now, aside from a guy in smeary red and black face paint, there's no sign of Lucas' prequels.
I love the drama-geeks-gone-amok quality. It takes me right back to the shadowy wings of the Little Theater, listening to a freckled sophomore playing Henry Drummond like a 16-year-old Spencer Tracy, while the prop crew plays poker under the stage.
But there is a dark side. Some people get really into it--I've stood in line for coffee behind a Jack Sparrow who would *not* break character. Keep in mind, this man did not look like Johnny Depp and was an easy 50 pounds heavier than Depp. But he stepped up to that register, swayed, and with one disoriented finger, pointed to a cup and slurred "Barkeep, a medium cup of your finest mocha ice blended, sir!"
Speaking of which, I suspect Thomas Fox will be crying himself to sleep tonight:
"The city will do something eventually. Yesterday's incident probably shortened that time span," said Thomas Fox, wearing a pirate's suit reminiscent of Capt. Jack Sparrow in "Pirates of the Caribbean."
In a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Hollywood, an unhappy man in eyeliner is lamenting to a sweaty Darth Maul: "Reminiscent? REMINISCENT? Do you think Depp grew actual dreds for the part? DO YOU?"
Ever since I moved out here, I've been torn between hating and loving this stretch of Hollywood Blvd. The vibe is somewhere between a year-round Comicon and the breakroom of the world's lamest auto show. It's also an excellent barometer of the current face of pop culture. For a while there, the sidewalk was carpeted with Ewan-as-Obi-Wans and Young Anakins. Now, aside from a guy in smeary red and black face paint, there's no sign of Lucas' prequels.
I love the drama-geeks-gone-amok quality. It takes me right back to the shadowy wings of the Little Theater, listening to a freckled sophomore playing Henry Drummond like a 16-year-old Spencer Tracy, while the prop crew plays poker under the stage.
But there is a dark side. Some people get really into it--I've stood in line for coffee behind a Jack Sparrow who would *not* break character. Keep in mind, this man did not look like Johnny Depp and was an easy 50 pounds heavier than Depp. But he stepped up to that register, swayed, and with one disoriented finger, pointed to a cup and slurred "Barkeep, a medium cup of your finest mocha ice blended, sir!"
Speaking of which, I suspect Thomas Fox will be crying himself to sleep tonight:
"The city will do something eventually. Yesterday's incident probably shortened that time span," said Thomas Fox, wearing a pirate's suit reminiscent of Capt. Jack Sparrow in "Pirates of the Caribbean."
In a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Hollywood, an unhappy man in eyeliner is lamenting to a sweaty Darth Maul: "Reminiscent? REMINISCENT? Do you think Depp grew actual dreds for the part? DO YOU?"
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Helen Mirren Is a Stone Fox
The highlight of my holiday season, hands down, was a handmade Christmas card from my brother Tom. He'll never believe this, but I'd even go so far as to say I like the card better than the peppermint bark it came with (and I really, really, really like peppermint bark.)
The tiny Santa in the upper left hand corner is pretty great, but I'm a particular fan of Baby New Year, who is seen crawling in profile in the lower left hand corner. Clad in the traditional diaper, Baby New Year gazes towards the new day with one blue eye, the picture of dignity in spite (or because of?) the two antennae-like tufts of brown hair sprouting from his infant scalp. I plan to place a standing demand for follow up cards in honor of Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day and the Vernal Equinox.
The holiday season draws to close with the ritual dragging of the dessicated Christmas tree to the local park for recycling, and the ritual vacuuming up of 3 gallons of loose needles from our living room to the building's threshold.
I put my brief hiatus to good use, seeing a slew of movies--"Dreamgirls," "Good Shepherd," and just tonight, "The Queen." Someone started the rumor that "Good Shepherd" is a Wasp "Godfather," and I cannot object to that characterization. Michael has seen it twice now, and thinks it is really a story about sons and fathers, which also rings true. I liked it a great deal, although I knew I would as soon as I heard stories of audience members leaving in confusion.
Nothing gives me more pleasure than cracking a tough narrative nut. (I felt the same way about "Syriana," and if you'll forgive the liberty, "The Lake House." Seriously, a dozen moviegoers stood in the lobby after the screening of the Sandra/Keanu film, debating the story's conclusion and whether "it was all a dream." Dude, it's a magic mail box. Deal with it and move on.) The exception the "tough narrative nut" rule is the tough nut with little or no meat to speak of--as in the later films of Fellini. I am sorry to say it, but I have never been able to get through "Satyricon." When Gore Vidal revealed recently that Fellini redubbed everything to suit not a existing script but his own varied whims, I finally understood my longstanding dislike of his later work. Nothing pains me like shoddy storytelling. Nothing.
"The Queen," if I may steal Michael's line, is really a story about mothers and children. True, Helen Mirren looks more like the Annie Leibowitz-photographed version of my maternal grandmother every day, especially in this role. I never realized before the extent to which my grandmother and Queen Elizabeth shared a taste for the curl and set, the large purse worn over the bent elbow, the below-the-knee skirt and the sturdy shoe. Also, the two women share exact same hair-fine creases over their brows and very slight sag on either side of her chin.
(Virtually no one else would probably see the resemblance. I often make such leaps of recognition, but they are typically mine alone. I also think Harrison Ford looks more like my dad everyday, Gary Sinise bears a striking resemblance to a guy I dated for a month in college and I'd need at least 5 minutes to pick my brother M out of a line up with Ron Livingston and Kyle Chandler.)
But that's not what made me think of mothers and children during "The Queen." Rather, a mother of my acquaintance has observed that children, as they mature, get angry at their mothers, but not their fathers, because it is their mother's shortcomings they resent, whereas children do not have such hopes for their dads. I don't know if I totally believe that--not being a man, I can't speak to the father/son dynamic--but I admit, the mother/child thing fascinates me, not least because I think it won't be long before I know the other side for myself. (And by not long I mean, "sometime in the next 10 years." Although who knows? The same Helen-Mirren-resembling grandmother reproduced into her late 30s, and possibly into her early 40s, depending on which of her various birthdays you accept as fact.)
In any event, "The Queen" does a fantastic job of exploring the dynamics of change and disappointment and hope in the parent/child relationship. It rings strangely true that Cherie Blair (a "daughter") is much harsher in her judgements than the filial Prime Minister Blair, who comes to the Queen's defense again and again.
I subscribe to a zeitgeist theory with the Oscars, with the reigning principle being that whatever film most flatters the Academy most is a mortal lock for Best Picture. "American Beauty" is the best example of this theory in practice, as I believe the Academy members (or the males, anyway) would love to think of themselves as Kevin Spacey, tiptoeing right up to the edge of impropriety and then stepping back, only to be struck down in pursuit of a better way. Last year's "Crash" follows this same theory pretty closely. This year already smells like a time for making statements of principle and standing up for what one believes in (in so far as watching a movie can be said to be a statement of principle.) In the absence of a rampant craze for "Flags of Our Fathers," I think one of the various flawed-fathers-and-their-damaged-sons stories might go all the way--"The Departed," perhaps, or "Good Shepherd."
But if the Academy were 60% or more female, I'd say "The Queen" was done deal. As it is, Mirren would have to be caught blowing a transvestite on Sunset to put even a dent in her spectacular chances at Best Actress.
The tiny Santa in the upper left hand corner is pretty great, but I'm a particular fan of Baby New Year, who is seen crawling in profile in the lower left hand corner. Clad in the traditional diaper, Baby New Year gazes towards the new day with one blue eye, the picture of dignity in spite (or because of?) the two antennae-like tufts of brown hair sprouting from his infant scalp. I plan to place a standing demand for follow up cards in honor of Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day and the Vernal Equinox.
The holiday season draws to close with the ritual dragging of the dessicated Christmas tree to the local park for recycling, and the ritual vacuuming up of 3 gallons of loose needles from our living room to the building's threshold.
I put my brief hiatus to good use, seeing a slew of movies--"Dreamgirls," "Good Shepherd," and just tonight, "The Queen." Someone started the rumor that "Good Shepherd" is a Wasp "Godfather," and I cannot object to that characterization. Michael has seen it twice now, and thinks it is really a story about sons and fathers, which also rings true. I liked it a great deal, although I knew I would as soon as I heard stories of audience members leaving in confusion.
Nothing gives me more pleasure than cracking a tough narrative nut. (I felt the same way about "Syriana," and if you'll forgive the liberty, "The Lake House." Seriously, a dozen moviegoers stood in the lobby after the screening of the Sandra/Keanu film, debating the story's conclusion and whether "it was all a dream." Dude, it's a magic mail box. Deal with it and move on.) The exception the "tough narrative nut" rule is the tough nut with little or no meat to speak of--as in the later films of Fellini. I am sorry to say it, but I have never been able to get through "Satyricon." When Gore Vidal revealed recently that Fellini redubbed everything to suit not a existing script but his own varied whims, I finally understood my longstanding dislike of his later work. Nothing pains me like shoddy storytelling. Nothing.
"The Queen," if I may steal Michael's line, is really a story about mothers and children. True, Helen Mirren looks more like the Annie Leibowitz-photographed version of my maternal grandmother every day, especially in this role. I never realized before the extent to which my grandmother and Queen Elizabeth shared a taste for the curl and set, the large purse worn over the bent elbow, the below-the-knee skirt and the sturdy shoe. Also, the two women share exact same hair-fine creases over their brows and very slight sag on either side of her chin.
(Virtually no one else would probably see the resemblance. I often make such leaps of recognition, but they are typically mine alone. I also think Harrison Ford looks more like my dad everyday, Gary Sinise bears a striking resemblance to a guy I dated for a month in college and I'd need at least 5 minutes to pick my brother M out of a line up with Ron Livingston and Kyle Chandler.)
But that's not what made me think of mothers and children during "The Queen." Rather, a mother of my acquaintance has observed that children, as they mature, get angry at their mothers, but not their fathers, because it is their mother's shortcomings they resent, whereas children do not have such hopes for their dads. I don't know if I totally believe that--not being a man, I can't speak to the father/son dynamic--but I admit, the mother/child thing fascinates me, not least because I think it won't be long before I know the other side for myself. (And by not long I mean, "sometime in the next 10 years." Although who knows? The same Helen-Mirren-resembling grandmother reproduced into her late 30s, and possibly into her early 40s, depending on which of her various birthdays you accept as fact.)
In any event, "The Queen" does a fantastic job of exploring the dynamics of change and disappointment and hope in the parent/child relationship. It rings strangely true that Cherie Blair (a "daughter") is much harsher in her judgements than the filial Prime Minister Blair, who comes to the Queen's defense again and again.
I subscribe to a zeitgeist theory with the Oscars, with the reigning principle being that whatever film most flatters the Academy most is a mortal lock for Best Picture. "American Beauty" is the best example of this theory in practice, as I believe the Academy members (or the males, anyway) would love to think of themselves as Kevin Spacey, tiptoeing right up to the edge of impropriety and then stepping back, only to be struck down in pursuit of a better way. Last year's "Crash" follows this same theory pretty closely. This year already smells like a time for making statements of principle and standing up for what one believes in (in so far as watching a movie can be said to be a statement of principle.) In the absence of a rampant craze for "Flags of Our Fathers," I think one of the various flawed-fathers-and-their-damaged-sons stories might go all the way--"The Departed," perhaps, or "Good Shepherd."
But if the Academy were 60% or more female, I'd say "The Queen" was done deal. As it is, Mirren would have to be caught blowing a transvestite on Sunset to put even a dent in her spectacular chances at Best Actress.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Today the Red Death Rays of Judgement Are But a Delightful Sunbeam on a Baby's Cheek
I've already cast back through the sands of time to recommend a book whose quality, by any standards, I'm much too biased to judge accurately.
(Although MG will tell you that no amount of kindness or generosity will spare you from the red death rays of judgement that shoot out of my eyes when I stumble upon an awkward phrase or a clumsy piece of dialogue, no matter who wrote it.)
In any event, things have now calmed down to the point where I can read actual book books, not just biographies of Cary Grant or screenplays written by my classmates. And the first such title to cross my path was the fantastic Prisoner of Trebekistan: A Decade in Jeopardy!, by Bob Harris.
Astute readers will remember from earlier posts that I actually used to write trivia questions for a living, so you might think that the whole Jeopardy! angle had me at "What is hello?" Not so. In fact, writing trivia questions has turned out to be almost as disastrous for my personal growth as answering them on television has been lucrative for Bob. A handful of people can enter into the spirit of the thing, offering the helpful suggestion or directing me to an interesting source of things we're supposed to know but have forgotten. But most people want to play "I bet I'm smarter than the girl who writes trivia questions for a living!" Guess what? You are! I give up!
I'm sorry, where was I? Ah, yes, right! I HATE TRIVIA QUESTIONS! I HATE TRIVIA CONTESTS OF ALL KINDS! HATE HATE HATE HATE!
Yet magically, I really enjoyed Bob's book. Chew on that for a minute.
If you actually like/enjoy trivia questions and contests, this is still the book for you. In fact, I think Prisoner will probably become the go-to text for aspiring Jeopardy contestants. There's all kinds of useful advice about committing stuff to memory, and study techniques, and some tips on staying calm when your body would like to humiliate you utterly. (This is particularly valuable for me, as I keep walking into rooms with people who out earn me by a factor of a bajillion and who could brush away all my financial concerns like so much lint if they so chose.)
But for me, the best part was the story of Bob's journey through the strange and wondrous land of Trebekistan--the friends made along the way, the ways in which his success (and non-success) affected his sense of self and his relationships with people around him. I particularly enjoyed the moment when, just as I was thinking Bob was being a little hard on himself, his sister sighed impatiently and told Bob he was being a little hard on himself. (Wow, it's like she read my mind!) Not many authors will deliberately portray themselves as flawed human beings, and fewer still will walk us through the process of accepting those flaws. It shows a self-knowledge and grace as a writer that I really admire.
(Most writers--and bloggers--prefer to present a face of bland competence, or if they do make mistakes, to write a love song to those errors in judgement. See Frey, James and Bigger Fuck Up Than Me, Nobody is a.)
Judging from the blurbs on the back cover--Ira Glass (!), Joss Whedon (!!), Paul Feig (!!!)--I don't think excerpts of this post are going to find their way into the press kit anytime soon, but I'm a big fan of Harris's blog (not surprisingly located at www.bobharris.com) and suspected I'd like his book very much. Which I do. And lately, his posting has dwindled somewhat, owing to what he describes as "deadline pressures." I can only hope this means another book is on the way.
(Although MG will tell you that no amount of kindness or generosity will spare you from the red death rays of judgement that shoot out of my eyes when I stumble upon an awkward phrase or a clumsy piece of dialogue, no matter who wrote it.)
In any event, things have now calmed down to the point where I can read actual book books, not just biographies of Cary Grant or screenplays written by my classmates. And the first such title to cross my path was the fantastic Prisoner of Trebekistan: A Decade in Jeopardy!, by Bob Harris.
Astute readers will remember from earlier posts that I actually used to write trivia questions for a living, so you might think that the whole Jeopardy! angle had me at "What is hello?" Not so. In fact, writing trivia questions has turned out to be almost as disastrous for my personal growth as answering them on television has been lucrative for Bob. A handful of people can enter into the spirit of the thing, offering the helpful suggestion or directing me to an interesting source of things we're supposed to know but have forgotten. But most people want to play "I bet I'm smarter than the girl who writes trivia questions for a living!" Guess what? You are! I give up!
I'm sorry, where was I? Ah, yes, right! I HATE TRIVIA QUESTIONS! I HATE TRIVIA CONTESTS OF ALL KINDS! HATE HATE HATE HATE!
Yet magically, I really enjoyed Bob's book. Chew on that for a minute.
If you actually like/enjoy trivia questions and contests, this is still the book for you. In fact, I think Prisoner will probably become the go-to text for aspiring Jeopardy contestants. There's all kinds of useful advice about committing stuff to memory, and study techniques, and some tips on staying calm when your body would like to humiliate you utterly. (This is particularly valuable for me, as I keep walking into rooms with people who out earn me by a factor of a bajillion and who could brush away all my financial concerns like so much lint if they so chose.)
But for me, the best part was the story of Bob's journey through the strange and wondrous land of Trebekistan--the friends made along the way, the ways in which his success (and non-success) affected his sense of self and his relationships with people around him. I particularly enjoyed the moment when, just as I was thinking Bob was being a little hard on himself, his sister sighed impatiently and told Bob he was being a little hard on himself. (Wow, it's like she read my mind!) Not many authors will deliberately portray themselves as flawed human beings, and fewer still will walk us through the process of accepting those flaws. It shows a self-knowledge and grace as a writer that I really admire.
(Most writers--and bloggers--prefer to present a face of bland competence, or if they do make mistakes, to write a love song to those errors in judgement. See Frey, James and Bigger Fuck Up Than Me, Nobody is a.)
Judging from the blurbs on the back cover--Ira Glass (!), Joss Whedon (!!), Paul Feig (!!!)--I don't think excerpts of this post are going to find their way into the press kit anytime soon, but I'm a big fan of Harris's blog (not surprisingly located at www.bobharris.com) and suspected I'd like his book very much. Which I do. And lately, his posting has dwindled somewhat, owing to what he describes as "deadline pressures." I can only hope this means another book is on the way.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Also, Consider Making a Roux
My God, how I love the 26th of December! I love the absence of any pressing engagements! I love the normal store hours! I love the decompression from the previous month of unconscious build up to the Big Day!
Yesterday, by all accounts, was a very mellow, enjoyable Christmas. If it had been some random Monday in January, I would have considered it a day well spent. But with all the pressure of the holiday, it ended up feeling a little ramshackle, like the one B- on a transcript full of As.
But we traded some excellent gifts--am I the last person alive to find out about this Amy Sedaris book about entertaining? Oh man, what a great read!--and watched some football, and made some dinner.
The two big challenges of dinner were:
A. How do you tie a roast together when you've forgotten to buy twine?
B. How do you serve four different dishes whose recipes all end with the sentence "Serve immediately."? Especially if your kitchen isn't big enough for two people to stand in at the same time?
Some problemsolving went into Issue A. Some internet searches into the possible toxicity of sisal, which we keep in stock for the cats' scratching post, generated no definitive information. A run to 7-11 and a conversation with a man who did not know the English word "string" was likewise fruitless. But in the end, I was able to slip the pre-tied roast apart without breaking the butcher-tied string, brown it, then slip it back together. Although the experience was not unlike trying to pull control top pantyhose over the torso of a Sumo wrestler.
Issue B was also successfully negotiated, with the help of Michael and his brother Jack and no help at all from frickin' Cooks' Illustrated. Guys, you're supposed to be johnny-on-the-spot with the useful cookery advice, yet no one noticed that your "Dickens Christmas Menu" consisted of four dishes with significant last minute work? Bah!
In the end, the big nailbiter was: Will the yorkshire pudding rise, despite our oven's lack of a reliable thermostat? And the answer is: Yes, they did rise, and subsequently brown, and there was much pumping of fists in the air. Followed by the eating of yorkshire pudding, and roast, and mashed potatoes, and spinach salad and a spectacular gravy. Michael is under orders, should I die before him, to specify in my eulogy that I had a gift for gravy. And indeed, I don't think I overstep the bounds of modesty when I say I make some kickass gravy. I make gravy that could bring civilization to its knees, if civilization as we knew it teetered on the availability of high-quality gravy.
(My secret: Deglaze the pan with wine, then reduce. Also, consider making a roux. Neither are really *my* secrets, as much as they are the secrets of all trained chefs everywhere. But I've come through more than one holiday gathering where gravy prowess was in short supply, and so I carry deep within me a few key tips for producing a delicious meat sauce in under 20 minutes. Literally, it's a file saved on my PDA, along with a recipe for creme brulee and three domestic sparkling white wines that are almost as good as Veuve Clicqot.)
Yesterday, by all accounts, was a very mellow, enjoyable Christmas. If it had been some random Monday in January, I would have considered it a day well spent. But with all the pressure of the holiday, it ended up feeling a little ramshackle, like the one B- on a transcript full of As.
But we traded some excellent gifts--am I the last person alive to find out about this Amy Sedaris book about entertaining? Oh man, what a great read!--and watched some football, and made some dinner.
The two big challenges of dinner were:
A. How do you tie a roast together when you've forgotten to buy twine?
B. How do you serve four different dishes whose recipes all end with the sentence "Serve immediately."? Especially if your kitchen isn't big enough for two people to stand in at the same time?
Some problemsolving went into Issue A. Some internet searches into the possible toxicity of sisal, which we keep in stock for the cats' scratching post, generated no definitive information. A run to 7-11 and a conversation with a man who did not know the English word "string" was likewise fruitless. But in the end, I was able to slip the pre-tied roast apart without breaking the butcher-tied string, brown it, then slip it back together. Although the experience was not unlike trying to pull control top pantyhose over the torso of a Sumo wrestler.
Issue B was also successfully negotiated, with the help of Michael and his brother Jack and no help at all from frickin' Cooks' Illustrated. Guys, you're supposed to be johnny-on-the-spot with the useful cookery advice, yet no one noticed that your "Dickens Christmas Menu" consisted of four dishes with significant last minute work? Bah!
In the end, the big nailbiter was: Will the yorkshire pudding rise, despite our oven's lack of a reliable thermostat? And the answer is: Yes, they did rise, and subsequently brown, and there was much pumping of fists in the air. Followed by the eating of yorkshire pudding, and roast, and mashed potatoes, and spinach salad and a spectacular gravy. Michael is under orders, should I die before him, to specify in my eulogy that I had a gift for gravy. And indeed, I don't think I overstep the bounds of modesty when I say I make some kickass gravy. I make gravy that could bring civilization to its knees, if civilization as we knew it teetered on the availability of high-quality gravy.
(My secret: Deglaze the pan with wine, then reduce. Also, consider making a roux. Neither are really *my* secrets, as much as they are the secrets of all trained chefs everywhere. But I've come through more than one holiday gathering where gravy prowess was in short supply, and so I carry deep within me a few key tips for producing a delicious meat sauce in under 20 minutes. Literally, it's a file saved on my PDA, along with a recipe for creme brulee and three domestic sparkling white wines that are almost as good as Veuve Clicqot.)
Monday, December 25, 2006
It's a Wonderful Life
Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan! – George Bailey
Merry Christmas, Santa Monica!
Merry Christmas, Third Street Promenade!
Merry Christmas, Clock Tower!
Merry Christmas, St. Augustine By the Sea!
Merry Christmas, Two Hour Choral Mass!
Merry Christmas, Soprano and Baritone Couple Two Pews Up Who Rock Out on “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”!
Merry Christmas, Lady Behind Me in Mass Who Makes Up the Words to Carols When She Doesn’t Know Them!
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girls Who Argue Loudly for Entire Mass About Whether to Stay Until “Silent Night” or Leave Now and Sing It Themselves on the Way Home.
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girl Who Answers Her Cell Phone During Communion!
Merry Christmas, Pacific Ocean!
Merry Christmas, Michael!
Merry Christmas, Cats Who Like to Chew Glittery Ribbons!
Merry Christmas, Mysterious Chocolate Smell in the Hallway!
Merry Christmas, Powers Family En Route to Ireland!
Merry Christmas, Gerber Family Hanging Out with the Dunnes!
Merry Christmas, Freshly Baked Monkey Bread!
Merry Christmas, Delicious Bacon!
Merry Christmas, Awesome Amy Sedaris Book I Got from Jack!
Merry Christmas, Everybody!
Merry Christmas, Santa Monica!
Merry Christmas, Third Street Promenade!
Merry Christmas, Clock Tower!
Merry Christmas, St. Augustine By the Sea!
Merry Christmas, Two Hour Choral Mass!
Merry Christmas, Soprano and Baritone Couple Two Pews Up Who Rock Out on “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”!
Merry Christmas, Lady Behind Me in Mass Who Makes Up the Words to Carols When She Doesn’t Know Them!
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girls Who Argue Loudly for Entire Mass About Whether to Stay Until “Silent Night” or Leave Now and Sing It Themselves on the Way Home.
Merry Christmas, Drunk Girl Who Answers Her Cell Phone During Communion!
Merry Christmas, Pacific Ocean!
Merry Christmas, Michael!
Merry Christmas, Cats Who Like to Chew Glittery Ribbons!
Merry Christmas, Mysterious Chocolate Smell in the Hallway!
Merry Christmas, Powers Family En Route to Ireland!
Merry Christmas, Gerber Family Hanging Out with the Dunnes!
Merry Christmas, Freshly Baked Monkey Bread!
Merry Christmas, Delicious Bacon!
Merry Christmas, Awesome Amy Sedaris Book I Got from Jack!
Merry Christmas, Everybody!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Christmas in Santa Monica
I feel like I've just awakened from a coma. From mid-August until last Tuesday, I literally did not have ten minutes that were not filled with either a) obsessing about work and/or b) actual work. My focus was so intense that I stopped dreaming about a month ago, and started brainstorming in my sleep. That's an exhausting feeling--waking up after 8 hours of unconscious story development.
In the last five days, I've finished up my Christmas shopping, cleaned the apartment (with a big assist from MG), rounded up some groceries, called back a friend I'd been trading voicemails with for over a month, and last night, did some laundry. The mind boggles to think how I could have gone from working on my thesis to packing for a trip to Chicago to boarding a plane--I think I would have had a breakdown. So just from a sanity point of view, I'm relieved we're in Santa Monica this week. But that's not to say I don't miss the folks in the midwest. If I were two separate people, I definitely would have sent one of me back to Chicago for the holidays. But alas, I am as constrained by the laws of space and time as everyone else.
This is not our first major holiday in Southern California. We've already spent two Thanksgivings and an Easter, but somehow, this feels more serious. In Greek mythology, Persephone was reportedly condemned to spend half her days in hell after eating a Pomegranate of the Damned. Spending Christmas in Santa Monica feels a little bit like eating the Pomegranate of Southern California. No matter what, we'll be entangled with this city for years to come.
The number one thing I've learned thus far: If you want to leave Santa Monica, get out of town before 3 p.m. After 3 p.m., you're basically trapped west of the 405 until traffic lightens up again after 7 p.m. You think I'm kidding. I'm not kidding. Back in October, Michael and I drove to a bakery located, no joke, 12 miles from our front door. We left our house at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. We stayed off the freeways, which in any event were blocked up in every direction. We stepped inside the bakery at 6:15 p.m.
Other lessons learned:
* Never, never, never go on the 405, except between 10 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. and even then, only if no other route suggests itself.
* Of all things, never, never, never take the 405 to LAX. Get off and take Lincoln.
* The best mall: the Grove.
* The most fun 10 minutes that cost nothing: The twice-nightly fake snow at the Grove.
* Bad times to visit the Grove: Friday nights, Saturdays, Sundays, Black Friday, the day after Christmas, days that end in Y.
* Worst parking lot: Westside Shopping Pavillion. It's like the set of a horror movie that's been converted into a parking lot. Dark, cramped, ramshackle, terrifying. In the event of an earthquake, I can only assume everyone inside will be killed instantly.
* Worst reason to visit the Westside Shopping Pavillion: The Bad Times Nordstrom. The saddest, darkest, dingiest version of the nicest department store I've ever seen. Like Communist Russia Nordstrom.
* Best sandwich: Roast Beef on Ciabatta at Clementine's.
* Best chocolate milkshake: Fatburger
* Best creme brulee: Ocean Ave
* Best tuna burger: Gulfstream
* Most annoying bar/restaurant that is really, really good: Father's Office. Recently busted by the fire marshal, they now make everyone wait in line outside until someone leaves. Is this better than the insane Hobbesian fight for tables that *used* to be the standard operating procedure? Unclear. Yes, the steak frites are awesome, but they're not *that* awesome.
* Least annoying bar/restaurant that's pretty good: Houston's. I'm embarrassed to say that Michael and I are borderline regulars at this chain restaurant. I feel a little bad about it, but in fairness, the locally owned options just don't measure up.
* What the Hell? situation of the year: Why are the desserts in this town so craptastic? Houston's more or less phones it in with a brownie and a warm apple crumble. I haven't had a decent tiramisu in months--MONTHS! I'm afraid to even try to find a cannoli. I was warned by my in-laws, but I thought they just hadn't looked hard enough. I stand corrected. This town has a puritanical aversion to high-fat dairy the likes of which you seldom see outside of an eating disorder support group.
*Best thing about 2006? Feast your eyes on this vision:
In the last five days, I've finished up my Christmas shopping, cleaned the apartment (with a big assist from MG), rounded up some groceries, called back a friend I'd been trading voicemails with for over a month, and last night, did some laundry. The mind boggles to think how I could have gone from working on my thesis to packing for a trip to Chicago to boarding a plane--I think I would have had a breakdown. So just from a sanity point of view, I'm relieved we're in Santa Monica this week. But that's not to say I don't miss the folks in the midwest. If I were two separate people, I definitely would have sent one of me back to Chicago for the holidays. But alas, I am as constrained by the laws of space and time as everyone else.
This is not our first major holiday in Southern California. We've already spent two Thanksgivings and an Easter, but somehow, this feels more serious. In Greek mythology, Persephone was reportedly condemned to spend half her days in hell after eating a Pomegranate of the Damned. Spending Christmas in Santa Monica feels a little bit like eating the Pomegranate of Southern California. No matter what, we'll be entangled with this city for years to come.
The number one thing I've learned thus far: If you want to leave Santa Monica, get out of town before 3 p.m. After 3 p.m., you're basically trapped west of the 405 until traffic lightens up again after 7 p.m. You think I'm kidding. I'm not kidding. Back in October, Michael and I drove to a bakery located, no joke, 12 miles from our front door. We left our house at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. We stayed off the freeways, which in any event were blocked up in every direction. We stepped inside the bakery at 6:15 p.m.
Other lessons learned:
* Never, never, never go on the 405, except between 10 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. and even then, only if no other route suggests itself.
* Of all things, never, never, never take the 405 to LAX. Get off and take Lincoln.
* The best mall: the Grove.
* The most fun 10 minutes that cost nothing: The twice-nightly fake snow at the Grove.
* Bad times to visit the Grove: Friday nights, Saturdays, Sundays, Black Friday, the day after Christmas, days that end in Y.
* Worst parking lot: Westside Shopping Pavillion. It's like the set of a horror movie that's been converted into a parking lot. Dark, cramped, ramshackle, terrifying. In the event of an earthquake, I can only assume everyone inside will be killed instantly.
* Worst reason to visit the Westside Shopping Pavillion: The Bad Times Nordstrom. The saddest, darkest, dingiest version of the nicest department store I've ever seen. Like Communist Russia Nordstrom.
* Best sandwich: Roast Beef on Ciabatta at Clementine's.
* Best chocolate milkshake: Fatburger
* Best creme brulee: Ocean Ave
* Best tuna burger: Gulfstream
* Most annoying bar/restaurant that is really, really good: Father's Office. Recently busted by the fire marshal, they now make everyone wait in line outside until someone leaves. Is this better than the insane Hobbesian fight for tables that *used* to be the standard operating procedure? Unclear. Yes, the steak frites are awesome, but they're not *that* awesome.
* Least annoying bar/restaurant that's pretty good: Houston's. I'm embarrassed to say that Michael and I are borderline regulars at this chain restaurant. I feel a little bad about it, but in fairness, the locally owned options just don't measure up.
* What the Hell? situation of the year: Why are the desserts in this town so craptastic? Houston's more or less phones it in with a brownie and a warm apple crumble. I haven't had a decent tiramisu in months--MONTHS! I'm afraid to even try to find a cannoli. I was warned by my in-laws, but I thought they just hadn't looked hard enough. I stand corrected. This town has a puritanical aversion to high-fat dairy the likes of which you seldom see outside of an eating disorder support group.
*Best thing about 2006? Feast your eyes on this vision:
Friday, December 22, 2006
Danger: Contents May Cause You to Fall In Love
Waaaaaay back in the mists of time (i.e., 1999), I was surfing on the internet instead of writing trivia questions. (Although, to be honest, trivia question writing calls for a decent amount of internet surfing just in terms of pure idea generation.) Given my job writing trivia questions, I was understandably very taken with one particular corner of the World Wide Web, namely the daily News Quiz feature on Slate.
Basically, it was a do-it-yourself variation of Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update. Editor Randy Cohen (yes, this Randy Cohen) would harvest some obscure-yet-hilarious phrase or quote from the previous day's news, craft a tidy set up and then let readers submit their own punchlines.
Okay, so here's where I'm going with this. It happened that, one day in early February, 1999, that I read a reader-submitted joke on Slate that was so witty, so funny, so original, that I instantly fell in love with its author. In a lucky break for me, the author had a strangely familiar name--a name I thought I recognized from my time served at Oak Park River Forest High School.
So I wrote Randy Cohen--which I did a lot those days, as I also liked to kill time between trivia questions by writing pointless-yet-irascible emails to near/total strangers--and asked him if he knew this "Michael Gerber" and if, by any chance, he went to high school in the western suburbs of Chicago. Mr. Cohen's exact reply, if I recall, was "Hell if I know. Ask him yourself." And then he pasted in an email address for said Michael Gerber.
Fast forward to 2006, and true story, I'm actually *married* to that same Michael Gerber. And yes, he's a fellow Fightin' Husky*, although we never so much as made eye contact in the linoleum hallways of that institution.
Now, I can't reprint that News Quiz joke because if any women were to lay eyes on that short quip, I'd be fighting them off at the front door for the rest of the decade. It's that goddamn funny. But Michael, and his writing partner Jon Schwarz, are nothing if not humanitarians. So for the good of all mankind, they've put together a collection of all their *other* humor writings and published it in an easy-to-carry volume entitled "Our Kampf," which is available for purchase here. (After the holidays, it will also be available from Amazon.com and the like.)
As a favor to me, Michael held back any piece that was likely to draw attractive female admirers to our door, but of course, we applied no such test w/r/t Jon. So be advised, if you buy and read "Our Kampf," you may very well find yourself married to a humorist/policy maven by December 2008. I'm just saying, it's a risk.
*Note: Officially, the OPRF Huskies have no such modifying adjective, unfortunately, but I see no reason to let reality ruin my fun.
Basically, it was a do-it-yourself variation of Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update. Editor Randy Cohen (yes, this Randy Cohen) would harvest some obscure-yet-hilarious phrase or quote from the previous day's news, craft a tidy set up and then let readers submit their own punchlines.
Okay, so here's where I'm going with this. It happened that, one day in early February, 1999, that I read a reader-submitted joke on Slate that was so witty, so funny, so original, that I instantly fell in love with its author. In a lucky break for me, the author had a strangely familiar name--a name I thought I recognized from my time served at Oak Park River Forest High School.
So I wrote Randy Cohen--which I did a lot those days, as I also liked to kill time between trivia questions by writing pointless-yet-irascible emails to near/total strangers--and asked him if he knew this "Michael Gerber" and if, by any chance, he went to high school in the western suburbs of Chicago. Mr. Cohen's exact reply, if I recall, was "Hell if I know. Ask him yourself." And then he pasted in an email address for said Michael Gerber.
Fast forward to 2006, and true story, I'm actually *married* to that same Michael Gerber. And yes, he's a fellow Fightin' Husky*, although we never so much as made eye contact in the linoleum hallways of that institution.
Now, I can't reprint that News Quiz joke because if any women were to lay eyes on that short quip, I'd be fighting them off at the front door for the rest of the decade. It's that goddamn funny. But Michael, and his writing partner Jon Schwarz, are nothing if not humanitarians. So for the good of all mankind, they've put together a collection of all their *other* humor writings and published it in an easy-to-carry volume entitled "Our Kampf," which is available for purchase here. (After the holidays, it will also be available from Amazon.com and the like.)
As a favor to me, Michael held back any piece that was likely to draw attractive female admirers to our door, but of course, we applied no such test w/r/t Jon. So be advised, if you buy and read "Our Kampf," you may very well find yourself married to a humorist/policy maven by December 2008. I'm just saying, it's a risk.
*Note: Officially, the OPRF Huskies have no such modifying adjective, unfortunately, but I see no reason to let reality ruin my fun.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Wheee! The Rollercoaster of Artistic Doubt!
I spent yesterday reading my classmates' theses and watching trailers for upcoming movies on the Apple website. Here's how that breaks down:
1. Read classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that I am not that funny. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
2. Despair that I am a hack.
3. Watch trailer for "Wild Hogs."
4. Feel much, much better about my thesis.
5. Read second classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my characters are no where near as believable or well-observed. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
6. Despair that I am a hack.
7. Watch trailer for "Music and Lyrics."
8. Feel much, much better about my thesis.
9. Read third classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my plot is an incoherent, sluggish mess compared to the breezy, engaging three acts I've just read. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
10. Despair that I am a hack.
11. Watch trailer for "Hang Six."
12. Feel much, much better about my thesis.
13. Read fourth classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my thesis has none of the emotional sweep or human warmth of this piece. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
14. Despair that I am a hack.
15. Watch trailer for "Evan Almighty."
16. Feel even worse
17. Watch trailer for "The Cleaner."
18. Miraculously recover sense of self worth.
19. Read own thesis, now that it's been a day and a half.
20. Discover 14 typos and several misspellings, including nunchucks (my guess: nun-chuks), Mahmoud Amadinejad (or, in my world: Mamoud Amadinajaad.) Plus one giant plot inconsistency involving a Great Dane that appears in one scene and vanishes for 60 pages.
21. Reset self-worth back to zero.
22. Drown sorrows in grande non-fat latte.
1. Read classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that I am not that funny. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
2. Despair that I am a hack.
3. Watch trailer for "Wild Hogs."
4. Feel much, much better about my thesis.
5. Read second classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my characters are no where near as believable or well-observed. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
6. Despair that I am a hack.
7. Watch trailer for "Music and Lyrics."
8. Feel much, much better about my thesis.
9. Read third classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my plot is an incoherent, sluggish mess compared to the breezy, engaging three acts I've just read. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
10. Despair that I am a hack.
11. Watch trailer for "Hang Six."
12. Feel much, much better about my thesis.
13. Read fourth classmate's thesis. Am consumed with jealousy that my thesis has none of the emotional sweep or human warmth of this piece. Type up notes designed to hopefully conceal said jealousy but still give props where they are due.
14. Despair that I am a hack.
15. Watch trailer for "Evan Almighty."
16. Feel even worse
17. Watch trailer for "The Cleaner."
18. Miraculously recover sense of self worth.
19. Read own thesis, now that it's been a day and a half.
20. Discover 14 typos and several misspellings, including nunchucks (my guess: nun-chuks), Mahmoud Amadinejad (or, in my world: Mamoud Amadinajaad.) Plus one giant plot inconsistency involving a Great Dane that appears in one scene and vanishes for 60 pages.
21. Reset self-worth back to zero.
22. Drown sorrows in grande non-fat latte.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The first draft of my thesis is done
The sweetest eight words in the English language right now. Also rans would include: "Hey, let's open this bottle of Veuve Clicquot" and "Season Three of Doctor Who starts tomorrow night."
It would be nice if by "thesis" I meant a short academic work, such as might be published by a prestigious university press, or even a collection of short stories, such as is often produced by graduates of the Iowa Workshop. But no. In my case, thesis means a 120 page screenplay. (And the 120 part is already a problem--my professor was very firm that the screenplay should never be more than 110 pages long. No, don't ask me, I don't know either. But I admit, she has a point. Since I started applying for internships, I have yet to do coverage on a script that was more than 111 pages long.)
But for the moment, I am relieved and ready to let go of it for a while. Ha, actually, I woke up this morning wondering if I could turn the thing into a novel after graduation. But aside from that, I really am ready to take a break.
For the record, this was, essentially, my creative process for the last two months:
It would be nice if by "thesis" I meant a short academic work, such as might be published by a prestigious university press, or even a collection of short stories, such as is often produced by graduates of the Iowa Workshop. But no. In my case, thesis means a 120 page screenplay. (And the 120 part is already a problem--my professor was very firm that the screenplay should never be more than 110 pages long. No, don't ask me, I don't know either. But I admit, she has a point. Since I started applying for internships, I have yet to do coverage on a script that was more than 111 pages long.)
But for the moment, I am relieved and ready to let go of it for a while. Ha, actually, I woke up this morning wondering if I could turn the thing into a novel after graduation. But aside from that, I really am ready to take a break.
For the record, this was, essentially, my creative process for the last two months:
- Write up a list of everything that has to get done, and the day it's due.
- Panic.
- Surf on the internet for six hours.
- Count number of days until I qualify for a discounted Treo from my cell phone provider.
- Review the list.
- Begin work on the most pressing project.
- Focus obsessively on the most pressing project, such that I spend six days writing a 12 page paper on Cary Grant, despite having some 200 pages of scripted material to produce in the very near future.
- Eat Thanksgiving dinner.
- Refuse to open bottle of champagne for Thanksgiving dinner because "champagne is for people who meet deadlines." Open bottle of prosecco instead.
- Revise footnotes on paper after drinking half a bottle of prosecco with Thanksgiving dinner.
- Undue post-prosecco footnote revisions the following morning.
- Revise the list of everything that has to get done and the day it's due.
- Panic.
- Surf on the internet for six hours.
- Realize I now qualify for discounted Treo from my cellphone provider.
- Refuse to buy phone because "Treos are for people who meet deadlines."
- Refuse to attend any movies, social events or optional activities that might release some tension and remind me why I'm film school in the first place.
- Review the list
- Begin work on the next most pressing project.
- Despair that this project does not live up to my expectations.
- Make bargain with self that this is only a first draft, and maybe there will be time to revise it before turning it in.
- Turn it in, unrevised.
- Casually ask professor if he plans to read the draft right away. Upon learning that he's not reading the final projects until the weekend, promise him a revised draft by Sunday afternoon.
- Spend entire weekend massively revising script.
- Send revised draft to professor at 9:47 p.m. on Sunday night.
- Revise list of everything that has to get done and the day it's due.
- Realize list now consists of one item, the second 50 pages of my thesis screenplay.
- Realize I have no interest in writing my thesis screenplay.
- Panic.
- Surf on the internet for six hours.
- Break down and see "Casino Royale."
- Remember what I liked about my screenplay in the first place.
- Rewrite entire first act of screenplay.
- Realize this means I now have to write the last 75 pages of my thesis screenplay.
- Get started.
- Start to feel better about myself.
- Come down with a cold.
- Take cold medication.
- Keep writing.
- Become very confused by my own script outline.
- Take cold medication.
- Have disturbing dream in which the actor who played Swearingen on "Deadwood" expresses interest in a part in my screenplay.
- Swear off cold medication.
- Keep writing.
- Drink my weight in orange juice.
- Sleep for 14 hours.
- Wake up and read what I have so far.
- Start fixing plot problems.
- Discover that Final Draft has become horribly buggy and changes formatting if I so much as breathe on it.
- Start writing my revisions on electronic stickies and pasting them into the main document.
- Realize I need three more scenes and you're done.
- Write two scenes.
- Try to copy them into the main document.
- Lose two hours work when Final Draft crashes before I can hit "paste."
- Re-write the two scenes.
- Write the last scene.
- Paste it into the main document.
- Try to print.
- Track down the 36 formatting errors Final Draft has found.
- Fix the 36 formatting errors.
- Try to print.
- Put paper in the printer.
- Print.
- Put studs through the 120 page document.
- Worry about my professor's reaction to the length of my thesis.
- Put script in FedEx box.
- Write professor a note.
- Put note in FedEx box.
- Drive to professor's house.
- Leave script inside professor's screen door.
- Drive to Jerry's Famous Deli and pick up corned beef sandwich, large bowl of matzo ball soup.
- Drive home.
- Eat corned beef sandwich, most of the matzo ball soup.
- Sleep.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Sicky Sicky Sick Sick Sick
I stayed home from a holiday party in our building yesterday, out of a desire to not infect the nice people who invited us over. Also, sensing that this sniffle thing had a couple days to go, I cancelled a facial I had *really* been looking forward to. I'm bummed about both decisions, even though I know I made the right call.
At the same time, I did NOT back out of a scheduled meeting of the Women of Cinematic Arts (a USC student/alum group I joined last fall), and this morning at the crack of 10:15, I trotted off to the dentist.
In the first case, I missed the last WCA meeting for a friend's birthday, and I thought I could probably keep my distance from the other attendees. (That's a harder trick to pull off when everyone's giving you happy-holiday-hugs and the like.) In the second case, I thought: Well, I feel like crap anyway. Why waste a perfectly good healthy day on a tooth cleaning when I can kill two birds with one stone? And anyway, don't dentists usually wear surgical masks?
(In fact, they do, and mine had a mask on his head, but not pulled over his mouth. I was upfront about the cold, so who knows why he chose to have unprotected dental hygiene time with me.)
A recurring theme, here, however, is that it is ALWAYS easier for me to cancel things I want to do, and harder for me to cancel things I dread. No, the things I dread must be faced, head on, like steamed vegetables or next year's FAFSA.
Anyway, the upshot of all this is that my teeth hurt, like, a lot, and it's so demoralizing to realize that even when you're feeling gunky and low energy and can't really taste anything, it's actually possible to feel worse. Tooth pain is a weird form of discomfort. There's nothing to be done for it except wait for it to subside. But I keep wishing I had one of those jelly-filled rings little kids chew for teething pain. It seems like that might help.
In the meantime, I've grown weary of the Def-con 10 intensity of adult cold medicine, and as I usually do, I've made a day three switch to Dimatapp. Sure, it's for kids. So what? It stems the mucal tide without turning my sinuses into two desicated raisin-like pouches. I was awakened last night by another 4 a.m. bout of Nyquil-induced retardation, and resolved that it was time to break from this medicine-induced fog.
At the same time, I did NOT back out of a scheduled meeting of the Women of Cinematic Arts (a USC student/alum group I joined last fall), and this morning at the crack of 10:15, I trotted off to the dentist.
In the first case, I missed the last WCA meeting for a friend's birthday, and I thought I could probably keep my distance from the other attendees. (That's a harder trick to pull off when everyone's giving you happy-holiday-hugs and the like.) In the second case, I thought: Well, I feel like crap anyway. Why waste a perfectly good healthy day on a tooth cleaning when I can kill two birds with one stone? And anyway, don't dentists usually wear surgical masks?
(In fact, they do, and mine had a mask on his head, but not pulled over his mouth. I was upfront about the cold, so who knows why he chose to have unprotected dental hygiene time with me.)
A recurring theme, here, however, is that it is ALWAYS easier for me to cancel things I want to do, and harder for me to cancel things I dread. No, the things I dread must be faced, head on, like steamed vegetables or next year's FAFSA.
Anyway, the upshot of all this is that my teeth hurt, like, a lot, and it's so demoralizing to realize that even when you're feeling gunky and low energy and can't really taste anything, it's actually possible to feel worse. Tooth pain is a weird form of discomfort. There's nothing to be done for it except wait for it to subside. But I keep wishing I had one of those jelly-filled rings little kids chew for teething pain. It seems like that might help.
In the meantime, I've grown weary of the Def-con 10 intensity of adult cold medicine, and as I usually do, I've made a day three switch to Dimatapp. Sure, it's for kids. So what? It stems the mucal tide without turning my sinuses into two desicated raisin-like pouches. I was awakened last night by another 4 a.m. bout of Nyquil-induced retardation, and resolved that it was time to break from this medicine-induced fog.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
It's Snot Blogger
Whew. I'm back. I switched to Blogger Beta on 12/3, and, as sometimes happens, the internet ate my blog. It was right here where I left it, but I couldn't get on and post. Wow, angry making. I went through all five stages of grief, and by the time Blogger emailed me to say the problem was fixed, I kinda didn't care anymore.
That was Friday, and now, two days later, I've recovered my raison d'blog: Trippy cold medicine after effects.
Yes, I have a cold. Not too bad, but super drippy. Just my nose goes drip drip drip all the time. Okay when I'm awake and can stop up the drip with a Kleenex, or blow until my eardrums pop. (Thanks for the tip, MG!) But you can't sleep and drip at the same time, so I took some Nyquil before bed last night.
In a piece for, I believe, Harper's Magazine, an author once took a massive dose of Nyquil to explore the effect on his brain. He described the resulting mental state as being reduced to his "lizard brain." Those were his exact words. I believe it. Nyquil has a way of dampening down all the higher mental functions until you're almost too dumb to function.
Four hours into the six hour dose, I woke myself up in a panic. Something is terrible wrong, I thought. Why do I feel so stupid? Maybe I'm having a stroke. No,wait, look: crumpled Kleenex. I must have a cold. Oh, right. I took some Nyquil. That explains it. Okay, let's go back to sleep.
Thirty seconds later, I went through the whole thing again. Over and over, until I finally wore myself out and feel sound asleep. If anything, it was probably the Nyquil wearing off that did it, giving me back enough basic reasoning to remember for two seconds that I had a cold.
But with the passing of the Nyquil, so returned the drip drip drip. Happily, even in my sleep I am something of a problem solver. When I woke up this morning, my right hand was tucked under my nose, holding two-inch prong of Kleenex inside my left nostril. Thomas Edison would have been so proud!
That was Friday, and now, two days later, I've recovered my raison d'blog: Trippy cold medicine after effects.
Yes, I have a cold. Not too bad, but super drippy. Just my nose goes drip drip drip all the time. Okay when I'm awake and can stop up the drip with a Kleenex, or blow until my eardrums pop. (Thanks for the tip, MG!) But you can't sleep and drip at the same time, so I took some Nyquil before bed last night.
In a piece for, I believe, Harper's Magazine, an author once took a massive dose of Nyquil to explore the effect on his brain. He described the resulting mental state as being reduced to his "lizard brain." Those were his exact words. I believe it. Nyquil has a way of dampening down all the higher mental functions until you're almost too dumb to function.
Four hours into the six hour dose, I woke myself up in a panic. Something is terrible wrong, I thought. Why do I feel so stupid? Maybe I'm having a stroke. No,wait, look: crumpled Kleenex. I must have a cold. Oh, right. I took some Nyquil. That explains it. Okay, let's go back to sleep.
Thirty seconds later, I went through the whole thing again. Over and over, until I finally wore myself out and feel sound asleep. If anything, it was probably the Nyquil wearing off that did it, giving me back enough basic reasoning to remember for two seconds that I had a cold.
But with the passing of the Nyquil, so returned the drip drip drip. Happily, even in my sleep I am something of a problem solver. When I woke up this morning, my right hand was tucked under my nose, holding two-inch prong of Kleenex inside my left nostril. Thomas Edison would have been so proud!
Sunday, December 03, 2006
What the Eff?
Okay, granted that I don't know very much about sports. But I've already attended four years of college at a public university, so I thought I understood what enrollment at the lushly-bankrolled, very private USC would mean. Instead I find that the nearest comparable public university...
A) Is in a cuter neighborhood
B) With much less crime
C) And a better location
D) Plus costs 1/4 what my tuition costs
and most galling of all...
E) Has a football team that kicks my football team up and down the field for four quarters.
(Right, four quarters? Two halves, that's soccer, right? Or maybe hockey. Anyway, it's definitely not innings, that much I know for--wait, what was I just saying? Oh, right...)
WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
I woke up yesterday enrolled at a school with a MORTAL LOCK on the #2 spot. When I went to bed, we'd had our ASSES HANDED TO US by a bunch of public school punks whose own administration has to periodically taser random students just to keep them in line.
Maybe if I were just a UW alum, this wouldn't bother me. But as I might have mentioned before, I married up. And if I've learned one thing from being legally bounded to a Yalie, it's that with massive tuition bills come certain bragging rights. Like, Meryl Streep went to school here, or the Vanderbilts built my dorm, or we invented the sloppy joe.
Meanwhile, $30K into a wildly-unnecessary graduate program, where are my bragging rights? In a crushed beer cup on the floor of the Rose Bowl, that's where.
What is even the POINT of having a hugely wealthy alumni base if we can't put that money to use bribing football players with SUVs, pumping them full of undetectable designer drugs and recruiting suspiciously agile 28 year olds? I ASK YOU!
By the way, some poor bastard furniture store owner is out a small pile of cash if he ends up honoring that "Everything you buy is free if UCLA wins!" promotion that got heavy radio play this week. My hope is that he covered his bets, literally, by putting down a tidy sum with his local bookie.
A) Is in a cuter neighborhood
B) With much less crime
C) And a better location
D) Plus costs 1/4 what my tuition costs
and most galling of all...
E) Has a football team that kicks my football team up and down the field for four quarters.
(Right, four quarters? Two halves, that's soccer, right? Or maybe hockey. Anyway, it's definitely not innings, that much I know for--wait, what was I just saying? Oh, right...)
WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
I woke up yesterday enrolled at a school with a MORTAL LOCK on the #2 spot. When I went to bed, we'd had our ASSES HANDED TO US by a bunch of public school punks whose own administration has to periodically taser random students just to keep them in line.
Maybe if I were just a UW alum, this wouldn't bother me. But as I might have mentioned before, I married up. And if I've learned one thing from being legally bounded to a Yalie, it's that with massive tuition bills come certain bragging rights. Like, Meryl Streep went to school here, or the Vanderbilts built my dorm, or we invented the sloppy joe.
Meanwhile, $30K into a wildly-unnecessary graduate program, where are my bragging rights? In a crushed beer cup on the floor of the Rose Bowl, that's where.
What is even the POINT of having a hugely wealthy alumni base if we can't put that money to use bribing football players with SUVs, pumping them full of undetectable designer drugs and recruiting suspiciously agile 28 year olds? I ASK YOU!
By the way, some poor bastard furniture store owner is out a small pile of cash if he ends up honoring that "Everything you buy is free if UCLA wins!" promotion that got heavy radio play this week. My hope is that he covered his bets, literally, by putting down a tidy sum with his local bookie.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Shout Out
As discussed earlier, I do not do well with Christmas lists. Every year it gets harder and harder to think of things I need. But that being said, I'm not going to pretend that I don't benefit from the generosity of others.
Today's post is dedicated to one such gift, from one such person. The person in question is my mother in law, Trish. First, let it be said that Trish brings her A game to the whole gift-giving enterprise. From the first year Michael and I were dating, she's consistently blown me away. One year was a fluffy green angora scarf, the exact borderline snot color I love most in all the world. Another year was pink pajamas. The day before our wedding, she and Katie (my sister in law) gave me some tiny green studs that are among my favorite earrings of all time. (Pink and green are my total sweet spots. And lavender. In fact, I own so much of all three that sometimes I have to go out and buy a couple hundred dollars worth of neutral pants and tees, just to be able to leave the house without looking like a walking Juicy Couture* handbag.)
Okay, but here's the subject of today's post: The little black jacket.
Trish and Greg lived in California for about a year, back when Michael and I were still long distance dating. When we were preparing to move out to LA, she warned me that I might need a little something to protect myself from the evening chill. And she was right. But did I listen? No, I did not.
Long story short, Christmas of 2005, I get the perfect lightweight black jacket. Not too heavy, not too light. Cut perfectly. Looks great.
I wear that jacket constantly these days, as the daylight grows shorter and a brisk 58 degree chill settles over the city around 3 p.m. (Don't laugh. You'd be cold too if you'd been living at a continual 70 F for six months and then the temperature dropped 10 degrees. Okay, I'm a wuss. So what?)
I am not always a perfect correspondent. I am notoriously tardy with my thank you notes. But if I could, I would write a thank you note every day to Trish, letting her know how much I love this little black jacket.
*And now, to redeem myself from a hopelessly sentimental post: I hate Juicy Couture. First, because the name itself is reedonkulous--in fact, is there anything less Couture than Juicy Couture? Yes, I know what they mean. It's about the idea of couture, not the reality. But there's a world of difference between gay black vogue teams calling themselves "House of Dior" and "House of Chanel", and a pair of giggling fashionistas calling themselves "Juicy Couture." It's like the "gorgonzola cheese" I once found on a Panera Bread Co. salad. Apparently the menu writer just liked the sound of "gorgonzola cheese," because what was on the salad was not only not gorgonzola, it wasn't even recognizably cheese,
Second reason to hate Juicy Couture: They take the three greatest colors in the world--pink, leaf green and lavender-and hein'em up beyond all recognition.
Today's post is dedicated to one such gift, from one such person. The person in question is my mother in law, Trish. First, let it be said that Trish brings her A game to the whole gift-giving enterprise. From the first year Michael and I were dating, she's consistently blown me away. One year was a fluffy green angora scarf, the exact borderline snot color I love most in all the world. Another year was pink pajamas. The day before our wedding, she and Katie (my sister in law) gave me some tiny green studs that are among my favorite earrings of all time. (Pink and green are my total sweet spots. And lavender. In fact, I own so much of all three that sometimes I have to go out and buy a couple hundred dollars worth of neutral pants and tees, just to be able to leave the house without looking like a walking Juicy Couture* handbag.)
Okay, but here's the subject of today's post: The little black jacket.
Trish and Greg lived in California for about a year, back when Michael and I were still long distance dating. When we were preparing to move out to LA, she warned me that I might need a little something to protect myself from the evening chill. And she was right. But did I listen? No, I did not.
Long story short, Christmas of 2005, I get the perfect lightweight black jacket. Not too heavy, not too light. Cut perfectly. Looks great.
I wear that jacket constantly these days, as the daylight grows shorter and a brisk 58 degree chill settles over the city around 3 p.m. (Don't laugh. You'd be cold too if you'd been living at a continual 70 F for six months and then the temperature dropped 10 degrees. Okay, I'm a wuss. So what?)
I am not always a perfect correspondent. I am notoriously tardy with my thank you notes. But if I could, I would write a thank you note every day to Trish, letting her know how much I love this little black jacket.
*And now, to redeem myself from a hopelessly sentimental post: I hate Juicy Couture. First, because the name itself is reedonkulous--in fact, is there anything less Couture than Juicy Couture? Yes, I know what they mean. It's about the idea of couture, not the reality. But there's a world of difference between gay black vogue teams calling themselves "House of Dior" and "House of Chanel", and a pair of giggling fashionistas calling themselves "Juicy Couture." It's like the "gorgonzola cheese" I once found on a Panera Bread Co. salad. Apparently the menu writer just liked the sound of "gorgonzola cheese," because what was on the salad was not only not gorgonzola, it wasn't even recognizably cheese,
Second reason to hate Juicy Couture: They take the three greatest colors in the world--pink, leaf green and lavender-and hein'em up beyond all recognition.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Yeah, Okay, I Don't Know About That...
I've just wrapped up my Hitchcock critical studies class, except for the final next week.
Early, early on, my professor insisted to his 100+ obedient students that "the feminists" who insist that Hitch has a problem with women are wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Wrong. Exhibit A: He put interesting, vital female characters in his movies over and over and over again.
Yes, okay. Now can we go back and take a look at "Frenzy"? Or "Psycho"? Or "Topaz"? Or "Family Plot"?
As a fundamental litmus test, can you imagine Grace Kelly playing roles in those movies? No, I submit, you cannot. For the fundamental reason that Hitch wouldn't have asked her. But once the great beauties of the 40s and 50s stopped making films, Hitch had a problem on his hands. He needed actresses, but he couldn't find any that took his breath away, so he had to do the best he could, i.e. Kim Novak and Tippi Hedren.
If I haven't mentioned it before, I am a firm believer in the Myth of the Nice Guy, having witnessed first hand the stranglehold it can have on male/female relations in modern society. Here's how it functions:
1. Guy can't figure out women. Maybe he doesn't know any. Who knows?
2. Guy wrongly forms the opinion that women want nice guys.
3. Guy constructs a nice guy persona and uses this persona in all his interactions with women.
4. Many women sense that this is a persona and not the actual guy, and squicked out, they make their escape, often via anything with a pulse in the vicinity.
5. Guy comes to believe that this proves that women do not like nice guys, and prefer jerks.
6. Guy goes through life convinced women are totally inscrutable and makes no effort to interact with them as sane human beings.
(Yes, I've known "nice guys," and the well-known variant, "compulsive asshole guys." Last semester, a total stranger grilled me about Ian Fleming, then dismissed my answers as mistaken, despite having never read a single Ian Fleming book himself. In retrospect, I think he wanted my seat.)
I'm sorry to say that I think Hitch suffered from the Myth of the Nice Guy. I know he had a long, happy marriage with Alma (or so my professor insists), but I'm guessing that Hitch thought Alma was a one-in-a-million lucky shot, and that most women were neurotic monsters, nymphomaniacs, harpies or some combination of the three. And once he stopped working with women whose inescapable beauty and (ha ha) grace forced him to repress these beliefs, his films get crueler and crueler and crueler.
Of course, I can't say any of this on my exam, so I'll have to content myself with screaming it to the internet.
Early, early on, my professor insisted to his 100+ obedient students that "the feminists" who insist that Hitch has a problem with women are wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Wrong. Exhibit A: He put interesting, vital female characters in his movies over and over and over again.
Yes, okay. Now can we go back and take a look at "Frenzy"? Or "Psycho"? Or "Topaz"? Or "Family Plot"?
As a fundamental litmus test, can you imagine Grace Kelly playing roles in those movies? No, I submit, you cannot. For the fundamental reason that Hitch wouldn't have asked her. But once the great beauties of the 40s and 50s stopped making films, Hitch had a problem on his hands. He needed actresses, but he couldn't find any that took his breath away, so he had to do the best he could, i.e. Kim Novak and Tippi Hedren.
If I haven't mentioned it before, I am a firm believer in the Myth of the Nice Guy, having witnessed first hand the stranglehold it can have on male/female relations in modern society. Here's how it functions:
1. Guy can't figure out women. Maybe he doesn't know any. Who knows?
2. Guy wrongly forms the opinion that women want nice guys.
3. Guy constructs a nice guy persona and uses this persona in all his interactions with women.
4. Many women sense that this is a persona and not the actual guy, and squicked out, they make their escape, often via anything with a pulse in the vicinity.
5. Guy comes to believe that this proves that women do not like nice guys, and prefer jerks.
6. Guy goes through life convinced women are totally inscrutable and makes no effort to interact with them as sane human beings.
(Yes, I've known "nice guys," and the well-known variant, "compulsive asshole guys." Last semester, a total stranger grilled me about Ian Fleming, then dismissed my answers as mistaken, despite having never read a single Ian Fleming book himself. In retrospect, I think he wanted my seat.)
I'm sorry to say that I think Hitch suffered from the Myth of the Nice Guy. I know he had a long, happy marriage with Alma (or so my professor insists), but I'm guessing that Hitch thought Alma was a one-in-a-million lucky shot, and that most women were neurotic monsters, nymphomaniacs, harpies or some combination of the three. And once he stopped working with women whose inescapable beauty and (ha ha) grace forced him to repress these beliefs, his films get crueler and crueler and crueler.
Of course, I can't say any of this on my exam, so I'll have to content myself with screaming it to the internet.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over
Wow, how about this crazy month of blog posts? And all while writing two spec scripts and a term paper about Cary Grant and Alfred Hitchcock? Whoa.
I totally owe my professor an apology. Contrary to my smart ass remarks in class, blogging did NOT slow down my work on other projects or distract me. In fact, it often served as a warm up/reassurance that I always have something to say. Not always something smart or useful or funny, but at least it's something. And isn't that the reasoning that launched a thousand blogs?
My professor's other big point was that a writer's blog is a valuable tool for promoting the writer. I'm not sure Cali-for-nyaaah really proves that point, but by way of apologizing for doubting him earlier, I will embrace this advice as well.
In these crazy days of YouTube and the like, this isn't quite the novel idea it was when we first made it, but I'm still terribly proud of this short film, made with my fellow members of Teatro Bastardo. In my most hopeful moments, I dream of selling a pilot to the CW, getting my tv prof to come on as the show runner and hiring all the Bastards to 20 week writing contracts.
I miss those guys like crazy, and never more than when I watch this video and remember the day we sat around the table brainstorming an idea that, frankly, was in terribly bad taste when we started, and probably still isn't particularly appropriate.
Ah, fuck appropriate.
P.S. You'll need Windows Media Player.
I totally owe my professor an apology. Contrary to my smart ass remarks in class, blogging did NOT slow down my work on other projects or distract me. In fact, it often served as a warm up/reassurance that I always have something to say. Not always something smart or useful or funny, but at least it's something. And isn't that the reasoning that launched a thousand blogs?
My professor's other big point was that a writer's blog is a valuable tool for promoting the writer. I'm not sure Cali-for-nyaaah really proves that point, but by way of apologizing for doubting him earlier, I will embrace this advice as well.
In these crazy days of YouTube and the like, this isn't quite the novel idea it was when we first made it, but I'm still terribly proud of this short film, made with my fellow members of Teatro Bastardo. In my most hopeful moments, I dream of selling a pilot to the CW, getting my tv prof to come on as the show runner and hiring all the Bastards to 20 week writing contracts.
I miss those guys like crazy, and never more than when I watch this video and remember the day we sat around the table brainstorming an idea that, frankly, was in terribly bad taste when we started, and probably still isn't particularly appropriate.
Ah, fuck appropriate.
P.S. You'll need Windows Media Player.
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