A Black Day

I hate to even type this.

But I must.

I'm over George Clooney.

Yes, it's time for the backlash to commence, Pretty Boy. I know, I never thought I would be the one to start it. Never in a million years. Yet here we are.

Maybe I could take the self-congratulatory Oscar speeches about how brave Hollywood is and his belief that he is single-handedly saving the liberal movement in the USA if he didn't keep matching blandly hot fuck-buddies who each think she's the girlfriend on either side of the pond, tell the same "oh aren't I raffishly lovable" bits EVERYWHERE, the Teri Hatcher business, and most of all, if he weren't a part of this Vanity Fair cover:




Oh George. It didn't have to end like this.

That said, if what is going on to your left came about because you and Matt Damon were out drinking the night before and you mentioned that you had to get up wicked early for this effing Vanity Fair shoot (weird how strangely silent Matt was as you complained about another magazine cover) and you two started brainstorming about what you could possibly do to that buzzkill to make up for the way she ruined the Boys' Club Summer of '04 until FINALLY Steven agreed to put in a plodding unfunny bit in the movie (remember? the movie? that thing you did in between yacht runs) that runs about 35 minutes because she thought it would be ssoooooo funny and everyone would go back to believing she was a fun person once again, and as you laughed that she was only doing the Green Issue because she thought she looked good in moss green (which, if she had her pretty red hair back would be very true) and you told him how one night she got really drunk and tried to seduce you by insisting on wandering through the grounds of the Lake Como pad trying to have a picnic at midnight in an effort to prove she was just as sexy in that goofy spontaneous way as Vivian Ward but when she rolled around in the grass seductive-like it just reminded you of that scene in Young Frankenstein plus she got all these twigs in her hair and suddenly Matt's eyes lit up and he told you he would give you five hundred dollars if you convinced her to dress up like Titania, and you laughed and asked how much if Gore did too and you almost had him but then dumb old Tipper had to ruin everything and she will totally not be invited on the Boys' Club Motorcycle Ride of '07 -- if that's the story? -- then, George, we might just be back on.

Today in Feminism

Ahh, pilot season. In 2006. And such a interested and varied assemblage of female characters. A sampling of descriptions:

“Ph.D. with a surfer-babe look and the frame of a world-class athlete”
“sex is fun, but work is her climax”
“30, strong, sexy, and a tomboy at heart”
“30, a natural beauty with wide eyes and a heartbreaking smile”
“...even at this late hour she is beautiful”
“35 and judging from her well-toned backside no stranger to Pilates and yoga”
“a quiet beauty haunted by the desperate realization that she wants and needs a man in her life”
“blonde and beach bum pretty”
“28, rebellious beauty. A smoldering blue-blood with a thrill-seeking interest in real blood.”
“thirty-ish, shapely as an e.e. cummings poem, dressed provocatively”
“A sexy convertible slams to a hard stop, kicking up gravel and dust. The door opens. A black leather boot finds the gravel. Shapely legs leading up to a short skirt emerge….reveal a shapely, sex-exuding woman.”
“dark-haired, seventeen, and stunning”
the naughtiest of the naughty…blond and diabolical”
“---, his wife…28. She is gorgeous.”
“THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL HE HAS EVER SEEN – she’s about 22, with a tangled blond mane and cobalt eyes. The boy gawks. She’s used to it.”
“He can’t help noticing: ---‘s another looker”
“forty, a woman of superior poise, intelligence, and beauty, all underplayed with effortless grace and style”
“A beautiful brunette…suede knee boots, short skirt, leather overcoat, gloves. A vision in high fashion and seething sexuality.”
“Tousled blonde hair, silk nightgown, beautiful, sexy, thirties”

and my favorite tried-and-true character, the sexy free-spirit woman/child who loves rain since it shows how super hot she is when her t-shirt gets soaked but also displays her childlike innocence and glee. Who is introduced in two separate pilots in almost the exact same manner.

“A FACE OF STUNNING BEAUTY. Flawless skin. Deep red lips. Fiery eyes. She wears an oversized man’s shirt. Long tan legs extend from under it…Water rains down. Mystery Girl raises her arms out, in ritual, welcoming the water, letting it soak her”

“A party girl named ---, 21. As they head up the block, it starts to drizzle. ---- tips her head to the sky. Arms out, she spins around, feeling free…A street sweeper is rumbling by. (She) hails it down, jumps on the hood. The driver is waving her off, but that just eggs her on. Then she pulls off her shirt. It’s a classic --- moment!”

There's something a little bit heartbreaking about the writer's desperate effort to instill excitement in the reader with the unspoken promise of future "classic moments(!)" from such an innovative and never before seen character.

Dude, we all went to high school. We all knew Crazy Girl. We all know what Crazy Girl was shooting for. And if you for some reason we did not have to attend school with Crazy Girl, well then, we certainly have seen Angelina Jolie straining with effort in every interview and appearance to convince us how She Is Unbridled And A Free Spirit And Can Not! Be! Tamed! The trope, she is gotten.

On the flip side (and to try to not appear completely negative), there have been a couple of good character descriptions in the middle of all these, my favorite being (sadly) from a not very good pilot. "At forty has Audrey-Hepburn-in-Roman-Holiday short hair and the face of an angel -- she makes you want to have short hair too."

heh.

At Last

I love Etta James for many reasons. At the moment I'm loving her for her version of "At Last" (sorry Xtina!) which I am listening to in my apartment as I do absolutely nothing. Ahh, nothing, what a lovely concept! My spec is finally handed in and I can now look around at the shambles my life has become in the past two months.

I've had two scripts due and have spent every waking moment either a) assiduously writing a script, or b) even more assiduously avoiding anything that might be construed as writing. As a result, if someone came to my apartment right now, there is a very good chance they would call the police to report a break-in and ransacking. Shambles.

The most painful part of writing isn't the writing. Even when it goes badly, it's still rewarding. What IS painful and not at all rewarding is the avoidance -- at all costs -- of the writing. And it makes no sense!! It's a peculiar, illogical, contrary and even self-destructive impulse. Why avoid what clearly needs to be done, especially if that task is something I enjoy?

Yet I have managed to develop an acute case of ADD whenever I sit down at the screen. There are always all sorts of issues with the surroundings. This chair is uncomfortable. Perhaps I should take my laptop onto the bed or couch where I can really get some writizzzzzzzz.

(Forty minutes later, having woken up from nap and returned to table)
I don't like the light in this corner of the apartment. Mostly because there is none. I was so dumb to put the writing table in the corner that gets the least light. Maybe I should move the furniture. But if I move the table to where the couch is, I'll have to move the TV as well. It shouldn't take that long to hook up the cable again, should it?

(Fifty-eight minutes later, having been unable to reinstall cable on other end of apartment)
No, I should write. It's good for me. Ooh, speaking of which, I haven't worked out since last year. I should do that. Plus, I read that whenever you get the urge to exercise, you should take advantage of it, especially when trying to get back in shape, which I've been meaning to do. (You know, that advice makes no sense at all if I think about it. Substitute any word for "exercise" in that sentence and the problem becomes even clearer. I must have read it in Self Magazine. It's so them to say that.) I've been meaning to go for a hike. I should just grab my shoes.

(Fourteen minutes later, having finally found shoe under pile of laundry)
Oh shoot. My shoes still have that broken lace. Man, those things have lived and died. I really need to get some new ones at some point. And some yoga pants. I miss those perfect yoga pants that GapBody used to make. I should see if someone's selling them on ebay.

(Between twenty minutes and two hours later, depending on what's on ebay)
Ooh! Speaking of which, I still need a glass globe light covering for my lamp. I should go back and check for that too. You know, if I'd taken care of that already, then I wouldn't have the problem of this dark corner where the writing table is to begin with. I'm hungry. I should heat up something. It's so unhealthy to just heat up pretend food out of boxes this way. I should learn to cook. Really learn to cook, so I know recipes by heart and can cook a different dinner for every day of the month. I should run to the market and get some food. I know I'll do much better work if I have a proper meal, with vegetables, some chicken, a little wine. What's something easy? Epicurious must have something easy.

(Forty-five minutes later; back from store with steak that goes straight to freezer, cookie dough, and wine).
I need to start organizing my shopping trips a little bit better. I'd rather go in and buy hemerrhoid cream and pregnancy tests than cookie dough and wine. The clerk just looks at me and sighs. And this is a clerk who sees the purchases of Tommy Lee and all the Sunset Blvd rocker wannabes. How is cookie dough and wine even raising an eyebrow here? I'm probably just self-conscious. I have been ever since that one time when I realized -- as the clerk was scannng the items -- that I was buying Lean Cuisines, white wine, and cat food and started laughing uncontrollably at how I had become a Katherine Mansfield story told via shopping list. Or a Cathy cartoon, but the Katherine Mansfield analogy made me a little less queasy. Anyway, what's he looking at me pityingly for? It goes well with more than seafood!

(Five minutes later, having found remaining clean wineglass and spoon)
I should make some room on the table for the wineglass and cookie dough. Move these magazines.Y'know, I hate everything about that chica on the cover. EVERYTHING. I would gladly set her on fire, and then go date her so so hot and so so deserving of better lovely point guard. (note to self: he is however a French point guard -- quite possibly a wine snob -- maybe don't fall on the cookie-dough-and-pinot-grigio sword quite so hard as habit may have to be jettisoned once I have set The Horror on fire.) I do not, on the other hand, hate the lipstick she is wearing. I love it. I wonder what kind it is?

(Twenty minutes later; having perused issue of Allure thoroughly).
Personali-Tea Color Juice Stick by Loreal. Hmm...says it's a lip balm. I don't believe that. Those are not just her lips. Oh well. It's really close to my other favorite lip gloss. Probably a really dumb way to spend $10 anyway. Especially if I wanna get that globe for my lamp so I can quit sitting in the dark. Where is that lip gloss anyway? I should put some on.

And on and on it goes. Curiously, the only distraction I am able to avoid is cleaning. I like to think that it's because I realize that is at least a three hour distraction and I can't rationalize it the way I can a quick 20 minute trip to the store, but it MAY just be laziness. But now, with nothing to distract me, I can finally clean! Yaay! No more living in a hovel with a floor that needs to be swept and bathroom tiles that need to be scrubbed and takeout containers that need to be tossed! Let the cleaning begin!

Actually I should probably run to Target and get some more laundry detergent. That way I can do laundry and clean at the same time -- doubly efficient! And maybe look for that lip gloss...